Sometimes during this stretch of life I feel as though there is only one man I can turn to for answers. Reading his essays provides answers to questions I asked months prior. So I suppose HM and patience are my two good bed fellows(?). It is not possible for him to tell me who I am but it/he sure comes close enough. I must quote him anew. Three words struck me as relevant today.
Truth, Wisdom & Passion.
The context HM creates and uses the words is only slightly different and this slightness has allowed moi to make a connection or find an answer to a question I recall asking. The question? “What is wrong with the way contemporary conservatives talk?” And. “Why is it that America (2005) is so rude and arrogant?” America has lost all touch with truth, wisdom and passion. The conservatives of today cannot comprehend this. The American has become ugly but I see no nation-state alternative to its ugliness. So is it ALL ugly or uglier? Does this mean that American ugliness I grew up with and so many generations left behind with their deaths could potentially become the opposite of ugly? The antithesis? I grew up HM’s generation–well, the generation that could have benefitted from him. But that is neither here nor there. HM say? According to his writings he would still laugh and shake his head. It really is unbelievable what man is unable to do. But he is perfecting the ability, perhaps incarnating it and causing the inorganic to become organic, making something intuitive. Is not our great land making untruth truth?
Truth, Wisdom & Passion.
Where is it? Truth is not enough. That’s like saying the truth about an iceberg is in what you see above the water. Or? Oh, Tbone, find a more compelling
I never see two equally beautiful women together. Why is that? Is this a polarization issue? Is this a secret among women? Is this something women realize as something they must do when they are young? What goes through a woman’s/girls mind when she is rejected for the first time.
What is a sure sign of a country being rich but doing nothing? The(ir) fat people. Is America the prime example–or are there other countries with, but not in the news, fat people? Why is it there have never been trophy-men? You know the girls who stand next to race winners? What’s up with that?
Hosebag Bonnie. The Ocean City town slut from Bull on the Beach. Find her. Make her. Redo the restaurant.
Chick comes up with the idear of entertaining via taking people to bars. She subsequently orders and takes/delivers drinks/food to HER clientele and pays restaurant or bar. The restaurant manager tries to stop her–because she charges prices above those displayed in menu. Now there’s another wasted activity.
What’s the greatest thing about money? The fact that you can hide it.
The problem with playing so much is that you can’t
What else can you hide? A woman can bide. Reality can hide. A woman’s reality is the most elusive thing in all of physical science. Even more elusive the unified theory.
What elusive? How do I become elusive? Falling behind some bar. Just in front of the bartender. The girls, almost twins, find their way, teasing me for writing and not flirting, the fear of revealing what I am actually writing, revealing. Should I make mention of the loneliness? The loneliness of the ocean? The ocean, I say, is just in front of me and if I concentrate enough, if I focus enough, I can make a tear drop from my eye either into my nose or my mouth and taste a diluted version of the ocean. Want to become that ocean. The ocean is me.
For whatever reason I feel these bars growing on me. If I don’t leave them soon, if I don’t depart from this place that I already left so many years ago, then I will become that American nightmare–I am never to be that nightmare because I am not brave enough. I am to o weak. Just like the meatloaf. The bartenders name is probably Corey. Yes, Corey, wears an orange t-shirt with a small logo iron-glued, that read: “Team USA Something 2003 Olympics”. I wonder if he’s the owner. Corey the bartender is also the owner of yet another new business idear, the result of so much entrepreneur run amok and/with nowhere to go.
There is a brand, yes, another brand, beer, Yuengling, (small boy?) that resembles, when spoke, the ocean. Why the ocean? Because the ocean is the most beautiful earthly color when it is not reflecting the light from elsewhere. And although I should vodus on the light from elsewhere, instead I see and hear the life of everything. That everything is a female(?). With short or long hair I cannot tell best if I don#t write something about her soon I will lose my compassion for all other things and be carried away to places long since left behind and lose my temper in a folly of gibberish only decipherable by aliens born of our ocean. They drink, you know, they drink of my mother’s milk and when she runs out they bitch for more. Our Pauls and Peters bellow some kind of rule.
They will tell me. These people. They will tell me, eventually that the picture I draw with these words will fall upon heavy paper. Lead paper I would think. It is so easy to turn off a woman even if you play her game. Because her games are so… just tell them you live in another country. A country you have no idear about. A country they have no idear about. If they become confused they will all eventually ask what you are writing. The writing becomes something that transcends thought–as if there were physical proof of a precursor to a thought. You will waste your thought then because… if you cannot bring a Dan Brown thought you will never sell two million copies of anything. What is the secret of success? To say and do anything you like.
Is she obsessed or is it I ? I looked to my left and only saw the upper thighs barely clad and she noticed–oh did she notice–and made me feel as though–I had already seen too much.
It’s sloppy. That girl is sloppy. The things we do are sloppy. Our arguments are so sloppy. So he wants two shots. Sloppy shots. The other guy things he can order so drunk. And he said “thanksweatheart”. She didn’t even smile only left the tip. And that was that. If it weren’t for the checker-brand at the end of the bar. She’s not black or white but instead white and green. And suddenly… a woman (who else) interupted me and asked what I am doing. I responded with: do you want to fuck me? She was rightfully appalled. She stomped off. I hadn’t take two drinks/sips from my cheap draft when…
(Back to) The three things.
Truth, Wisdom & Passion.
I see it in the bars. I can feel it in the persons. The confusion in which they live, and all the girls lost at their bar stools. If it wasn’t all about about…? Imagine what they would think. Imagine what they would imagine if given the chance. Theirs is the yours of things already past. Beyond the stuff of which we are made. Beyond the bierdeckel that covers her eyes. She exists in a world of righteous because, well, her pussy allows it. And if the bartender allowed more… what would come of it? The things they all question. A small tin can that once housed a breadth mint sucked on by children but never finished. You know, Jude, if I were famous I could play this irreverent spiel and no one would think twice about it. They would as soon forget my existance, allow me to be flinged into some form, some crevice–cleavage–and be lost beyond all human form.