Month: April 2005

ANYONE else think this story about a freaking parasite that can reanimate a corpse is a LITTLE fucking scary?

EDIT: ha! it is totally a spoof site – missed the dns swap. amusingly, the thread has been deleted too, from whence the link originated. thanks – that’ll learn me to troll bbc forums without crosschecking =)

i’m moving.

i got an offer to move into a split in washington heights with my former college roomate and his g/f. i was hesitant about the prospect until i saw the place.
2200 sqft 4 bdrm 2 bathroom. elevator and a doorman, with video surveliance in the lobby. the place is currently occupied by 3 white bread colombia students, and the neighborhood really isn’t much worse than where i am now, just a different demographic. the kitchen is bigger than my living room right now. with the rent split, i will be paying less than half of what i am paying right now.

we got everything nailed down yesterday. lease signing will be wednesday or thursday.

the commute is going to be longer, which means i’ll have to get up a little earlier, but the place will definitely have benefits. my first apartment purchase after i get a proper bed is going to be a bar.

now i have to pack all my shit – i am planning on making copious craigslist posts to sell off/ haul away much of what i don’t want/need anymore. the idea of having to get all this shit together makes me queasy. the good news is, i’m not going anywhere until june. after my long weekend at the end of may, i am really gonna nose-to-the grindstone it.

also, i finally got my tax return, which alleviates some acute financial pressure i was experiencing due to widespread monetary chaos.

i am debating between eliminating all by debt by january, and saving lots of money up first, and keep on my current debt elimination budget.

if there is one thing history has proven, it is that i am quite dangerous with a war chest at my disposal. i really want to invest in some gd real estate though, and i think if i keep that goal in mind, i can pre-empt any other major purchases.

i am very proud of myself. it has been nearly a month since jade empire came out, and i still have not purchased it. i know doing so will be the demise of any and or all sleep or free time i will have for at _least_ a week – possibly longer. this is the longest, to date, i have EVER held out on a game i wanted this badly.

i just found out, i am going to be bouncing the costume institute ball on monday. because the venue is so much smaller this year, they are expecting a lot of dance hall crashers. beats checking coats, i guess.

good thing i bought a tux! apparently i am going to the point for nicole kidman’s security people. the security office has apparently ffed this up in the past.

my question is, do you go with a horn handled or ebony handled switchblade to go with a tux?

Who the fuck is this?
pagin me at 5:46 in the mornin crack a dawnin
now I’m yawnin, wipe the cold out my eye
see who’s this pagin me and why..

Zounds! Mine eyes are still caked with sleeping dust!
Who breaks my sleep so close to the dawn’s light?

It’s my nigga PAC from the barbershop
told me he was in the gamblin spot and heard the intricate plot
some niggaz wanna stick you like fly paper neighbour
slow down love please chill drop the caper

It is my comerade of old, PAC!
Who told me that when carousing with men,
of ill repute, and questionable past…
Fiends! They informed him they wanted my death!

remember them niggaz from the hill up in Brownsville?
that you rolled dice wit
smoked the blunts and got nice wit
yeah my nigga Fame up in Prospect
nah dem my niggaz nah love wouldn’t disrespect

From whom did you get this ill fram-ed news?

From your old gambliing patners from Prospect!

Nay, they know me of old, and would not dare
disprespect the honor of my good name!

I didn’t day dem, they schooled me to some niggaz
that you knew from back when,
when you was clockin minor figures

You jump to strong conclusions my good man!

I did not refer to your old comerades,
but rather, they informed me of the plot;
the would-be assasins know you of old.

Now they heard you blowin up like nitro
know they wanna stick the knife
through your windpipe slow..

However, they have heard of your recent
crossing with Providence and great riches!
They mean to slay you, and gain your fortune,

so thank Fame for warnin me cuz I’m warnin you
I got the mac Biggie
tell me what you wanna do…

Award your ally for informing me
of the evil and dire plot against you!
My sword is yours for the asking! Inform
me of where it’s keen edge should strike truly.

[CHORUS x4]
Damn niggas wanna stick me for my papers

Mine eyes have seen corruption to the core!
The treachury of old friends makes me ill.
My riches make them forget all the times
my kindess kept them from a debtor’s death.

