This point is

The point is, to count. Count Dracula. Count Duck. Count Duke. Count duckets. Make things up. Make up the details as you go along. See a stranger's face and instantly know the witty pithy mythic mantra for that man. Instant realization. Instant verbalization. Instant coffee. Instant Karma.
I don't think I'm even really here anymore. I think I got off somewhere after 2013. And that's alright. Shouldn't be here anyway. This whole thing, this whole world, universe, dimension, desperate deduction of dendrites and dementia that is consciousness.... this whole shabang shouldn't exist. It's all so fucking improbable. Unprovable. Mistaken, misspelled, mixed, set, sucked, and fired in a kiln of heat burned bullshit.

That's just the salad course.

There are dreams. There will always be dreams. And they'll die. Fourteen thousand fathoms down in the depth of Jupiter's upper hairline, the plants sway.  The plants sway following the micro changes in pressure, slight aberrations of the wind, the current, the definition of drag plus pull minus freedom. The plants sway in time with time. The plants lean in the direction they are bent. They bend at the point that distracts them from righteous right angles and pernicious perpendiculars. They curve with the curves deemed holy by gravity and Einstein.  There's his name again. And again. And gain. An Dgain. The plants dream their name. They are Dgain. Though that might be the next false hood-rat rapper sponsored by Kanye W. Dgain gonna roll ya. Dgain gonna troll ya. Dgain got nothing but that repeatin, seatin, heart dremel be beatin... refrain. Dgain, Dgain, Dgain, Dgain, Dgain.

There are the moments we wake. Wake to darkness, to reverse twilight, to perfect morning.  Wake to late morning, midday hangovers, unforecasted afternoon naps, the couch all blue and soft and undeniable. There are moments we wake from the week day. The week day pull of constant pressure. We the Dgain, say YA MAN.  The relief of Friday. The Promise of waking Saturday. The New Regrets of Saturday evening into the forlorn lost love of Sunday.

Fuck, I'm Rebecca Black.

There are moments we spend planning the next moment. I've always tried to live at least 3 minutes in the future. Better to know what makes the stranger smile. Better to speak the words of the wind in synchronous with the ear howling message. Steal the thunder from the sky itself. Magic is a matter of perspective. If only murder wasn't crude.

Fuck, cluck. Birde Burd.

What is a forest. A system of parts component to the system. What is a tree. A component part in a system.  Unless that tree cannot see the forest, for himself. What weaves between the blades of grass. The insect or the wind. What matter. If it's all, merely matter. What difference between the sun and shadow. If E = mc^2. What difference between matter and energy. None. None at all. But that's a lie. We know what we know based on how we know it. If we are the sum of our parts, we are the sum of our senses. So what the fuck goes on for the poor deaf, dumb, blind, bastard?  Nevermind, that's a deadend. Bleak. Bleak House. We were at, ...sun and shadow. Perhaps the shadow is a lie. Just as the moon upon the horizon appears larger than at zenith. It's a lie told to the brain by the brain. A shadow makes sense. Sure! Something is blocking the light, so it must result in something darker. But that moon still looks really fucking big yes? If light does indeed curl about the edges just as it streaks about in rays, why this hole in reality made by ourselves?  What are we interrupting. What is prevented, destroyed by our existence, by our perception, by our big cock blocking bodies between papa sun and momma earth. I suspect human brain shenanigans. I suspect a trick. I smell a magician. That huckster is us. That liar is we. The falsehood is our bread and our buttered bread. There's a pigeon up my sleeve, and it's name is BELIEF.

There's some caps for you. Adore the lock of the caps.

I like this, er... forum. I like this cage. I adore the familiar and the subtleties of minuscule change. I fancy taking walks upon the identical path as yesterday. It's ever so calming. And the small changes ever so distinct. I like to follow the groove. I enjoy the depth as the needle digs deeper in the well worn path. I like how the song changes as the wax is deeper carved by the playing of the player. So good. Rules! Structure. Stricture! Confident and Complete. Where am I? I am in the place I planned to be. God help me. Save the fairy tales for the children. We have deeper tales to tell.

Tell tales.  Beating heart under the floorboards telltales.  Left the children at the bus stop telltales. Adopted a bag of kittens and visited the large animals exhibit at the zoo telltales. Bad things. And perhaps good things. That fleeting danger of returning the stranger's glance upon the street. The suddenly reciprocated "hello", "good morning", "shite weather isn't it? ha ha". A man of the earth met and recognized. And I recognized by the earth. By the dream that breathed without the dreamer. By the dangerous unknown.  Allowed to live and fairly spared by chaos. Alive! and Released. Thank you jesus. Maybe his name was jesus. I dunno. He had a beard and long hair.  So, ya know.

