Doodle Of A Dream

Had a dream the other night. I think. Even though I can’t draw worth a hoot, my best shot at an image of the dream is above. This dream started in the middle of a journey that begins at a red x (bottom left corner of the page). I think the journey was to the Red Sea to go scuba diving. But wait. The dream didn’t start there exactly. It actually started in Cairo. The red x is somewhere between Cairo International Airport and our final destination which is the resort region of Marsa Alam. I just didn’t feel the need to doodle that part. Nomatter. The trip was a total mess. Our plane was re-routed to Cairo International where we had to disembark and subsequently be “processed” for entry. Then we waited for hours in a luxurious bar where I got drunk out of my mind on “special” Egyptian schnapps. Eventually we boarded another airplane but instead of taking us to Marsa Alam airport it landed somewhere in the middle of the desert. We then boarded busses for the remaining part of the trip. There were no roads, no civilisation and it never got dark–even though we drove for a few days. The bus was crowded but comfortable. Everyone sat in their seats and some even used the ventilation system to blow dry their hair. A few children entertained the back of the bus with German songs from Scorpions and The Dead Trousers. Not unlike the luxurious bar at Cairo airport, the schnapps flowed and flowed. But then our tour bus was captured by Mexicans. So it’s here where the doodle kinda begins, i.e. the red x. Which brings me to the following question(s): captured by Mexicans in Egypt? How can that be? Oh yeah. It might have something to do with me not being one hundred percent white but also being a white-looking American and travelling through Arab Spring countries in order to get my kicks at twenty-five meters with colourful fish. Or. Prior to going to sleep that night I got kind of upset reading all the news about how Egyptian forces bombed a bus full of tourists because they obviously mistook it for being a bus full revolutionaries–or the like. We are living in those/these times, eh, dear worst-reader? Nomatter. The dream struck me and the morning after I felt compelled to codify it. What really sticks out in my conscious mind–as opposed to my dream mind–is that our Mexican captures trekked us along a desert road with a few stops in-between, as illustrated in the image (doodle) above. Huge tents were available to shade us from the sun. Oddly, being in a desert n’all, there was no need for water or suntan oil. The only thing available were books at various rest/pause stops. This is the part of the dream that confused me so. In the middle of a desert a group of people walk along a road (or was it a pathway?) and our only sustenance was books. The books had Mexican guards, though, and I don’t know why. Where were the Egyptians? Then, after a cup of earl grey, I dabbled in the following pseudo conclusion(s). I’m not sure what my other half is. It is safe to say that biological-daddy wasn’t white and he most certainly never read a thing to me. But what was he? He wasn’t black, he wasn’t asian and he most certainly wasn’t European–although he spoke German. He spoke German because he was stationed in Germany for most of his military career starting in the mid-50s thereby bringing numerous booty children to the world, aka Besatzungskinder. Yours truly being the second one of approximately four or five, etc. But. Again. Nomatter. I’m drifting. The thing is, I romanticise sometimes, even find myself hoping, that my other half is Indian. Maybe I’m a Sioux or a Mohawk or even a Choptank. But I could also be Mexican or Puerto Rican. Not that that is less than being half Indian. It’s just that I think, if I were on a scuba trip to the Red Sea, to read books, and read the corals, and wonder at deserts and desserts (that I’m not supposed to eat), I would never get captured by a bunch of Mohawks. Or? So I got up the other morning and was compelled to try and capture the dream, what it means. That’s all.

Rant on. -t

Link that motivated this post:

Repeated Airstrikes on Mexican Tourists | The Guardian

Number of Heartbeats

I’ll have a fish and feel the scales soaked in oil crumble between my teeth. Was that fish as tired as the water left in his wake? And do the fishermen know if they hunt for squid at night below an artificial sun and catch a red-snapper then the red snapper will make it belated to my plate. This ode to fisherman will never be sung because the world is full of to few people who are willing to do anything about the mess we are in. But what should they do if nothing? As though their vote would count. Silly little dreaming fisherman doing what he does in a sea empty of fish. But when, oh when these men wake up and see the light… If it’s real light and not the same light they use to catch squid and red-snapper. When they see just as a squid sees that the light is something else. Just as the great fisher sees, perhaps he was the greatest fisher, although he rarely caught anything… Perhaps the sea will wake up and find the error of all our ways and gobble us up to… Wait for it. Here it comes. Gobble us all up to… Oblivia.

What is third world? By any definition this must presuppose a first or a second world. But it doesn’t. It’s more as though third world is made up of subcategories. In the subcategory I work/live and the elite has gone to the moon. In the subcategory I vacation with old five gallon oil cans that are cut diagonally and have a stick attached makkng them a sweep-bin. Graciously but without smiling the peoples of other subcategories sweep the sand beaches. Breakfast seems to flow from every crevice of the facility. Brand new. We were the first to use the bed. It was a viraginous bed. It replaced the one ruined by the flood, the tsunami. This is subcategory indeed. But to its own only is it a sub. Thailand is not a subcategory to other western places. Perhaps Kau Laak is a subcategory but in which direction does the sub flow?

The imagery in the night or the early morning of being thrown out of a bus. Discarded as it were. But the significance of being discarded from a bus. Was it moving? Was it happy? What is the bus? Yes. Something important in life. Something of great meaning. But what is more important is what happens after being thrown from it. I walk through a city and meet my regret. The culmination of not being cable to maintain relations. Which I blame on my lost father? I see a long lost love in the arms of another man. Is he the one on the bus? Or is it I that will be thrown from the bus into the arms of long lost love? As I pass by she follows me but I am unable to recall the conversation. I continue on and go to a shop to have my hair dyed blonde and the barber laughs. He prefers purple. But can’t go there–not even in a dream. I wake up before I can see how it looks. My hair. But the bus is long gone.