[VERSE 2]
They heard about the Rolex’s and the Lexus
wit the Texas license plates outta state
they heard about the pounds
you got down in Georgetown
now they heard you got half of Virginia locked down
they even heard about the crib
you bought your moms out in Florida
the fifth corridor….

They are well versed in your wealth and riches.
They know of the palace of your mother,
and your rich estates in Virginia.
They even know about the carraiges
They know of the carriages from afar.

Call the coroner
there’s gonna be alot of slow singin
and flower bringin
if my burgular alarm starts ringin

Go wake the undertaker so that when
my watchman should call out ‘ Trusspassers, Ho!’
he will be ready to wake the mourners.

whatcha think all the guns is for?
all purpose war got the rottweilers by the door
and I feed em gun powder so they can devour
The criminals tryin to drop my decimals

My plethora of arms are not rusted!
My hounds have teeth as sharpened as my swords.
They shall rend intruders like hot butter
before the fury of a hot blade-edge.

DAMN.. niggaz wanna stick my for my C.R.E.A.M.
and in a dream things ain’t always what it seems

It is a great crime
That fame and riches corrupt
your friends of the past!

It’s the ones that smoke blunts witcha
see your picture, now they wanna
grab they guns and come and getcha

It is always those you know best, of old,
whose ire is raised at mention of your fame.
They seek to dispatch me for my riches,
thinking me yesterday’s weakling fighter.

Betcha Biggie won’t slip
I got the calico with the black talions loaded in the clip
So I can rip through the ligaments
Put they bodies in a bad prediciment
where all the foul niggas went

I assure you, my resolve is quite firm.
The convictions of my weapon and the
hand which wields it’s killing power shall
not falter when the bloodletting begins.

Touch my cheddar, feel my Beretta
Buck with what I had you with
you motherfuckers betta duck

Touch my cheese, and feel the edge of my blade!
If I swing my weapon at your person,
you had best roll low, lest I behead you.

I bring pain, blood stains on what remains
Had to jack-it, he had a gun he should’ve packed it

My hands seek the blood of my enemies!
If my foe had a sword, he should have drawn.

Cocked it, extra clips in my pocket
so I can reload and explode down ya rasshole
I fuck around and get hardcore, C-4 to ya door no beef no
more(nigga)

My blade is ready to kill you and your
entire family, and next of kin,
My bloody wath will only be complete
when everyone you know has met their end!

Feel the rush, scandalous
The more weed smoke I puff, the more dangerous
I dont give a fuck about chu or your weak crew
What you gonna do when Big Poppa comes for you
im not runnin, nigga I bust my gun in
Hold on I hear somebody comin…

Feel the warm summer breeze run through your hair?
It is the last thing you shall ever know
before my wrath destroys all you and yours…
I am no coward! I shall stand and face
whatever you can bring to my doorstep.
My honor demands I shall not retreat.
Lo, I hear the skulkers stalk through the grass…

Such an iambic pentameter nerd!

someone let me know which branch of the government mondays file extensions with, so i know where to to direct my wrath.
i still hate the sun, a lot.


Settle down son. Put tha pickaxe down, and lemme get a looksee at that gash on ya arm. No, I ain’t one of them, but ya might end up one if ya don’t put down tha pick. Good. Here, have a nip of this and sit down so I can get a betta ganda.

Shit. Give me that bottle back. This is gonna burn some, but it does tha trick, as long as tha blood is still flowin. So ya part of a chain gang? No, ya don’t look like a con. A ‘lil young, sure. Ya duds and ankles son, dead giveaway. Ya well, beggas can’t be choosas, ‘specially not down here.

Me? Six weeks now. Ya, I haven’t had a cold beer in more than a goddamned month.

Oh, them? Ya, well, whatcha know about it? Whoa, slow down son! Just sip, then pass it back. We can talk while I get some rags on ya arm. If tha pus is clear in tha mornin, we won’t have ta cut it off.

I’m just a mina. Been workin down here ten years, maybe twelve. Nah, neva a foreman; wasn’t cut out fer all tha chapped brown lips. I ‘m a mina like my fatha was. That’s why they call it Pittsburgh son.

So, ya, it’s been what, a month and a half since tha earthquake, when lights went out topside? Ya, I know, they are back on now. Down here though, once ya get used ta it, tha dark can help ya more than hurt ya. Nea as I can tell, they can’t hear, or smell. They can see just fine though, even tha ones without eyes, which still keeps me up sometimes.