Reflections in the doorknob. Movement in the corner of the eye just before blocked and grabbed by the hand. Just before handling. Just before humaning. Just before the observer is himself observed by the observer, and so it goes. Endless hallucinations of me. Of us. C'mon, you do it too!  You see yourself walking, lame, limp, but perfect. You dream you're awake. Waking. You fancy yourself asleep. Sleeping. It's all so impolite. And we're to trust science?!  And we're to trust God!? Show me the bus. Show me the stop it stops at. I have a fare. I made it fine and fair. I wish the Fair. I follow the light. I gather and drink and darken, just like the sun. I'll return. I'll believe.  I'll see myself in the mirror, and discount the signs of age. Discount the evidence of truth. Of sin. Of passage. Of pain and persistent existence.

How have we been here so long?

Shouldn't we have been murdered and fucked by Mongols by now?

Such length of peace unnerves me. Such periods of prosperity and plowshares push me only to fat.

I care not why the caged bird sings. I care only for the beauty of the song, and the cage.

I'm so fucking double spacing now. Why?  I am really dramatic now!?!!

*Grin

Bam! 1,140 words!  Er, 1,144 now... shit 1,146, 1, 147!, fuck.   Full stop.

Still waiting for Gado

I've been waiting since those days of performing short plays 

for a Samuel Beckett to arrive.

Now that I'm older, and carry the world on my shoulders

this concept is only contrived!

This is a start.

a what?

a start.

a what?

a start.

ohhhh, a start!

I've thought for all these years about all that Sammy had said

and concluded by putting his book on the shelf.

If you want to find something or somewhere or someone

you must go and look for yourself.

So much thinking and reading, so much drinking and bleeding

waiting for it all to come to be.

Now it's time for action and going, for ration and knowing

that the years have begun to weather me.

This is a blog.

A what? 

A blog. 

A what?

a blog.

ohhhh, a blog!

It has always been said that a picture is worth a thousand words but a word can also be worth a thousand pictures. This endeavor to produce one thousand words a day or one picture is quite the undertaking and may land its two well intentioned creators in a padded room with a funny strapped suit and no key in site, or it may just produce some blooms on branches that mature into fruit or flower. I think keeping to close to the letter of the law, pun intended, may cause a type of creative cage. After all, some words are worth a thousand pictures and need more than a few words to be described and some pictures are only worth a few words, especially in the case of yours truly who owns outdated cameras and a barely functional phone with an even less functional camera. Perhaps those set backs will be a part of their own stories and contain thousands of their own words and narratives. Lord knows I've linked together some colorfully choice synonyms and analogies pertaining to said equipment.

Question number two: Will anyone read between one and two thousand words, mostly strings of consciousness and ramblings of semi lucid monkeys, every day? Will we even read what we have written ourselves? If a page is posted in a forest, does any one care?

Still, sometimes the idea itself is worth more as a sum then all its parts. Shall we start? Begin? Continue?

When does it all come to conclusion? Is there a beginning middle and end? 

I think that, as in life, there is just this and that ourselves and others may take a thing or two out of this here and there.

As I sit and type, ideas and stories run through my head. The possibility of what is to come is somehow comforting, exciting, and seemingly insurmountable at the same time. But still, the words come and my camera sucks. So I present a short story, written on the fly.

 

The Boiling point of Ilk and Parking Nazis

He had been harassed  and singled out by "the authorities" because of his station in life. His socioeconomic status was worn like signs and easy to see. It's in his dirty clothes, his ripped up jeans, and chewed up boots. In the callouses of his hands, the scrapes and cuts on his arms, and the lines on his sun baked face. He is heartily welcomed by those of his ilk on site and is avoided and whispered about by those who are not. The "are nots" have been gaining in numbers over the years and now far out number the ilk. Why can't they just let me be, he thought. I haven't done anything to hurt anyone and help out whenever and whoever I can. 

He also wears his station as hunks of unattractive, but moderately functional, steel, glass, wire and rubber. These are the focus of his current and serial predicaments. A mixture of profiling, crimes of another, karma, and just down right bad luck led up to current events.