And what of the thoughts while I’m awake? So few and far between. They are of the more frivolous of nature. For example. If a woman’s number of eggs is predetermined why then not the number of heart beats? (The connection?) Or how about the number of footsteps? Yes. It is pre-determined how many erections a man will have. And so. Why is the woman not cherished. Is it because of her proven limitations? Which are? Watch the can of worms opened up there. For I will ponder the will of god–or nuffy the blonde sea lion that lost a flapper while being caught for the aquatic zoo. And the remaining vernunft of Germans. It is his head that pierces the horizon of the ocean only. He snickers much to much and much to loud.



Travel To Thailand

Another lucky day. Flight. DE2368 to HKT (Phuket). Eleven fucking hours to some exotic place. Why? To have conversation with other Urlaubers. Now that’s an exciting thought. And so. To start it all… a fellow with an interesting maustache, the kind with a triangle, perfectly manicured under the lower lip, introduced himself to the people who have to sit in the row with him. “Udo” he said. The people in the row said nothing. Why? Udo seems like such a nice Tiroler copy. Vest and all. Speaking of business (cross that last one out). For the first time I thought of the greater good in context of a discussion about corporatism. Self-interest seems to be the factor that drives the bottom line of the corporation. Right? But is that a given? Was it always this way? Can’t say for sure. But this can / should be connected with the likes of Thomas Edison. LOP and the idear of the greater good. Here a brief appearence by the return of JC. And Edison? JC a slob hanging out in places where he can find apostles. Happens across Edison. JC has to give up on (the) fisherman because there’s not place to fish anymore. So what is JC looking for while he’s here? The great inventor. Where does he look? Character (Stone) is a consultant who crosses JC and Edison path. Is there help for JC to be found? JC rationalization as Character (Stone) crosses the red states. With a drunkard, down on his luck Edison. Stone consults JC. But does JC consult him? What does Edison do? Work on this one. Get cohesive. Continuity. Enter the… The JC Trauma. What is the JC trauma? Is it the repercussion of meeting JC? Or is it the realization of what is behind the religious fanaticism ruining America combined with what will inevitably become a perversion of capitalism? Predatory capitalism making its come-back post Great Depression. Character (Stone) confronts a man who claims to be JC on the hunt for deciple. When asked (by Character) if he’s found any he responds in the non-affirmative. But there is this inventor. But what, dear worst-reader, does your JC say? Something profound? Or something not quite appropriate for the mouth of a messiah that has somehow landed in the mid-west of the USA. JC does explain how he got to the mid-west of the US. He spent most of the last two centuries roaming the cosmos and India looking for Thomas. Anywho. He got to the mid-west by ship. So. Mr. Worst-reader. Where in the mid-west of USA can a ship go to drop off JC? Is it possible that a ocean liner got caught in a river west of the Mississippi? Go there, T-bone. Put the mid-west inbetween the two coasts. A land locked place where JC can land with an ocean liner. And don’t forget that he has a cup. The cup. But what is a cup. The ship? The ship, cup, that sailed to the landlocked mid-west of that place between the two (US) poles. Don’t forget the great rivers, the Great Lakes. Or, perhaps, it is a ship that doesn’t have to have sailed anywhere. Instead it is a ship that was built where it is. JC, the son of … stepped out of line a few times after he arrived in heaven. God, the father, had a bit of trouble with the whole single parent thing. There were many things on gods’s mind and so he forgot a few things pertaining to his son. One day JC answered a few prayers for god. Having seen his dad do this he thought he could handle it. So when answering the prayers JC told the people praying that they had to build a ship. The thing about answering prayers. God answer prayers but he does it in a way that prevents it from being percieved as a miracle. The problem with miracles, god dreamed, is that when people get one, they can see through them. The miracles. The thing about prayers is that a prayer is not a prayer if it asks for a miracle. But even in this god wasn’t isn’t perfect. When god found out that JC answered a prayer and answered it badly god said that JC had to see it through. Which meant he had to go back down again. Fix his mess. How JC arrived in a ship that was landlocked. Why JC doesn’t fly. The story of JC on a ship in the mid-west USA. Could potentially use research here how the biblical miracles really happened. The whole miracle disillusion thing. JC the rebellious son of god, the father. JC roaming the cosmos and India. What am I to do with that? As though the cosmos has someting to do with India. Or does it? Didn’t Hinduism invent the cosmos? The debate about creationism. And what about the cool jobs that get you nowhere? Has nothing to do with JC cosmos, India and the mid-west. Or? Play. Aging. Getting old. Old vs. Young. Two characters that oppose each other. What makes them opposite? Both women. They have to work together and do well. Until something screws-up their Karma. I guess. These two women, one old (how to define that but remain subtle?) the other young (ditto?). The story culminates with the two realizing who/what they are. They are (somehow) the same person. One is a mother, the other a daughter. (Or the like.) The trilogy of the female. Mother, daughter… (and what’s next?) Or. One is a business executive, the other at the beginning of her professional career. But what are they doing? What brings them together in this story? Being a prolific writer means nothing in this day and age. Did it ever mean anything? H. Miller said, the greatest men have never written a thing. And why should one bother? Finding solace is or has to be about something else. Treating people equally, for example. The biggest gripe I have about exotic vacations is facing the working class of so-called poor nations. The people building and sculpting the bungalows and landscapes seem so content. Except for when they say how much they want a car. That was the key bomb for me last year on Mauritius. I will assume for cultural reasons, a Thailander will not come up to me and do the same thing. Where are all these notes going? In the notebook. Fool. I must eventually focus in love as well as writing. What’s the point of it all if it ultimately goes nowhere? The bleeding of energy. Must be bleeding off of energy? I would bleed off the ends of the world if the waves would follow me to where I live. Instead they (waves) act like the worst of the spoiled Georgian peaches flaying her wants to waiting takers. Oh the weight of fags (see graph next page) taking pictures of a beach while wearing tight pants. So they stop the waves of this beach from once again waknig up and caughing. Oh Kau Laak, you will rise above all with your smiling cares.



Traumatized Race

Is it possible for a white man to be traumatized by the civil rights movement of the black man? Or was the movement by someone else who only wanted to profit from movement? How a movement can be misunderstood.