They started showin up afta tha lights went out. We lost a half a crew in a cave-in afta tha big shake, includin my oldest friend, Ernie Stanwick. Ya, fuckin Ernie. He could get tha widow laughin at her husband’s funeral.

Anywhoo, like I said, things was a mite confused. No one knew what was goin on. Tha main line was collapsed. Anyone alive was damn lucky, so we thought back then. Afta about three shifts, we was low on kit and drink. Nobody could sleep right, and a couple guys started talkin crazy. Ya know how it is. Too long without bein able ta get topside was wearin us all out. Lucky tha foreman made it through tha collapse, cuz he kept crews togetha with fea, and damn if everyone wasn’t shittin their shorts.

It was a damn kid who really let us in on how bad things were. Marty Butla, a college boy from Scranton, was workin a summa stint. He nearly died in tha collapse – we drug him out tha rubble by his boots. He gave up tha “nearly” part two days lata, when people were really startin ta get scared that no help was comin. Coal is important shit, y’know? We figured tha bosses topside would be buggad all tryin ta get tha main line back open. Ya, I guess they did have other shit goin on, but we didn’t know that.

Anyhow, Marty had broken more ribs than his lungs allowed for. He passed on durin a sleep shift. We buried him down by tha collapse with all tha rest of tha boys, next day. tha foreman said some words, and we all went back ta our card games and tellin stories. Everyone was sweatin like a whore in church. Worse than runnin outta food or wata, we was runnin outta lamp oil, and between tha lot of us, we didn’t have a day’s worth of candles.

I’ll be damned if three hours afta we planted him, Marty didn’t come shufflin back inta tha camp. He looked a mess! He was stumbling along, draggin a pickaxe behind him. I was more surprised than scared ta see him. I couldn’t figure out how he got out from unda tha good pile of rocks we had set up ova him. Karl Noggle jumped right up from his card game an ran towards Marty, screamin “Sweet Jayzuz” tha way he always did. I think he wanted ta apologize or somethin. I dunno.

Marty made short work of him. One punch ta tha gut, and a whack ta tha back of tha skull with a pick, and Karl was on tha ground. It happened so damn fast. One minute he was shoutin and runnin, and tha next Karl was down and sprayin from tha back of his brain box. Rick Lesta started hollerin at Marty, then stopped, and started hollerin for tha foreman when Marty set about chewin off his Karl’s nose.

They like tha noses. Can’t rightly say why. I only eva seen one of ‘em with a nose, but he was missin an arm, so maybe they ate that first instead.

Anyhow, tha foreman runs up with his piece locked and loaded. Not all tha foreman carried revolvas, but Mr.Driza always had his.. It was a surefire way ta keep tha peace, since a bullet hole don’t matta much when ya go missin half a mile down from tha nearest constable.

Rick was kinda shout-cryin, and pointin at Marty, who was hunkerin ova Karl. Tha foreman grunted when he pulled back tha hamma on his gun. Everythin else in tha main tunnel was quiet, except for Marty smackin on his snack.

Tha foreman was a lousy shot. He plugged two inta tha wall, then two inta Marty’s chest. Marty looked up from Karl’s body. He made tha fuck nastiest face I eva seen, then gurgled like a backed up shitta. Afta that, he just went back ta tryin ta worry Karl’s right ear off.

Tha foreman, like tha rest of us, just shit his pants. Ernie Fickens started up-chuckin, and I rememba Ray Santos, who couldn’t speak ten words in English, started sayin tha Hail Mary in his mexi-can chatta.

Things went fast from there. There are sixteen feeda tunnels ta tha cart turnaround. Men ran every which way, myself included. Tha foreman stood there, frozen, still holdin his gun up. Before I cleared tha main chamba, I heard a pop that sounded like someone blowin a bubble with their gum. Last thing I saw ova my shoulda, when I turned tha corna down this tunnel, was Marty stumblin ta his feet, chewin on Karl’s ear like a kid with a jawbreaka. Tha foreman shot himself in tha head as Marty shambled by him. Guess he had seen enough. I kept runnin.

