Issue 46 – January 2024

Taking on new road trips meant, in part, taking on other people’s lives. Essential friends are carried, so silent, up the slope. Our higher hearts go left unsaid. Drowning is inaudible, but the hole it leaves is roaring in the passing wind. Sympathetic resonance happens on accident in the natural world, not often in ours.

One’s voice is a grand automaton, for example when one’s an unwilling apologeant. The words come out with all the black-hearted intent one can muster. The moment is the king of unfinished variations. It’s the most authoritarian of all. It’s the prime example for the intractable. “That’s life,” that nihilistic non-answer, is born from this.

What’s going on across the sphere is considerable events. A considerable number of them are putting people down and holding them there. One does her part by indulging certain situations like creating false hope, if it means avoiding.

There’s a lot who’ve constructed their identity around carrying a hidden gun, and the fiercely proudest possession is the laminated license that lets ’em do it. These people have feelings too. They progressed up to a point and then they stopped.

Tradition and grief are the bedrock of recalcitrance. We hit diverging paths in woods when we’re too young to analyze them. Guidance from older loved ones is paramount. Lacking it we rely on blind luck and intuition. Both of these are wanting in most people, with predictable results.

Conceptual unfeeling is quite formidable. It only experiences something when it improvises some diabolical progress. And circumstances rarely feel bad enough to begin believing in the supernatural. It’s surely meaningless that conversions occur at rock bottom and under pressure from one’s peers. In the former it’s clear why fantasyland is powerful-attractive. In the latter, the forefront is tribal commandments, which always involve world-building (not the world as it actually is, but as the tribe perceives it). This finds its fullest expression today not in religion but in fandom.

There’s an elegant science in mountain disposal. It’s been refined in Appalachia for 150 years. They’re quite adept at it. They generate unstable, cleaner than ever, denuded husks that turn the stomachs of every child. The husks aren’t really clean — they’re just less polluted than they used to be. And anyway the rivers already carried off the toxic waste. They spread it around so more folks could have some. Flora and fauna go unnoticed, naturally, which indicates the esteem that they’re held in.

Had the pocket not been there and been opened, we’d never have known we could take stuff out and, more important, put stuff in it. Our primary drive’s to put stuff in other stuff. We’re let down by these tributaries when the expected moan does not occur. These egos think they can make the sky climax. They’re quite resentful when it doesn’t.

The engrossed way is the best to be. It cuts down on the clutter. But one thing we can make no matter what is a rubbish situation. An uncovered sackful of directors wouldn’t suggest the tiniest of motivations. The star is in control. And somebody else says who the star is. “This is the girl.”

This season Milan and London are buzzing about fashion’s global trend: torment wear. It won’t just itch the skin, it’ll wreck your equilibrium. Put the blame for your bad decisions on torment wear. They won’t let you think straight, so you can’t be expected to make good choices with torment wear. Bring bring! Hello, who dis? Whoops I pulled the landline out of the wall with torment wear. Torment wear! For an authentic theocratic redo, try torment wear today. For a good excuse for anything, for a way to needle a sheriff, for a website’s secret Santa, or to get out of an obligation. The Great Rift Valley took its earth and turned it into torment wear. It’s the real thing but the wrong brand. Don’t pay attention to those others’ torment wear. The best is what we just happen to have on sale right here. We bravely opened our emptiness so that you can buy exclusive torment wear.



The old ways always refer to superstition — the kind we think is silly now, not the kind we still cling to. Those kinds are real and you better bow or else. Rockets are healthy and they carry stuff farther than you do. You don’t want to hear one make a sonic boom. You won’t know where it’s going to land because you won’t hear it coming.

Incredibly, in the face of this, the population still took root. The symbol of this age should be a fat one. Not as regards touchy obey-sity but as a time of over plenty. We’ve not yet turned enough molecules into unusable molecules. If we were ever able to, our work would be complete, our purpose stood revealed, our reward splitting seams in pockets. The answer would be right in front of us — unsentimental garbage. This man’s trash is no man’s treasure.

