The point under neck and above collar bone. The most magical part of the female (from the planet…)

The success of an artist depends on his ability to self-endulge. No, that’s totally wrong. His/Her success depends clearly on an ability to NOT self indulge.

Scratch that.

You’re not an artist.

Move on.


The Gift


The son of a rich man bitter that he can’t make it one his own finds new ways, criminal ways?, to get rich. What he learned from his rich father is that you just have to be tactical with the truth and when being tactical is too difficult then you just have to find a way to push it along. For example. He recently had an affair with a woman who broke up with a man who she thought really screwed her over. Our protagonist finds out that her ex was also her dentist. She feels that In order to get him back our protagonist suggests they sue him for negligence. But she says he wasn’t negligent. Our protagonist says they can easily turn that around by fudging records or breaking one of her teeth RIGHT NOW. They can do that because our protagonist can get access to dental office because his father owns the building.

Be tactical with the truth by giving your truth a bit of a push.

A man giving woman gift and she asks what it is. He answers: I don’t know. What we don#t know is that he really doesn’t know. So what’s the gift and where did he get it?

Is there a truth about the gift?



Victimisation. Who has it? Where does it come from? A pillar of society it is not, yet we weave like small children at play through various forms of it/them, not knowing or even questioning their history. And for what? When all is guided by the emotions that come from it then it is no wonder it has mutated to become what it is. In the eye of the beholder lies the source of reciprocity and sovereignty. But to actually SEE the ills of one’s ways is not the solution. As we travel through life to our ultimate end, we never really admit that our end justifies the means. So I must ask: Is the means worthy of discussion when all it entails is dying? And so…

While summarising in the means it becomes impossible to perceive the big picture (which is the simple fact that no matter what we do or say or produce all leads to… lights out.) This leaves us with a (sort of) void, which needs to be filled. Hence, victimisation.

I am amazed that after one year of OFFICIAL separation  my (ex)wife could do what she did. But am I a victim? How easy it is to quit something. No. That’s not right. How difficult it is to quit something. Its so much easier than acquiring something. (Like a career that suits a wife.) I say that because… stuck in this mind is not just one world but six and they’re all brilliant and shinny and full of dreams and trees. No one should ever accuse me of quitting. Losing, maybe. Yeah, losing is good. Better. No. To be separated from what is really important someone else must take the initiative. I feel bad for my (ex)wife. She is such a fool–for letting me love her. Not once did she swallow her pride. I guess that what the females do (or don’t do in their “giving” of themselves). Then to top it all off, she acquires the power to demolish–and she uses it. Or is it I? What was being asked of her? To let me live as I wanted to live and not (only) as she dictated that I live? Again. Why did she marry me? To change me, obviously. And what did she ever give in the whole deal? Shame on me.

I must look into the future and write what happens when out of all this mess…

What is the only human trait worth mentioning? I say, to those aliens asking, it is the resilience of children. Perhaps a distant second, an enormous distance, worth mentioning to our three-fingered genetic parent, is the absorption capability of adult single women. It’s also so much easier to describe. The prerequisite for understanding a child’s resilience is to have them–which isn’t difficult. (But.) The absorption issue of a woman is quite something else. As noted, this is about adult women–to be more clear, women between the years of twenty and death. Or forty. Which ever comes first. The basis of such an assumption is my experience in–you guessed it–experience in… forget it. More importantly love without condition. Unconditional love. Where is it. Oh look! It’s on that frisbee a dog is about to jump at. It is the natural feeding the natural with children. It is the natural feeding the unnatural with women. The basis of such hypothesis is condition. The love of a woman is conditional, for good reason, I might add. But when her love is unattainable, like a German chick, she becomes blind of it. She can see everything else–especially new love. But the rest she is blind to. Oh, the wrath of the grand SHE falling out of love. This is the unnatural and its origin rests in, just like time, an invention of…


Rant on.


Only Had The Courage

Is the simplest explanation always the best?