That was three rescue parties ago. I‘ll be damned if Mr.Driza didn’t have things figured out. This tunnel ended where they kept tha explosives, and he had a heluva cache of shit down here. I found that bottle in tha bottom drawa of his desk. Half ton of TNT, Three fifty gallon barrels of wata, a backup barrel of lamp oil, a rifle, anotha revolva, and sixteen boxes of shells. He spent a lot of time in here I guess, he even had a stack of nudie books and a gramophone. Door padlocks from tha outside, but there is a drop bar on tha inside. I don’t let no one in that can’t talk. They can’t talk.

Phew, but they do stink. We are gonna have ta move them bodies outside tha door before long. No, I ain’t gonna go lookin for others. If they are out there, and smart enough, they’ll find their way, like ya did, and tha guy before ya.

Ya, some of tha ones we’ll doubtless have ta put back ta bed tomorrow will be ya chums from tha gang. This is tha second time they sent cons down. Guess ya guys don’t have much ta lose eh? Are things as crazy topside as they are down here? I’m antsy ta move on and all, but I am afraid things will be even more turned around up there then they are down here.

Guess we’ll have ta find out togetha when tha food runs out. That’ll be twice as soon as I was plannin, providin ya make it past mornin. If not, well son, ya just bought me anotha week of good eats. It’s a surprisin simple change ya know, goin from Spam ta man. They both fry up just fine on that litte stove yonder.

Oh, don’t go pale on me kid. If I don’t eat ya, someone else will. I’ll be nice enough ta leave ya nose alone too. I tried one tha last time, they taste like snot.

I got into the beginning of a conversation last weekend that scraped on issues I have been mulling over for several years.

I have some fairly strong beliefs on mortality, and how mortality is intimately tied to the human condition. In the pre-dawn decades of advanced biomechanics there have been many advances show the potential to drastically increase one’s “natural” lifespan. In light of these developments, my views are something I have pondered as advances surface. My personal beliefs on our species’ potential for survival are known to some who read this, but certainly not all.

Humankind is a species divorced from nature at this point in our history. There are a projected 6.4 billion people on this planet. In a non-agrarian state, the majority of the species would die of starvation in very short order. We are grossly overpopulated, in relation to what the planet could offer in terms of food, water, and shelter. I personally feel that many of the “problems” our species faces on a cultural level are tied to this lack of balance and harmony with nature. On the flip side, so many of the truly astounding feats we have accomplished in these individual cultural pens could only have been achieved by an agrarian culture.

What would we be as a global population if we had not turned the farming corner millenia ago? We certainly wouldn’t have made it to the moon, but there would be so much less pollution, so many fewer dead zones in the world. The lifespan would be shorter, and the mortality rate higher, but there would have never been death on the scale of anything seen since the post stone age. Technology aside, there wouldn’t have been enough people to make the death tolls.

This brings me back to what the human condition is. We are, like any other biological entity, driven by our instinctual desires. To feed, to seek shelter, to procreate. These rudimentary elements have manifested in countless forms over thousands of cultures to get us to the melange we wade through today.

What happens when you eliminate the biological entities which drive instinctual desires?

If you can gain immortality through biomechanics, the need to procreate becomes very limited. If you can sustain life indefinitely, it stands to reason you could probably solve the hunger issue in an equally eloquent manner for this limited population.

There are multiple levels to this.

The conversation I got into was one of sensory input. The amount of brain mechanics that go into suppressing the astounding array of stimuli we are constantly barraged by is truly awesome. What if that stimuli were cut off? If I lose an arm, and it can be replaced with a robotic facsimile of an arm, surely I would take it, as a matter of functionality. However, if this arm was incapable of transmitting nervous stimuli, ultimately, I think the arm would be more of a liability than a help. Pressure, temperature, the joy of running one’s hand on another person’s exposed skin, the chill that works into your palms as you shape a snowball – all these things would be lost. It would be a part of me, but not, at the same time. The “phantom limb” phenomena suggests that the portion of my brain responsible for dealing with that input is drastically affected by the lack of regular nervous stimuli. The argument, essentially, on my part, is this:

Assuming biotechnology can sustain the biological apparatus which supports the self (assuming the self resides in the brain), but does not provide all the sensory information our bodies do when supporting that self, the self would atrophy, and, eventually, spiral into madness. The only hope to creating biomechanical immortals with this sensory gap would be to introduce them to life and reality in that state, without ever knowing what it is to feel or taste or roll in the grass. However, these entities’ status of “human”, in my book, would be non-applicable.