A vehicle he had procured with considerable exertion and grit had been obfuscated by the regime the night before. He had driven to a small mountain town, many hours and icy mountain passes away. He negotiated it down to pence with the artful seasoned barter dance he had mostly learned on his own over the years. He towed it, white knuckled, back over those icy mountain passes. Those roads took on a whole new life and character on that drive and a story in itself. He was very proud and happy with his accomplishment, but knew in the back of his mind that, as with all tales of work vehicles, it eventually would be for close to naught. 

Last night the foreboding feeling came to life as the sound of a reverse siren shattering the cold silent night.

Being who he was, he knew immediately what that sound meant. Had they come for his trailer that had the license plates stolen? Or was it for the pick up truck he had been trying to sell? Was it for someone else?

Doubtful, he thought. It's always something and if it's not something it's something else as his father used to say.

He threw on the first pair of shorts and hoodie he could find. To his surprise, it was the new member of the four wheeled family that was being taken. Too late, he thought. The chains already hooked up and lumbering the truck onto the flatbed tow truck. 

"This is going to cost me," he says aloud to light post.

Walking slowly towards the flashing lights and several men standing around laughing, he calmed himself. He had learned that keeping a cool head and professional tone is paramount in these situations. After all, at least one of these men was just doing their job and certainly of his ilk.

"This is mine. I live here. What is the issue"

"I'm sure you do sir. Please let me do my job."

Oh boy, he thought. This is one of the regime. A higher up in the SS. He is intent upon doing "his job" above and beyond the call of duty. He can not be bought, he will not budge. Talk to the ilk.

"Hey man. I know you're just doing your job, and I know you got your hooks in me, but can I give you a $50 to drop it again?" he said in his most cut me some slack brother kind of tone.

"Sorry brotha. Head honcho is here. You got a boot and a laundry list of tickets."

"That's not possible! I just bought this!"

"Previous owners plates?" the tow truck driver has seen this before.

Shit. It dawned on him. Yes they were. The seller had said his plates were good until February. They'd be good until the catalytic converter could be replaced and he could pay his piece to the regime once again.

The licensure and tax cost didn't bother him much. The confiscation of personal property no matter the situation did.

"Sir," he mustered up his best compliance voice, "I just bought this truck."

"Well, you need to contact the seller. This vehicle has $2000 worth of tickets and has escaped the boot, so it will be impounded. Step aside"

Shit. So there's some karma here as well. Why wouldn't there be?! Don't let the sinking feeling set in, got to fight he thought. 

"The seller is from Illinois, lives somewhere in the mountains without an address or phone line, and I paid cash. I have the title."

Basically, I will never find this guy again and you wont either. He giggled a bit at the situation. 

Sometimes you got to laugh to keep from crying. Another pearl of wisdom from Dad. 

"Tell it to the magistrate son."

Son! Oh man, here we go. He didn't mind and knew how to deal with the red tape masochists, but he did mind being insulted and talked down to by a person who's salary was paid by his taxes.

"Please address me properly and in the manner that I am treating you in."

"My apologies, Sir," the proper word stuck in his mouth and was said with a smirk. 

This guy's one of the worst, he thought. He really enjoys his job because of the hurt it causes others. These types were always taken aback by someone they believed to be below their station possessing knowledge, calm, and intelligence.

"I will prove it to the magistrate if I have to. Of course you could save me the trouble. I can prove it to you if you can give me a minute."

"That's not how this is going to work."

"I figured as much. It could work that way. It's just not going to. Have a good night"

The uniformed parking Nazi slowly walked away, nose in his paperwork grumbling and chuckling to himself.

I'm done with this, he though as he watched the SS goosestep merrily back to his vehicle. I'm going to give him a taste of his own stool. 

His room mate came out and gave a short lecture about how this is all the fault of the democratic party and that people are tired of this and Trump will fix this kind of thing. At least I got to hear a good joke tonight he thought. This will only get worse.

He knew the next evening the regime would be back to continue the harassment of the lesser fortunate residents and the bar going visitors. He knew that parking enforcement is a necessary evil, but the regime has stepped over the lines and abused their power for too long.

The regime Captain himself drove by the next evening, returning to the scene of the crime. He spotted a vehicle parked on the residents only side of the street and zoomed in like a peregrine falcon grabbing a pigeon off the stoop. He followed the SS vehicle down the street, hiding behind cars, one after the next. The Captain got out, adjusting his black cargo pants over his doughnut filled belly with grunts and moans.

"What do we have here?!" he sang aloud to himself with a light of joy in his note.

Sneaking up to the open door, our ilk quietly slipped into the running vehicle. The Captains wallet was sitting in the center console. 

Bingo! let's keep this Nazi busy for a bit.