Which father miscarried? Ask around. Everybody knows, but whether they’ll share that information with a stranger’s variegated. One gets old; life moves at a pace just quick enough to have to call back to us “keep up, keep up.” We’re not to look any other direction. Head down, stumble forward, take your substances, and go. You want your kids to have torment wear, don’t you? The repression of sensuality leads to the poppy. It absorbs the birth of feeling and gives instead a direct ambrosic bliss. There is the illustration of a trip in all its paisley ectomorphs, rather than the trip itself, with its missing three-point perspective, objects that seem to be near and far at the same time, unsteady yet doable motor control, metallic nausea in the belly, and unrestrained primal emotions — all the psychic walls are removed easily like Japanese screens, all subconscious fetters vanish, and the boredom of the familiar is lifted on millions of helium balloons, so that every glance is the first, and it has all the weight of an epiphany, each and every look, in every direction. This is the source of the bad trip — we’re defenseless against our own emotion. If they’ve been kept from throttling us, they’ll do so now with glee, romping over our ego like dogs who’ve only ever known the leash, set free. It’s not revenge — the dogs don’t give us a thought. No, it’s simple exercise. The ramifications aren’t for them to ponder. Theirs is to feel. They really get destructive when they team up with memory.

Ah, memory. Keeper of the most cherished moments of our lives, holder of our happiest hours, the short-order cook ready to serve up not those but our every mistake, embarrassment, and regret, lickety split. We’re served them even when we’re full to bursting, ready to lie down and die rather than chew another mouthful of the lowest of ourselves. Yet that is the default. Not our fleeting joys, which could really help us. Imagine those at the forefront of our brains. The international bar scene would dry up overnight, replaced by festivals. Car-free public spaces would return to the norm. Partying would increase, but there’d be no need to drown oneself to do so. Prophets would be puzzling, for why offer alternatives to an already happy world? Competition would exist, but the pain of losing would never be acute, nor lead to self-destruction. Looking down a row of faces in a queue would be to see smile after smile, each one a specialist in the power of pornography (the harmless consensual non-economic sort). Rational deficiencies would fail to con our lawmakers, who couldn’t hurt us due to their own ongoing relived joys. ‘Twould be grand.



Suppose the past would rise up sweet and crying. It still would not explain itself. Thus we would have to interpret. Our bias informs us to one degree or another. Total clear analysis is impossible. We rely on the scientific method. Anywhere it does not apply is a game. One wants to utter the definitive answer while lacking definitive proof. For example every shoreline is the edge of a non-angled asymmetrical sphere that has no end. It curves around the landmass and connects itself to itself. It talks in pretty verse from no end til the other. Final and natural thought inevitably occurs. It is tied to repressed emotion. The machine falters, out of whack. There commences a series of interminable conversations. The more closely they fit the template of conversations past, overlaying 1:1 in every detail, the more they sap the will to live. History puts on trial our jive. One needn’t be famous nor remembered — it’s certain one’s outlook was placed there by tradition marketing, propaganda, and education, in that order.

Thus examples abound of the individual’s thought even when the individual is unknown. This is why talent is so valuable, because it cannot be passed down, instilled, or faked. Rarer and more valuable is the visionary. These lonely ones possess the rarest thing of all, an original idea. By definition the original idea goes against tradition, which makes it a danger to the powerful. The original’s worth is inestimable and not just in the fine art masters. It is one of the highest production elements of the homo sapien. It stands totally apart from the natural world. It is outside the realm of logic, math, and science. In this respect, its thought is mystical. But in practice, most thought is repetitive — and science reveals fact through repetition. The original idea has never been repeated. It may be lost with the person’s passing, or it may catch on and be repeated across the centuries, in spite of the centurions, and across cultures, spawning new fields, milieu.

How mired in boredom we are to latch so strongly onto any novelty. Every sporting event is historic, and every sub-genre has an era — even if it’s only been around a dozen years. The grail seeker cons himself out of years of growth and new experience. Like the suicide, he’ll never know what might have been. He’ll think of nothing to say beyond his heart’s fondest desire. Going up to the edge blows — it’s too scary and besides he might accidentally cross it, and find himself some place else, breathing and cared for, preserving his radiant innocence. The more the unconscious goes unfiltered, the more it’s able to learn. Out sounds another name and history that must be memorized. Nevermind the ongoing deliberations — this takes immediate precedence. The demands on one are unrelenting.