Idea for… (?)


Character expresses his indignation for the results of the civil rights movement. He is traumatized by race. The race.

Sabine = Raissa
Jamina = Nyla
Iris = Drag
Anna = Windfeder
Peter = Secondmaus



Body Types

  • – echtomorph (thin)
  • – endomorph (fat)
  • – messomorpth

See the ballad of Lucy Jordan by Marianne Faithful. Interesting text about a lost 37 year young woman.

Systemic of Control

Bacteriophage. A virus that attacks bacteria. Not a profitable treatment, hence not used or researched! Soviet Union and Georgia used this the most. Most used as alternative to antibiotics.

Trying to fathom, understand any reason behind the supression of sexuality. What is the opposite of sex? Murder? If not, why not? The opposite of sex cannot be murder because death (and the act of killing) is not human instinct. Survival is a human instinct and when that is threatened the result is murder. Murder doesn’t logically equate with survival. Or?

The systemic of controlling sex and the instinct (to have it).

– abstinence
– promiscuity
– subject
– object
– give
– take

(See which of the list above are connected.)


Nother Ode To Nothingness

As the days pass with no results of my efforts (which kinda makes them something other than efforts) the pain increases. Of course, everyone would argue that my efforst are nothing. But I think the last two stories I submitted are worth a great deal. Certainly they represent a high-point of my work up to all this nothingness. Yet the days pass and I type nothing more and more–except a silly blog past here and there. Nothing else matters. (Thank you Sam.)

Always act so that you can will the maxim or determining principle of your action to become universal law; act so that you can will that everybody shall follow the principle of your action. -Kant


Saying It Better

Finding those who say it better. There are so many. Why is it that I must be the one amongst the many, the crowd who, if required, stands out only because he can achieve nothing?

America touts itself as the land of the free, but the number one freedom that you and I have is the freedom to enter into a subservient role in the workplace. Once you exercise this freedom you’ve lost all control over what you do, what is produced, and how it is produced. And in the end, the product doesn’t belong to you. The only way you can afford bosses and jobs is if you don’t care about making a living. Which leads to the second freedom. The freedom to starve. -Tom Morello, Rage Against The Machine.


Burying Books

(Note: post contains notes from Oct 2 thru 6.)

A woman who sees things. Her idears of how things should be, though, are in stark contrast to how they are or how they seem or are they all too real? Never nuff. These thoughts of lost. Go with it, nomatter.


An everyday kind of guy. His job? Physicist. He is, unknown to himself and others, though, deeply distrubed. While unmasking great mathematical secrets in the world of physics (is that possible as a physicist?) his own secret emerges. In fact. His secret comes to light. Literally. You know the idear of the lightbuld going off when you have a great idear? Well here it is finally manifest. But more importantly–what is it?

Savior. Two old freinds meet. One is an evangelical christian–a recruiter–very successful. The salesman! The other an athiest. A play. About being saved. Saved to religion. Save from religion. But who is doing the saving? Who is saved? Who can be saved? Who should be saved? The twist of the story is how the evengelical finds himself being saved by the athiest. What a twist, eh! How? What is the mechanism used in the story/play that carries this twist? Define saved. What is it to be saved? Does this make any sense? Being saved is submitting oneself to bondage.

Never bury books. Burying books is what makes humanity stupid. That must be the reason we are what we are.

Wait. Missed something just now.

Never buy books at their release. Leave that to the others. Instead happen by your read. Check out all the cemetery’s that have humanities misplaced knowledge in their bowels. Buried books the earth cannot digest. Other than that, let the read find you.

Master describing women. The way they do everything. Move their lives when they talk or smoke or eat. Get up from a chair according to the chair they are using. The way they move their hands while talking and how everything they do changes when talking between boy and girl and that whole procreation thing. Yeah, that’s what it all comes down to.



The Hurt

More LOP Thinkng Out Loud


The character that needs a name (Stone?) arrested as a terrorist which makes him a US citizen with no rights. Wait. This is the end. No. The ending.


Two parts to story. One. The discovery of family Hurt* through the loss of the father (and/or patriarch–when the matriarch has been freed but not prepared). Two. The connection, hence confusion, of Character’s becoming a terrorist. The internal ones no one is ever speaking of because…

*The Hurt. The distruction of the children. The children have to pay. (?????)



Pondering Questions Leaving SF, CA

(Note: This post combines Sept 21-26)

To inform. About short story publications (from Borders Books in SF, CA)

– Glimmer Train (
– Fiction (

Two publications of short stories.

Regress development.

The idear of growing backwards. “Growing” not in the sense of the physical, as a person would grow from a child to adult but with knowledge. Knowledge that isn’t somehow gained through society. Knowledge inbred? Could one call it growing backwards? No. Learning backwards, maybe. But how does one learn backwards? Can culture become sub-culture? As though culture, introduced to a person (young) and that person having a choice of which direction to take with what knowledge.

Great example of difference between USA and Germany. The way flowers are prepared and delivered.

– “Clos du Val” wine from SF hotel (California)
– “Cutrer” from Sonoma, Russian River

Absurdity. Not unlike an oddity. TSA. Transport Safety Administration. Yet antoehr way that shoudl open the eyes of people. But there eyes cannot be opened. All that can occur is to close them more. Yes. The closing of eyes. This very early morn in SFO on hell flight. To where?

My heart hurts. Enough to make me wonder but not enough to make me see a scientist. Still. I should take better care of myself. Better men have dropped dead at my age. Will do so upon return home. The home I do not want. I have no home. Or too many.

The things people say and do. If they would be recorded. What kind of recording device would be used? A device with unlimited memory? A machine that could run forever?

