Ulterior Usufruct: July 2017

Friday, July 28, 2017

Welcome to Camp Severed Hoof!
We're settled along the Wounded rabbit season/duck season/Pass.
I'll be your camp counselor, Manny the Maine
Mini Muffin Man Levitan, for the next month or for as long as you can survive without the internet.
Lets all get on the struggle bus, head for the high country and watch some tourists roll down the hill in a ball of dirty sweat and spandex then, the counselors will all point and laugh as you try to make the final assent up the wounded ear.

Next time on the Netflix original series,
Sandy Schlugamous and the Struggle Bus, Sandy teaches the youngsters what Girl scout water and taking fluffy out into the woods really means.

Pic, pipe

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

July's summer, evening thaw

And the time came, like time always does. The Chinese succeed in teleporting several photons into orbit. Soon Amazon will have a run for its money. Life carries on, like it always does. Like it always dies. I witness tragedy in the lives of friends. I must wonder when it will befall me. I'm no fool when it comes. When it comes to the wheel of fortune. It spins like the dazzle of the barker's call. I know it is decision dabbled chance, and nothing more. Destiny is all hind sight. I dream, and wake from dreams. The play becomes the player, and we follow the script or be shuffled and lost in the song of the chorus. It is play, laughter, the small dramas of the bit games that hold the most meaning for me. That hold the most well done, the most well realized truth. For me, for me, for me. The objective reality in other's heads always baffles me, brings me up short. Too focused on controlling my own reality I suppose. Too focused on staying between the lines, and not veering off into neurological madness, say nothing for the spiritual. Respect the white line. The ribbon as Frank and others say. I know not. And have, ever, reveled in my profession of ignorance. As long as the road is kept. Like a shrine to the deity of MUST DO, ANTICIPATE, WASTE NOT TIME MISLAYING THE SMALL CHORES.

BUT let's not shout.

Truth is, I'm dying. And I'm pursuing it. I didn't ask to be born, but I'll beg to die. As we all will.

Mother. Another brick in the wall.

And yet, the end isn't today. It's not planned nor believed in. So I say, shaka, witness the walls fall. And remember foundation is an old man's dream, across stars, and merely represented in Seldon's holographic model.

I am solaced by the independent love of cats. And women. Everything else is troubleshooting and maintenance.

I love you all. And hope to count scores in useless games with you soon.

Forgive this face its interface. As I forgive your absence.

I'll remember you when I see you again.