…they’ve been told that god is mysterious, unfathomable, so to then incoherence is the closest thing to god.” -Umberto Eco

Don’t particularly mind the turn the world has taken recently to fundamentalism. There’s nothing wrong with that type of control as it obviously serves a purpose. The problem I have is the obvious void between the extremes. Nature will be able to deal with man’s wants. They can be no worse than the aftermath of a comet striking our surface, or a tsunami swallowing a continent, or perhaps a geological fault-line finally giving way and taking what was once prosperous, serene and beautiful and wiping it into oblivia at the blink of an eye. No, the problems arise when man’s needs become the reason for his or her actions. His needs are the fictional truths on which so much is founded. The way we live for example. It’s all a bad story, really. But because it’s so ingrained and without substantiated alternatives, there is no possibility to break from the fiction of our truth. (The truth we tell ourselves. The truth we insist on believing it–even though there is no imperial evidence. Imperial anything. Except imperial lands.) A need is so real such a significant part of the emotional psyche, to brea its hold on our collective conscience is beyond anything fathomable in nature. I think.

In the mist of a bull-frog laden life, I just lost, for the first time in my life, $100. I will repent in my mind for years to come this frivolous transition where I mixed the death of rock-bands lead singers. (Being so obsessed after an afternoon of argument and debate without conclusion, I was hell-bent on finally trying to not just win and argument but also bring one to an end. I lost the money in the process.) I mixes up Blind Melon and Stone Temple Pilots. I think. I don’t now why I have believed for more than ten years that Weland was dead. It was the arguing that got me there. Combative. I must learn to control it. But I am (at this point in life) a real asshole. And I must change or try to change. My flight plans back to Germany. I won’t be able to handle this so-called friendship much longer. Nor will I be able to handle my age much longer. I can get rid of the friends but what about the/my age? At least today I was able to spend some time in the water. The Atlantic. My only friend. Did myself good. I can still fee, as I write these silly words, the slight sting from the ocean. Initially overly cold but the will to drawn in it was too much (if I only had the courage). It was as though she was calling me. Saying that I am your friend. Saying that I should come to her (instead). It’s not far. A swim. A few miles out. A short lung based struggle and then it would be over. I would be a carcass. Finally. It would finally end.

Rant on.


Matti's Therapy

A mother and her (crazy) sons (or son). Two male characters. One a boy, the other a young man. No. Just one son. One son. The mother has to deal with the problems of her son because the father is absent (died, runaway, etc.) The young man is also troubled. The young man and the boy are the same and the mother and the audience has to find that out.

What is the only thing that can break a woman from the love (natural love) of her children?

After losing their father it can only be his (his love) replacement.

They don’t care. These creators. Moved to infinite corners of deja vu block houses that line their highways and byways. It’s as though every life they’ve ever lived has been the same. This is substantiated in (their) mediocrity. At least they’re friendly–and as long as you’re buying, willing to talk or listen, depending on your prerference.

Let’s now turn to the maternal and the son. “Maternal and Her Son.” Or. “Matty and Her Boy.” What is it that’ll cause matty to neglect her son so much that he will die? There is only one thing stronger than a woman’s instinct to protect and love her children. When, for whatever reason, she is so strung-out from not finding Mr. Right (from which the last one she had a child) that her desire to be desired and cared for, according to the social dogma that reared her, she once again falls in love. M As is the case with so many broken families, the woman falls or is obliged to take the first man who even happens to meet part of the criteria set by social dogma. Of course she can never know what this man, due to blind love (purposeless romantic love), is really made of. Whether he’s a good man or a bad man makes no difference when it concerns the welfare of her child. All that matters in this social dogmatised world is the man feels (knows) he has an object and the woman feels (knows) that she is the subject.

Purposeless Romance.

“Matty and the…                ?

“Maternal’s Lost Boy”       ?

Her name is Matti Baybee?