Mockery of democracy. The spin machine and the political mechanics that make it work. Situational ethics and morality based on (the mood of) the moment. Is (really) the driving element of politics fear? Then there needs to be a constitutional amendment, like all other parts, banning fear as a part of politics. (Or is the democratic process?) The US Constitution has worn out its welcome. What is to follow? More amendments (that serve the few (with money))? Doesn’t an amendment continue on with the status quo? Can a amendment rebel against–the mother? The mother is the constitution. The US constitution. A document that protects the owners. The owners of what? Life? The earth? All things earthly? The Bush clan reminds of people who think the constitution protects on them. The clan. Is this family a representative of what is good or bad about America? Rational thought dictates this family is bad. There. I’ve said it.

Is a human beings intelligence dependent on a long and fruitful childhood?

Questions to ponder.


Arguments In Space

Traveling. Long drawn out travel. Stress. On flight back and arrival a great surprise awaits. Oh. Oh. What is the surprise? Short story. Off the top I’m thinking, as a title for those words poked out early on an airport napkin. What a napkin it was. It smelled. Of something unclean. It was dark white, probably recycled. I wonder if the waitress picked it up off the floor and thought it was still good. But it didn’t smell of the floor. It smelt of kerosene. It smelt of airport. Stilgelegtflughafen. Powdered though. Stop. Title? Back to title. Wait. The waitress is cute. The lowest button of her untucked blouse is about to undo. It’s being massaged open as she walks and carries trays. I watched a man watch her ass. Why wasn’t I that guy? Nomatter. Title. Title: Todd On A Role. Todd On The Role. It doesn’t matter what Todd wants or what he rolls because he’s the other guy watching the waitress’ ass. A story about modern day stress but not from travel. The travel, the jockeying, the game of corporates, fighting for your position in a world where everyone is made equal by the fight. Forced to be equal. How does one stand above the rest? The dilemma of Todd. Wait. Is that the title? He questions having to adhere so much, having to compromise so much–just to be equal. As in “all men are created equal.” Or. All men are equated equal. Newspeak. A story about a guy who questions everything in a world where nothing is questioned. He goes on a business trip. How long is he gone? Takes place over a week. A few days. Two days. A five day week. Detail each day. Like a log. Use Disney/Orlando seminar trip from 2000. Wait. Where are those notes? The monotony and redundancy of each day, of life. Yes, use the Disney thing. A week in hell seminars encased in Walt Disney’s nightmare for America. The spectacle. The illusion that induces a trance in Todd. Like the one time he took shrooms? Todd has a short circuit while in Disney World. This causes him to start to misplace things. Forget. His presentation, for example. He is delusional and freaks out during a presentation. But everyone thought it was very entertaining. Even though it will get him fired. The files/slides of his presentation enhance his delusion, saying, thinking that during the moment of “turn”, that is, the moment where the trance started, some kind of electrical impulse took over, zapped him, and during this moment his files were all different and some were missing. For example. From his childhood. Vision from a time before he knew what it was like to be equal. Before he was equated. He fiddled with a draw program, the document saved has become reality. A vision. He has a daughter (but the reality is his wife recently left him with his daughter). His daughter was growing up and wanted to be an artist–what he wanted to be. Each of the activities at the Disney convention center play a role in his breakdown. His misgivings manifest. The seminar agenda? Everyday The Same Success. Wait. Stop.

Fascinated with Jeffrey Eugenides’ Middlesex. But I am also bored. His writing is nothing less than brilliant. I am not bored with his writing. But the story. Just started reading chapter titled Middlesex and it reminded me of Virgin Suicides neighborhood. Why?


A play. Need a one legged actor. If one leg actor not available take two legged actor. We’ll stop there, for sure. Unless we get a paraplegic actor, wheel chair n’all. This actor/character is gay, of course. And lives in San Fran. He’s been together with one person since his accident. The partner doesn’t mind, he jokes, because he’s still got another leg that seems to work better than before. But there is a secret to their relationship. The loss of the leg. How did it happen? An avid surfer attacked by a shark? Some fantastic accident that I haven’t thought of yet. The war. Yeah, I think it’ll be the war. In fact, I wanted that from the start. But the gay thing… The problem is the partner doesn’t know the whole story of the lost leg. Something’s been kept from him. But he wants to know. The other won’t tell him. What would be a good secret? A fantastic secret accident?

The universe is a place where two ends never meet. That’s the secret. Forget everything else. Membrane theory. String theory. The answer to everything when we don’t even have a question. The Big Bang my ass.

The weekend I lost all my friends. It wasn’t as though there were many to begin with. The loss was gradual because there were so few. Required then more energy to lose. Leaving the nest I suppose. Or perhaps HS. Those were the first friends lost. But were any of them friends? Not one from my graduating class am I in touch with. Obviously I acquired others but in the end they were the same and they in turn were eventually lost eventually and the process sped-up until one day I realized I’d better do something about this. Or maybe not. So I did. I did not. I actually tried to focus on the issue. You know, like how some teachers in school might tell you to do. But it didn’t work. At least not long term. Then came last weekend. With my last two friends we headed out to one of their mother’s beach houses. After that weekend I would only have a girlfriend which doesn’t really count as a friend, right? Yes. The problem I have is being too combative. According to my own empirical evidence (yes, my own) I never really thought my combative nature was worse than the next thinking person. But how can one be objective there, eh? The conversation began with rockets. How fast a vehicle needs to travel in order to reach space. I said the space shuttle reaches around seven-teen thousand miles per hour. Na-ah, someone said. I asked him if he meant to say No. “They don’t need to travel fast just fly out of the atmosphere,” he said. “Sorry,” was my combative response. “I’m very surprised you’d say that. You were in the airforce. You have to actually break out of our atmosphere–you can’t just fly out of it. “And what about the SR-seventy-one,” he said. At this moment I knew the stage was set. Friend was fiddling with his phone as other friend interjected. “Hey Dude, do you know why they launch rockets near the equator?” Friend drank from his glass of beer and nipped at his whiskey as though the two were a ritual and also toasting his question because he decided to become part of the conversation. “What does that have to do with our conversation?” I asked. “Well, we just started so I thought I’d mix things up,” someone said. Friend took another drink. In fact they all took lots more, slowly. “Ok,” I said, feeling the booze drip inside me but still unaware of the brew-who it would end up making in the morning. “Why don’t we discuss how the price of tee in China will effect the growth of butterflies in grannies soup.” “My granny makes pies with those butterflies, you know,” friend said. “So do you guys want to talk about something or…” other friend tried to say but was cut out. “We want to talk,” friend said like the ape he was. “Which, by the way, we’re doing.” “Talking just to talk is not what forty year olds should be doing. It’s pointless and we’re not women, I think,” I said. “Friend, be cool.” “Why,” other friend said. “You just asked a question and I answered it and you thik what I said is not true. Now, before you boys get lost again: one cannot just fly out of the atmosphere into space. First there’s no air to fly on. Second there’s something called gravity. Gravity kinda hold this whole show together so it’s kind of a big deal, pretty powerful. So do you get it? You have to break out of the atmosphere.” “Which the SR-seventy-one does,” friend said. “But it doesn’t go into space.” “Sure it does. It’s like a flying satellite when it gets up there.” “No it doesn’t, it can’t,” I said. “The SR-seventy-one has jet engines, very special jet engines and they, like all other jet engines need air to burn their fuel. It goes very high, yes, but it doesn’t leave the stratosphere where there is no more air.” “But the engines burn liquid oxygen.” And I stopped. Pissed. How do you argue with that? Leave it. Stop here as well. Tired of writing this.