Now, assume that you could bridge the sensory gap, and the technology was sophisticated enough to not only support limitless utility, but also the full array of function associated with core biological parts. How does that change what we are? Mortality suddenly has no place in the world. Certainly, gross catastophy and calamity would still claim lives, but for those who had access to this technology, immortality would more-or-less be assured. If the self has a biological basis, and all biological entities can be fabricated, then, obviously, as long as there was at least one person with the knowledge surviving, the entire species could be re-created.

What drives a being who can live forever? Not fear of death, or a relishing of life, knowing it is a fleeting thing.

Western culture is not the most forgiving when it comes to the elderly and infirm. We stick them in homes to rot out of earshot. We cut their stipends, and create environments where people eat cat food so they can afford the drugs that keep their hearts beating, or their blood sugar from killing them. We do not want the constant sad reminders of age around us – we flee. We are a culture of virility, and of the beauty encapsulated in that virility. The reality is, as science progresses, the number of aged individuals will grow, and the time that they hang around will grow. Our reproduction rate shows little to no signs of slowing globally – how is this story going to end, if not on a bad note?

I don’t want to sound too pessimistic. There are plenty of families that do not alienate their elderly. There are many cultures wherein the respect of elders is so ingrained that the actions of other cultures would surely be looked upon as madness.

But what happens when the lines cease to exist? When the difference between someone who is 8 and 80 is experiential, not biological? What happens when that difference grows to 80-800?

I have been re-reading Anne Rice’s vampire series. While I was drawn to these books as a youth for their darkness and vampiric subject matter, I am re-reading them now from a totally different context. Rice’s questioning of, and dealings with the immortal state are very eloquent, despite the somewhat over-pulped themes she delivers them through. I find myself enjoying the books immensely, but not for the sensual bloodsucking reasons I did a decade and a half ago. The ways her immortals cope (or do not cope) with their state is well represented in both a positive and negative light. However, her vampires are all super sensory. They have limited activity cycles, but color, flavor, touch, emotion – all these things are hyperactive in her immortals’ lives.

Going back to the conversation which ultimately led to this ramble, how could a self do anything but crumble, immortal and interacting with the world, but divorced from sensing it in anything other than a verbal and auditory manner?

Robert J. Sawyer deals heavily with this issue in his book Calculating God. In it, he suggests that the ultimate endpoint of any highly technologically advanced society would be moving to a “brain in a jar” immortality. You do not need endless physical reality if you can simulate that reality directly into the brain. If a culture embraces this idea, and bend it’s collective will towards creating a virtual eden, the next logical step is to make it self-sustaining, and immune to external influence. If both of those things were reasonably achievable, what reasons would you have for NOT embracing the idea? How far would such a society go to ensure that their self-sustaining virtual existence was garunteed to run ad infinitum?

I am not saying that I wouldn’t do it, but I am saying that I think, in doing it, I would cease to be a human. The core elements which make me what I am would be stripped away. Naked save for the bones of my thoughts, the blood of my memory, and the flesh of my emotions, I don’t know how long I could weather the harsh environment of time. On one level, my ego tells me that I would find limitless ways to challenge, entertain, and enlighten myself. On another very feral level, the ramifications of the certainty that committing to this plan offers no way to escape it completely terrifies me.

One of the most horrific mass-media produced things I have ever witnessed is the 1971 war movie “Johnny’s Got His Gun” (on which Metallica based their song, and hit video “One”). The idea of being completely unable to interact with life actively, and, at the same time, unable to exit it is truly horror, to me. I always come back to a fear of this when I consider the “brain in a jar” existence.