A play about a woman and her son. The two live alone and Matti had done a good job raising her son. So it would seem. Matti, lost her son’s father in the oil war, so she says. Could ahve lost him in the many other wars or a drunken altercation with an armed man, etc., etc. The son doesn’t really has vague memories of his father (and these too, like Matti’s with the loss of the father, could conflict). But Matti, it appears, has her shit together. While raising her son she acquired a degree in psycology and, to put bread on the table, provides therapy but also dances for money. And she does so in unorthodox way. (Fill in blanks.) >What does unorthodox entail?

The whore-wife. The whore-mother. Morality run amok–inside Matti’s head. The world run amok for sticking this to her. Nature… is not mother.

The play takes place in her home. That is also where she has her therapy practice. There is shinny poll in the middle of the room/stage. Her son is applying for college. He and Matti are excited about the future. Then Matti receives a new client. He is a middle aged man and works for the local government. He is the head custodian of the community. During the story two/three of Matti’s patients appear. All men. Her son narrates why they are all men and Matti can’t therapy (other) women. Perhaps there is room for one (two?) females who represent the female camaraderie? For someone, other than the son, must question (or not) Matti’s profession. But one of the men does, who turns out to be an investigator (or sorts) who is checking up on her practice. It is an odd practice. What or how does Matti practice therapy (on men)? Always question the poll in the middle of the room. Matti claims she uses it to keep fit. And what does this have to do with her son? The application process to college turns out to be a problem. This causes a negative reaction in the son that causes audience to question his motivations. Matti has battles on all fronts. Son. Authorites (regarding her status; how she’s affected/effected the community). and the fact that she misses her son’s father. The son gets wind of his mother’s problem with authorities. He too begins to question her. In the mean-time Matti is overwhelmed with work. The status-quo, authorities, threaten to close her down. The conflicts (battles) become too great for Matti. When she says she’s gonna take a corporate job her son freaks-out, as though he’s connected in someway to her therapy. We learn that he wants to (that he must also) study psycology. He has to be like his mother. She’s surprised. She thought they talked his study of engineering–something manly–or math or computers. It is learned they they really didn’t talk much about anything. Typical parental neglect? In the mean-time Matti is unable to get rid of her (male) clients–especially the head of custodial works for the community. He turns out to be a real whacko–who normally Matti, through screening, wouldn’t allow as a client. (What’s that screening process?) This is the first patient to have slipped through. His actually a person that really needs therapy, psychological help. He thinks he’s a janitor–but he’s so much more. The janitor is demented, schizophrenic, (which is how he got through screening) and becomes a threat. When the son gets word of this he thinks he’s going to help, defend his mother. This leads to a final show down. The show down takes place and it turns out that the janitor (custodian) threat isn’t as high as anticipated. But in the process the son changes–as though the janitor had an affect on him. This causes a few more questions about Matti and not just her therapy but her life. Here the authorities show up and here is the first encounter with authorities and the son. But do the authorities see the son? Does the son see them? The sub-climax is that the son doesn’t exist??? Nor do any of the patients. The climax is that Matti is the one in therapy because she lost her marbles in love.

Just a though.


Post Clinton Chaos

Would you believe? Could you believe? That there are those who ponder miracles of morrow? I would like to call them my trinity conspirators but I think not of insult nor do I ponder disrespect. Yet there is stuff in-between the ether of all that jitters my spinal fluid. For example, NESARA. National Economic Security and Recovery Act. A pseudo-law that by some is or could be the reason behind the post-Clinton chaos. In fact, after reading-up on on this, I’ve concluded that the craziness that is the post-Clinton vacuum is now traveling at high speeds upon a three-thousand dollar knife blade from a Japanese master name Hirioto.

I remember so vividly a youthful moment when I couldn’t decipher the difference between certain words. Infinity and eternity, for example. I’m not sure exactly how old I was, somewhere between my 21st and 24th year. Of course I knew what the two words meant, but still, as if a form of dyslexia overcame me, I’d lose touch and mix them up.

Remind you/me of anyone?

Rant on.