There’s always a new pair of hands to try to drag one into its tribe. Blood nights have been the same back to antiquity. The technology changes, but not the motivations. The actors are ready and willing, regardless of the generation. The north names the physical and the south, the mental. The Moon Avenger holds his rank by dint of manipulation, at which he is remarkably skilled and willing. There are many times more Asteroid Avengers, and every one of them wants the Moon Avenger’s job.

Deleterious behavior is forced by competition to the top. We’re blinkered by the very patterns we follow, and that includes the good ones. Bad mothers spend years as protocol murderers, and bad fathers repeat their own parents’ mistakes, blithely. The child can find no place on which to stand. Sports last conceptually only until he figures out he’ll always be excluded, after that remembering the stats of hall of famers becomes less important. Friends are paramount, and their philosophies are tried on and adhered to. These can last until their child’s first romantic relationship gets serious. But usually before that the friend will say or do something out of bounds, which makes the child need to adopt a secondary place to stand. Here the stakeholders are ready to act. They swell their ranks in two ways, by birth and by welcoming the weak. Of these the former’s more insidious — these independent consciousnesses do not get a chance, which won’t come anyway at least until their teens, after which they’ll struggle for decades with the saddling of dogmatic pain. All of course unnecessary.

When time is segmented, separation becomes the norm. Then re-establishment is not quite so easy. We can barely stand sweating minutes on the ground. It’s unlikely then that we’d seek conflict outside of our own terms. The exceptions are the bloody, who need everyone’s participation in their effluvia.

Beard hairs are really neutral these days where before they had an outlaw status. Now men et cetera will wear them on TV. Tattoos have also reached a normalcy, where before they were emblematic of naval circuses. These are results of robbing infants of their choices, as they must find anything else to hold onto, once they reach the age of constructing their identities.

Historically men of sparse destiny are always on their way.



Time until the climate refugees begin arriving in the States: pretty soon! Space we’ll have to make for them: a lot. Resources we’ll have to share with them: considerable. Those we’ll kill instead: millions. Even so many of us will have to join them moving north, out of the encroaching desert., toward where the food still grows (for now). Cowhide carests walk in that direction. The men will seduce themselves and nothing will be cured. It’ll be the last war that most will see, because they won’t survive it. It means slightly more than one hundred counties of thirst every couple years. When cultural progress regresses again, and all the servers lose their power, and digital currency wisps back into the mathematical ether from which it dick-sprang, and the blockchain falters, let’s hope the last decade’s exponential knowledge base can be transferred onto stone and vellum. At least there will be plenty new arid caves in which to preserve them.

And to hide them from the zealots and the jingoists who always come out of this pattern. It will be the realization of a chilly bitter dream. When every comfort is gone, we’ll cling to wood for cloth. Peat moss in the sunshine, if there is sunshine, will give the pleasure of a warmly blanketed bed. Men will murder for access to natural hot springs. Hillsides will have long since been denuded of their trees, just like in Tijuana. Zen will be scattered to the four winds in the midst of the clawing rocket system. Trophy excitement will exude only with fresh kills. The winners will be fed and the losers will jack up their rationalization. Naughty thoughts will grow — they will find gross expression. No one will be left to warn us of the dead, we’ll just enact their maxims. Our older folks will be preoccupied with places that have gone. When we’re having conversations with them, and they’re not looking in our eyes, but off to the side, those lost places are what they are imagining they’re seeing. The forcefulness they could have passed on will have been halved by transient existence. The harmful will survive on the ample prey, and natural born leaders will give much needed purpose and direction. Garrulous entrepreneurs will generate successes through their glad handling and drive! High status men and women will choose high status mates! Nesting pigeons in museums will cover canvases in droppings! Spices will regain their value as ways of keeping meat! Ocean life will rebound without the powered trawlers, but mad Ahabs will clean up all the whales and dolphins! That is if there is enough sunshine for plankton.

And anything that evolves to digest plastic will basically take over.



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