There are some philosophical relativists who suggest that we might very well be living a brain in a jar existence without knowing it. There are limited successful arguments against this line of thinking, but one wonders, if it is the case, if perhaps that is where my morbid fear of being trapped in the system stems from. If the karmic cycles of Buddhism and the reincarnative aspects of Hinduism are, in fact, the deep roots of the mythos of our existence, then the idea that everything is simulated reality becomes even more probable, in my opinion. Enlightenment, in that case, is less of a realization of the human condition, and how one fits into it, but, rather, a supreme self-awareness – gaining an understanding of what you truly are in an endless cycle of projected existence.

mike mark roth is my new scientific hero – providing that his hydrogen sulfide hibernation methods don’t cause irreversible damage. the scary thing is, like most cutting edge science, the awful applications this kind of science could be turned towards. here’s for hoping there is more profit in all the beneficial ones.

i can’t believe this exists. george carlin’s rant about magazines devoted to any activity comes to mind – the web is just 10000000000 times worse than the magazine publishing industry could ever be.

change is in the air
allergies are in my eyes and throat
weariness in my bones
hope in my heart

i need some benadryl and sleep.

writefight fuckin rules.

sorry i missed loco night all, i had a loco night of a totally different color.

after many years of it not being an issue, i appear to have developed allergies. my throat has been sore for a week, and today i am sneezing like a sonofabitch, and my eyes feel like they are full of fiberglass.

we’ll see what claratin does for me!


Dear Michael,

Glad to help you out with the recipe and its nice that you remembered making the stuff back in Macungie when you were young, although, that scenario tends to have other implications concerning the fond memories of you youth?

What did you do when you were young daddy?? Well son, I grew up in Ohio and occasionally went east with your Grandfather Joe and visited that wild McCormick Clan in Macungie.. They were all very large people out that way if I remember correctly and they all drank and ate a lot, plus they talked real fast.. Hell, I remember one of them took me into a pub and I was served alcohol when I was only 16 years old .. Afterwards we went and bought these monster sandwiches called “Cheese Steaks” from a place called Sewards.. They were huge and tasted like nothing I had ever eaten before in my life, but I didn’t vomit when I arrived home son, nosiree, not like that Greg McCormick did in their basement when he went out with that big bastard Tim a few years previously, Yes son they were grand times..

And after all the booze, food, and high speed driving, we arrived back at the ranch and made horseradish. Tim told me at the time son, that he never allowed anyone to witness the making of the horseradish unless they were legless, only to protect magical powers of the recipe. It didn’t make any sense at the time Son,? But to tell you the truth, hell I don’t remember how the hell we made it. I can tell you truthfully though Son, it was a magical experience of flavours…

Big Bern’s Recipe.. The Creation..

I was working up in the mountains and Pop and I were left to fend for ourselves in Macungie. You see Mom had gone away to stay at one of the boys’ home to help out one of there wives who was pregnant at the time. I don’t remember which one exactly, but the time frame was in the early 80’s.

Pop and I enjoyed a lovely meal one evening and while cleaning up the dishes Pop said he really had a hankering for poached eggs on toast for breakfast. We were after all bacheloring it and we could live extravagantly if we so desired. I said ” Yah Pop, that’s no problem, Mom has an egg poacher in one of the cupboards somewhere”. Well, after doing the dishes we both got down on the floor and started ripping out stuff looking for the thing. Pots and pans and other strange stuff were being piled up all over the kitchen floor while we pursued our quest for the elusive egg poacher. Amazingly enough and low and behold, I found tucked way back in on of the cupboards a jug of McCormick’s Corn Whiskey that Pop had stashed away years ago previous to that and had forgotten all about.

Editors note: (I believe Brother Bob brought the Corn Whiskey back from Minnesota or some other Midwest State in the 70’s) …

No egg poacher as of yet, but McCormick’s Corn Whiskey, hmmmmm??

I uncorked the jug and had a big belt of it and passed it over to Pop and he replied, ” Why the hell not”?
Well we did eventually find the egg poacher as we sat on the floor. Pop was saying stuff like “I wish you wouldn’t give that old black dog whiskey, it makes her nuts! Pass that thing back over here please.”

Well, the next morning we all woke up on the floor… Pop, Me and Mitsy, that old black dog lived to be 16 years old..

In the morning the dog wanted to go out to take a leak and so did we, when we all woke up we were all bathed in the early morning light from the eastern sun that was shining through the kitchen window on the floor.. The dog was eventually let outside.. Pop and I had poached eggs for breakfast along with that black bastard Mitsy, as he liked to call her..

Later on during that day Pop said he had some horse radish root growing in the yard and he would like to make some of that…

“No worries Pop”.. Horse radish grows under the ground and lives for years, like a turnip…

I went up and hammered the tundra to dig the stuff up..