He slams the door to intentionally alert the Captain to his mistake and punched the accelerator to the floor like he was kicking in a heavy bolted door. The jeep screeched into all wheel action and barreled straight at the Captain. He had no intention of hitting him, just wanted to see him on his belly like the Captain had figuratively done to so many. The Captain, startled and with a look of slack jawed shock, dove onto the hood of the car he was ticketing seconds before. He couldn't make out who had taken advantage of his stupidity.

Sometimes if you aren't laughing, you're crying. He was doing a little of both as he screamed away with the borrowed vehicle. I bet he'll never leave his car running and open again, he laughed to himself.

A few hours later the Captain was informed that his beloved jeep, bought with the tears of others, was partially submerged in the lake.
His wallet was intacted and unmolested. What an idiot, the Captain thought. He didn't even get my wallet. I have a good amount of cash. Must have been some stupid kid. Thank God for small favors.

"Sir, your wife is on the phone. Says it's important," the Privates voice interrupted the Captains victorious thoughts.

"This better be important. I've told you not to call this line unless... What! I'll be there in five. Try to stall them."

The Captain grabbed the first set of keys he could find and sped home.

Upon reaching the entrance to his culdesac, he could see his beloved Tahoe being lifted on to the back of a flat bed tow truck. In a complete state of astonishment, the captain lumbered out of the regime vehicle and ran towards the tow truck driver.

"That's my truck!" he bellowed at driver.

"How dare you! Do you know who I am?!"

"Yes sir, I do." chimed in a familiar voice from behind. "You're the Denver parking Captain."

"Good. You know me. Release my vehicle immediately!" the Captain yelled while pounding one fist against his large flabby chest.

"Sir, the plates on this vehicle are stolen and were involved in a robbery. We will have to impound it until further notice."

"That's ridiculous. These aren't my plates. I can Prove it! Give me a minute" The Captain was growing more red and sweaty by the second as he hollered and spit out these words as if he were discarding sunflower seeds.

"That's not how this is going to work. Tell it to the magistrate. Good evening." The Aurora parking Czar sauntered back to his vehicle in a fashion the Captain was all too familiar with.

He let out a shriek and kicked his mailbox on the way in.

half a block away, a beat up pick up old pick up truck drives away into the dark.

1K/PIC

"1K/PIC"

"1K/PIC", the concept of a picture is worth a thousand words. Can I commit to a project of daily production of one thousand words or a picture posted on this blog each day. Will I go mad? How far a trip is that anyway? Finally a place and time and time in place not to shut up, not to censor, snip, snipe, trip, or tripe. I’m sorry about all this really. Don’t read this shit. Really. Now, on to the circus. I dream weird stuff. Stuff I may not describe here. Stuff that maybe wouldn’t seem particularly potent or perverse or petulant perhaps. Just brain stuff. Psychological alliteration stuff. Like watching the Great Escape for the three hundredth time. It just gets better and better. Where is Lenard Nimoy? I miss that guy. And his little dog, Toto, too. Is it just me, or is it weird they named Dorthy’s dog after the famed Japanese military genius? It’s just me. Ok, how many words is that now? 167. That’s almost one-fifth of the way there. When am I starting the committed run at this daily project production? February? Whenever I’m committed. Men in white suits and all. It’s easy. Like making a glass of water. You just need the ingredients, the time, and the will. After that, it’s merely quenching one’s thirst. I read once, that Asimov had to write ten thousand words a day, just to warm up. Christ. I mean, Asimov. Heinlein. Christ. Sorry, I’m repeating myself. There are things better left unsaid. I’m sure I’ll leave them best left unsaid here. This is merely a test run. This is merely a test. This is a test! A what?! A TEST! Thank you drama days. Moving on. Motion is one weird some of a bitch. You ever think what our theories of kinetic energy really mean? What they really add up to? It’s odd. Which in science is a good sign of an incomplete theory. I don’t want to get down on Newton or Kepler, etc. I mean, they were pretty smart I guess. Laughter. R T D. D/T = R. Is that right? Goes off to check. Ok, got it. Distance equals rate times time. I’m suspicious of how time is used twice there. Right next to each other, one merely MERELY! disguised as a plural. D = RT. So it’s not RTD. It’s Dirt. Bueno, now off we go. Motion is well related to time, via place, distance, location as such a thing changes over time. You’re aware of this, I know. But I’m rapping here man, so chill. Ok, that’s 433 words. Almost half way there. A test run, a test!

What we are supposed to be doing