Friend Loss

How I lost all my friends. A short (story, play) and a commentary. The not getting along of friends. Try to duplicate the dialog and discussion that takes place between (Friend 1) and I and (Friend 2) and I. The discussion that leads me to so much ugliness (on my part). Why do I get that way? Can people see thru it, though? They remain my friends. Would you believe, dear notebook, that I actually caused a couple last night at a restaurant to almost leave because of my (inner hate) anger. There are moments where I feel bad about what I caused–but only moments. The thing I am learning about so much failure in life is that as you age with failure the failure becomes harder to control. It literally self perpetuates. It’s worse than (alcohol) addiction. It is not the anger and ugliness, both inherent results of failure that causes (my) blood to boil, but instead the deep hole that seems to grow before my eyes as the situation gets out of my control. I guess this is the circumstance that leads so many humans to their dire straights. A foundation for religion. Another foundation for fascism. Don’t get too far off topic. (*) This is a great explanation, perhaps even a counter explanation, regarding those who run amok. Those who randomly kill with guns and violence. Taking innocence–not innocence in a religious sense but innocence in the idear that the victim didn’t get to his/her gun faster than the perpetrator. Taking innocent lives with them on their extravagant exit from our/this hell. They do so because of, not anger, but the continual fear of failure. Is this part of LOP? Was it part of Chad? Failure is the work of the heavens not of the devil. The devil wants humans to be successful. It’s now God’s doing in this world. The devil wins/succeeds and god… Oh the destruction, the dysfunction. What was the moment in history where the killing for god stopped and man took over the killing. This the conflict of free-will? Free. And. Will. (*) Continued from previous astrix. My anger and ugliness is a result of the hole. Of course I need to control it–get it under control–and perhaps this is a first step. Recognition. An amazing comment, thought: The lack of power the failure has. So much put into it and so little return (except for my anger). What does failure equate with? Whatever that may be. Find it. No. Make it up. The arguments with “friends” which have lead to my loss of them all, well not all, fall into my abyss because of my want to learn, to succeed. Why is that wrong? I read. I read to learn. Hence great apprehension to be entertained by the written, by the worst-written, the failed text of moi. When discussing and vocalizing what I have achieved auto-didactically doesn’t fit into any one’s shame of life. Wait. Getting tired. It is not knowledge from any other source. Stop.


Girl With One Eye


The one eyed girl. She was born with one eye. Or? Well, not quite. But so she says. She knows all about the cyclops. She wears glasses that make it look like she has a second eye. She tells the story of the origin of the cyclops myth, she debunks it, along with a few other Greek myths. Then she tells the truth of the cyclops, that lesser humans (than we have today) didn’t know what to make of the skulls of elephants. The role she plays. The true story. Her eye was crushed by the doctor when she was born. A ghastly scene. He was a substance abuser. She got over it. She grew up where the doctor told her that with one eye she could see better than those with two eyes. She believed it and lived her life in that belief. Who was this doctor? Her ersatz father? Their connection the eye that he won’t give back to her. He says her mother died at birth and took the eye with her out of spite. As she died it was the last thing she could grab on to. If not glasses with a fake eye then an eyepatch? The eye patch covers the eye that was crushed. A glass eye? When she take the glass eye out or puts it back in she gets the same feeling a smoker gets when he inhales. The same feeling before the smoking turns to habit. The bones broken by crazed step pseudo-father-doctor. She calls that day her day of birth. The day with the eye. The loss of eye has nothing to do with birth of life but birth of new life for which she will take revenge. The story behind the cyclops and the girl with the perfect body. Perfect.

Blue’s Lens. See LOP2 (Composition notebook) for first write-up of this one. This the story of Betty. A wife. She finds a video camera and starts to film her life. She becomes obsessed. Yes, obsessed. There is so much obsession, Tom. Why? She becomes obsessed with voyeurism. She films husband and he doesn’t know it. She teases him that she has a secret all the time and he thinks it`s either something sexual or a new car. Typical male. Her life changes so that she can film husband during sex. And that’s the ticket. Filming this stuff from a woman’s point of view. Hi-larry-us? Comedy? Husband eventually discovers what she’s done but it’s too late to do anything about it. She does it because being married is a bore. Terms used in this story: MILF, HWGF, A2M, etc.


Action Reaction Action

LH418 (>IAD). Outrageous and ludicrous the entirety of security one must now face. Entirety the word? Such a colossal waste of time and resources. The largest US government expansion in fifty years? To even imagine that politicians cannot see the wrong of their leadership and lawmaking fits perfectly to the silly-ness of airport security in 2005. The only “Trost” I give myself is the knowledge that US airports are even more stupid. Example. Of Stupid. A sixty-odd year old woman, caucasian, was frisked so thoroughly that one would/could think it was all some bad TV series. Yes, the few who rule are so stupid and inept but they many who enable them… When we people wake out of this dream?

Always amazed at the frivolity of others. (Not that I’m any better.) Especially when those others conjugate and become one. Scary. Indeed. Automaton. Lemmings. Guess more, t.

Just finished Eugenides chapter on Henry Ford in Middlesex. What a wonderful piece on assembly line workers. Although I’m still not convinced this isn’t a bore, I’m a bit (more) motivated to continue.


Tainted by a smell. Or. How a smell is tainted. How smell travels. Is smell and it’s structure related in anyway to gravity? The smell of it all. As though the answers of the ultimate question(s) in the mathematical understanding of the universe were really about smell. But. How does the universe smell? “Stink” like the speed of light. Mass and energy is relative? Time is relative? Now there’s a break thru for you. Quantum physics for understanding gravity. What is the science for understanding smell?

I always heard about Leni Riefenstahl but never learned anything about her. Does that make her an enigma? Do I even know what an enigma is? Nomatter. Has there ever been a story about LR? Her life, doings, would make an interesting play. Or? Recently came across an article by Susan Sonntag about LR. Fascinating. Fascism. Article written in ’75. Great summary of controversy behind LR.

Self realization. Knowing what you have gotten yourself into. How could I know, for example. The negative I would face after going to Germany? (But is it such? At least for a boring story it is.) And the connection to a past that I truly know nothing about. Those fucking Nazis are even haunting me. But why? Because people do not–or they willfully fail to–realize that action always has reaction. And now that I have realized my fate–FATE–how do I react? It goes like this. Or maybe not.

Action > Reaction > Action > …

This is why life is so short. The realization between action and reaction. You are born (action) and you must die (reaction). What happens between all the two? No. Not life. Not realizing that it is not life. Wait…

I need to go somewhere with this and LR. Check whether (or not) there’s a been a play about her. Oh, how to focus on one thing while so many others are sucking the life out of you. Can I bring LR into LOP? Perhaps something with the cyclops chick. The fact that LR never had children. She’s the crushed eye. Did she have children? How can aesthetic as she was someone adhere to so much beauty and not have children? The idear of the beauty and the woman and the children. And bad sentences.


To add to the story? How ’bout killing off (character)? A plot twist? Reason for doing this:

1) (Character) needs to get out from underneath father dominance
2) (Character) needs to become one of the anonymous–that’s how you can get away with anything, even murder, yeah, join the anonymous!
3) (Character) is running from the FBI or the like.



In LOP define and re-define conspiracy. Turn the whole conspiracy theory krapp which people are craving upsidedown and inandout. (Character) is fanatical about conspiracy. He comes from his past. Is his past connected to Chad? The liberal or the conservative conspiracy mindset confuses (Character). “Don’t make it so complicated to understand, man,” he says.

Question for LOP. Has USA ever had a radical leftwing faction? I mean one that has attained real political power? Make one up, if not. Why has this always been suppressed? Because the constitution was already liberal but with a twist for the privileged. US conservatives want nothing than, at the least, remove a few of the declaration made in the constitution. Wait. I’m mixing up declarations with constitutions. That’s why it’s been easy for the conservative wing to keep anything left at gaining real power.


Anonymous People


The anonymous people. (Like the “wounded” from Chad?) Who are they? How do they think? What makes them? Who made them?

Does (character) get a list of people to pick up?

The story of Gerald Fytsimmon. (Is he like Paul E. Chrysanthymum?) The first man to dissent (is that the right word?) against corporate servitude? G.F. was the man to tell Edison to fuck himself. The beginning of American worker lust–or is it worker frustration? (See LOP1 “Composition” notebook.)

Claire and Sisterhood and Robin-hood. No longer about stealing from the rich and giving to the poor–now its about girls stealing from men to support the concept of emancipation and/or feminism. It’s payback time! And there’s that question popping up again. Where does that question come from? What does it mean? Emancipation vs. Feminism? Where are you going with this? The Sisterhood story (compared to Robin-hood) starts with (charcter) dealing with failed relationships and all of her past having one thing in common: the abuse. The land of the abused. The abused girls. None of this is about violence, per se. It’s about sex. It’s about dominance. It’s about power over the less powerful. It’s about men’s brains failing to grow up, to mature. The jealousy men have because girls mature faster than boys? So the girls are abused. Take advantage. Almost all of them are abused. Those who are not abused are the freaks. Like the fat girl scorning the skinny girl. If you’re not like us then you are not. Wait. I used that same idear in Till The Cows Come Runnin’. All the same. Shame I never really finished it. Dung heap. Remember that one? Can’t let that one go either, eh, baby. When girls are introduced to sexuality the wrong way then it’s no wonder so many are sexually skewed. Is this the reason girls fall for Barbie or Cinderella or sleeping beauty, etc? To fill the void left by abuse they seek refuge in fantasy.

The Characters (of LOP):

Mikey Stone
Burn Cochstan
Tough Toman
Who Res
Jon Sten Stedwart
Wary Cochstan (realation?; Burn dad?)
Barn Barthal Meneu (Burn uncle?)
Clar Nougat
Lizzy Beth (Mother)
Mit Cha (step-father)
El Lain (sister)
The Cowboy (lover of Mother?)
The guys in the colored shirts
The Anonymous

Edison’s famous unspoken quote: “Why can’t I invent power.” He was angry when he couldn’t corner the energy market. He was forced to compete?

AC/DC = The same difference?

A counter or alternative to the Edison story. Include the story about the printing press from Mainz and Gutenberg. Unlike portraying Edison to be an asshole, Gutenberg could be portrayed as a naive nincompoop(?) Is that possible? Or, better, portray Gutenberg as someone not corrupted by the trickle of Capitalism that subsequently drove USA to the ground.

Printers. Print because readers read. But the secret was/is what was being printed. History is obsessed with the device that allows/enables the dissemination of information and very little is said as consistently about THE information. Gutenberg never tried to corner the market of the press or knowledge. Yet with the invention of electricity Edison tried to corner the energy market. The power corner. Oh, when there was still opportunity. Who know when Aristotle was being printed it was actually from Aristotle? Do not mention the printing of the bible. The printing press marked the move from medieval language of metaphors to the adaptation of scientific method.

All of the anonymous pick-ups have/use code names. See character names above. They use the names of industrialists or something else (fun names?). See Edison and Fitsimmons (who invented AC/DC?) or Ford and Otto Kraus (who actually designed the assembly line. Ford stole credit for that and only let Otto take credit for OK). How ’bout the inventor of Cola? Sasperilla? It’s (character) who puts all these names together to figure out the code used by (character other). One tries to get the other on his side, to join the movement but then (character other) shows his true hate for…

Messianic? To. Mega-church?

When god left his last gift to man was free-will. He washed his hands of it. The reason prayers are not answered is because too many of them infringe on free-will. Wash your hands and mind and soul of it. Free will.

LOP add story of the tyrant Agrigentum, Phalaris and his brazen bull. Invented by Perillos of Athens, the brazen bull was a torture device used in capital punishment. Cast in the shape of a bull with a door on the side that could opened, closed and locked. The device was heated till it turned red. The head of the bull was designed to amplify the screams of the person inside. Ironically, Perillos was ordered to test the device and was let out just before death. Eventually Phalaris had Perillos thrown from a cliff.



Domaine Du Chasseur

Domaine Du Chasseur. On top Mauritian mountain looking at Indian Ocean. Thought. The secret to life is knowing exactly what you want out of it. It is of the utmost importance that a young man know this. Otherwise. Forget it. Move on. Because life moves on with or without you. Trust me, I have survive this. And so. If all opportunity from a system is dried up, be at least told by a father (or mentor?) that he must know what he wants. And once he knows that make sure to somehow see if there is an opposite to what he wants. Get it? Otherwise you might be doomed for this world accepts no alternatives. It’s all or nothing. Nothing or all. This mountain. Peak out. Look at the deer growing below. They live on the mountainside. They are there for one purpose. Brought over on a ship to breed and provide fodder. Well, not fodder, per se. But maybe so. Oui. The deer of Mauritius were never there by nature but by nature’s antecedent: humans. Especially male humans that like to shoot things. Did they know what they wanted? (Out of life; silly question I know.) They were brought to this place to be slaughtered by men and their rifles, I presume. Like so many men/males. Otherwise. See mountain Domaine Du Chasseur. Get there and forget becoming a man. You will be among the French.

Started reading The Bell Jar.


Not Quite A Recipe

When illusion turns to delusion. With a male it is the transition from boy to man. For a female it is much, much more complicated. I think. I think I do not know.

Remember. The way Mauritians pour their beer. Their beer, btw, Phoenix, is pretty good. Thank goodness. It’s freaking hot here.

Recipe? Not quite.

-curry leaves
-veg oil
-curry leaves (whole for fish)
-cooking pan
-cook meat separately
-for fish add tomato and water



Good Luck Success

Bad luck is bad luck. Unlike good luck. Good luck is grand but never the same. You can’t put a face on it. Success on the other hand can have a thousand faces beyond the happy one it misses.

Beach Blanket Forgot

Oh my. We forgot beach blankets. More important than my tooth brush. Thousands of miles and beach blankets are a needed commodity. Oh save me purchasing power. With that in mind, how can one say something without speaking? One must write it and not (actually) say it. Or?

Cheap German Airline And Dodo

Condor DE314 > MRU (Mauritius)

Going to see the Dodo. Raphus Cucullatus. (SP?)

Will never fly Condor again. Never say never. This is the worst, most uncomfortable flight ever. Shame on airlines all. Now move on.

Is there a significant difference between reconciliation and compromise? A subtle difference. What of rights between payer and payee? A payer could demand something of a payee, especially when a tangible is not present. Buying services, for example. All I know. Can’t be much. By the look of things. By way ways go. I would think the only thing I had to give to this would are a few lost words of advice better used by the unborn or stupid people. Ok some young folk, who are kind of both. Love is a fallacy, for example. And in these days of nothingness it has reign supreme above all else. It is the most simple of all common demonstrations on which we divide everything that is human. For this to continue little is left to actually live for and yet what pushes (it) forward? The fact that I should better pay attention to things we’re flying by then writing things others will fly by… The fact that I should have sought out my war? That I fly over? When war has already found so many other men in history whose sped is worth more than me. The war is out there yet I have the comfort to be able to choose whether or not to go. And not out of fear but ideology or some other human fault not invented but simply codified. Now that’s a great word. As great as this boredom on this cramped flight. Will never fly Condor again. What a cheap German airline. But they do collect the fund, eh. Yes, to join at forty-two and thirty-two thousand feet. Win the war. The inner war. Get over the place you are traveling to now. Stop.


Colorless Green

2005 09 28

Idear: a couple plus one. The one is the ex of couple female or vice versa. Couple male (or vice versa) is rich guy for some odd secret reason is willing to support couple female ex. Get that?

The only way to allow creativity to blossom is to avoid the compulsive behavior of planting plants for the sake of having green.

And while I’m on the (brief) subject of green… How ’bout a perfect sentence that makes no sense:

“Colorless green ideas sleep furiously.” -Noam Chomsky

Or something like that.

So much tie passing. Wasting. That is what wastes, isn’t it? Nomatter. What is time? The question of the day. Will (they) prove it to be a particle someday? Or at least to have (some kind of) mass? My excuse? For so much ineptitude? For so much inaction? I hate these periods where empathy is like shroom. So dizzy from its effect (or do I mean affect)? This doing of absolute nothing. To believe, fathom, I have read twenty pages of anything in over six weeks. My better half, this sweet thing, has no clue to my…

Stop. Move on.

LOP. Thought/idear: (Character) when he starts his cross-country trip will be given certain instructions from (other character).

1-no hitchhikers
2-no one but authorized personnel are allowed to drive the car, the pickups are not allowed to drive (because they have no drive license)
3-not allowed to use a mobile phone (how can (character) communicate)
4-If (character) driver decides to quit it is his responsibility to leave the car at a designated area otherwise he will be quartered with three legged horses. No. Will give (character) too much suspicion of…

Most of (above) rules (character) breaks. This is reason why (other character) is sent to see (character). This is the cause of (other character) conversation that (character) has lost his marbles. “What happened to your business acumen?” Rule. (Continued.)

5-never use a library (because of govt. checking books)

It is not god you question. You must question the authority that is using god to surpress you. Authority must forever be questioned. What right does authority have to exercise itself?

Idear: It’s the middle of Jan in New York. The weather is perfect. Eighty degrees fahrenheit and everyone is in beach wear, partying. Minimalist partying. There is a secret. (Behind what’s being seen.) Come on… Eighty degrees fahrenheit in NYC in January? Not a story about climate change, please.



Sharing On Horizon

LOP. Steroids. One of the things (character name) does after ENGAGEMENT is get back in shape. Taking care of his physical being. He also uses steroids which he acquired in Europe. This the idea that he has been surrounded by illicit drugs all his life. Whether in America or Europe. When driving the anonymous across America he stops to go jogging.

Kurt Vonnegut wants to help stop the erosion of one of America’s greatest but dying-out resources: imagination. No one wants to pay for tedious work. Sharing is only done when profits sit bright on the horizon. The only problem is people believe they are being told what sits on the horizon is real when it is really a sales pitch and a pyramid (scheme). The salesman is perfect at his task convincing everyone the illumines figure its on the edge of a flat earth, too.


Just another word to invent. The all encompassing fancy word that seems to describe all one can do to the penis. There I said it. I’m a vulgar redneck without recourse. And that, among all the juvenility, is all I have. I think.

“A Man Without A Country” by Kurt Vonnegut.

It should be a low (bereft of narrow interpretation) against the current man against man society we have hurdling around. (These days.) A law (of sorts) that prohibits one man (person) from determining the destiny of another. So, perhaps, the real question is: how can law, any law, be enforced? Oh, how I yearn to meet a genius. It has taken me all of forty-two (some odd) years to realize I’ve wanted to do such a thing. Oddly, upon realization, the exuberance is quickly dispelled; to meet such a genius is simply not in my stars. Makes me wonder how astrology is much a joke.

How to forget your past? The lingering dreams and day dreams that almost haunt me… I know that these dreams come for a reason. Something is behind them, although I am not sure what. My best guess for now is a last grappling of youth. My youth is long gone. Good riddens. But something holds on. Something against my will. Is this free-will? The free-will nature has given? Nonsense. Holding on is not an option. Discipline. The past I dream of is not so far in the past. That’s the irony to getting old, I guess. It’s just around the corner, right over there. Irony. So the real past is a past from a former life. Now that is distant. Distant irony? If only the (dimensionalist) could come up with an equation to explain the UTE (universal theory of everything). Then perhaps I could understand the dimensions better. Better is such a bad choice of words. Like all the rest used here. Vocabulary my great enemy. Ignorance my only friend. Taunt on.

The time has come for humans to make water. How do they go about doing it. The first logical step is system. Systematic. Don’t only thinking about getting it out of Hydrogen. But before they/we do that they must first wait for the curtain call and the show to begin.

America has found a way to turn survival into a commodity. Way to go.

Solieré plus Mozart.

Second scene.

Three and four scenes before pause. Someone actually said “pause” um es anzukundigen.

Back to the commodity issue. What to do when commerce saturates? One solution would be to allow or enable a new generation to fulfill what the status-quo generation cannot. What to do when the world has too many car makers? Obviously the west can only sustain itself for three of four generations with oil and cars. And so… the doctor boom was that first try. It obviously failed miserably. Will there be another try? Next in my generation.

Stop. Cease. Please.


Five Stages

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. The five stages of grief.

Whoever had it wrong. Women are not jealous of not having a penis. They are instead curious. Curious about the simplicity of the whole (or)deal.

They expel love. You know who? They will be kept or whores. Given to the whims only their bodies cause. Cause. Do you feel this leaving me? This, these, thoughts? Reader? Fellow loser. Comrade in worst. It is banging at my door about to leave. The will to write anything beyond my own self-indulgence. Like all the churches springing up in America. Falsity. Misguided. The only truth is suburban hell. There is nothing to repudiate. When the lies begin to flow. Who or what should determine the truth? If people prefer the pursuit of believing above truth-finding the dire and un-relinquish-ing future will pound a few projectiles in skulls. It is the blind not the living dead who lead through life. To where to what? It is the logic of this we pursue. The logic of soothing a consciousness. The logic of soothing conscious. Repeat it a third time and your doom is worse than that of the Jeannie. Certainly not the (almost) perfect organisation of the American bar mentality which so quickly replaces the grade-school mentality that is all we take with us to adulthood on account all schooling after that is about repressive sex. The only functioning on-site production example in the whole of America is: (?)

Tactic: actual means used to get something done.
Strategy: the overall plan.

The (a) role of government should be about promoting the common good in a society. Twenty-first century American government is the opposite of the above mentioned. Rely on individual discipline and initiative. Why would people (democracy) want such a system of government? Answer: money. This is what happens when money becomes (so) scarce and desirable. The only good is the sum of individual good. A (very) bad constellation on which we build society. And so‚ One must choose: we’re all in tis together or you’re on your own, dude. And I think we know what’s been chosen. But wait. There’s more in this mush (of mine). Every citizen is entitled to protection or you’re only entitled to what you can afford. Empathy and responsibility are out to lunch. Much of this taken/derived out of reading something on the other day, I think. See George Lakoff.

Also see judicial philosophy’s “narrow interpretation” which is intended to have maximum causal effect when it comes to enforcing the law.