Later on in life Pop and I made horse radish for the Hogan’s, the McCormick’s and for the Owl’s Social Club in East Greenville, Pa.. It was always loved by all people that loved alcohol…

But on that particular day….

Big Bern’s Wild Horseradish Recipe…

dig the root up.. The smaller the root the hotter it will be

shave it…trim it, what ever…

Have a large dog that you bitch about that chews up your shoes whenever you have them lying around on the floor and drink heavily……

Grind the root up in a food processor and put into sterile jars that you have in the oven. (Ball Jars) Talk to Grand Ma McCormick about that…

Then take the finally chopped substance (horse radish) and fill the jar to the top..

Then fill the bottle up with white vinegar too the top and put a tablespoon of sea salt ( Morton’s Kosher) over the top of it. This was found out by quite an accident, cap it and let it set for a week in the fridge…

It will be tasty, and if you contact me directly I will tell you how to make a good horse radish mustard…

But then again that is another story….

All My Love,
Tim,

Epilogue:
Tim McCormick became fed up with the world and ran away to Australia. He has no permanent address and lives with a six toed mutant cat named Spatt. On weekends he cooks for his excentric girlfriend Barb, but other than that he is a master story teller and a total reprobate.. His favourate saying is ” It is what it is”…..Along with the new Pope…BenidictXVI

Seriously, I know some of the people who read my drek have NYU/CU connections. Get this out there!
~~~~~

COLLEGE STUDENTS TAKE THE MET
DIANE ARBUS REVELATIONS

Celebrating the exhibition Diane Arbus Revelations currently on view at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. A viewing and party for students and their guests: delicious desserts and drinks, live performance by The Harlem Shakes, gift bags for first 300 guests, contests and prizes throughout the evening.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art
The Great Hall
Fifth Avenue at 82nd Street
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
9pm-Midnight
R.s.v.p. wth your name and school affiliation to
college.marketing@metmuseum.org

Come as you are & bring your student ID.
mtvU is the media sponsor for this event.

it has been so long since i have seen good star wars, i didn’t think it was possible. definitely made for tv quality in terms of acting, but i’ll be damned if this is not a good fuckin plot line. long download, but i regret it less than the last two movies i paid to see.


“Why do you insist on quantifying your reality in such vulgar and inaccurate measures, son of my son?”

I focused more intently on my sweeping. The Rabbi was undeterred by my renewed interest in cleanliness.

“It is either a wise man or a fool who does not answer when posed so direct a question.”

The Rabbi tugged his beard as I began moving the pile of debris toward the door belying a sense of agitation neither his eyes nor face seemed to show.

“Or a mute,” chuckled the old man, working his spectacles from the bridge of his prodigious hawk-like nose. The Rabbi sighed, and set aside the book he was studying. He stood from his stool, and his spine popped like a wheat stalk in a summer hay fire.

“Enough with the broom son of my son. Come, to the kitchen. We will converse more there.”

I rested the broom on its stiff bristles up against the wall, and followed the fading light of the Rabbi’s candelabra up the stairs. The Rabbi was far too frugal to spend any money on lantern oil, particularly in the winter. When the nights were longer, and the oil much more dear, he swore by tallow candles. The Rabbi did not swear often.

I found him in the kitchen, a cup of wine poured, and a bronze dagger in the hearth for mulling. I fetched the butter from the larder and began to slice the remainder of the loaf of hard brown bread from breakfast. When this was set before him on a platter, I took the dagger from the banked coals of the hearth. I lost myself in the moment of hissing and sputtering when the dull red blade found the wine resting in the Rabbi’s rough goblet.

“You know, son of my son, that soon you will be alone. My days under the sun number less than the first sons of Adam. Perhaps today, perhaps tomorrow, they will come and take me, and you will be alone.”

Somewhere in the stillness of the Prague night, a dog howled. I took up the small tablet of clay and sand sitting on the table. I quickly scratched a response into the pliant surface with the rough bone stylus affixed to the tablet with a bit of horsehair twine.

The Rabbi grunted as I slid the stylus towards him. Crumbs fell into his beard as he chewed a piece of heavily buttered bread with one hand and slid the small slat of wood across the tablet’s surface with the other, clearing what I had just written.

“No, you will not be coming with me. The reason we have been talking nothing but deep thoughts for the past fortnight is because I know what is coming. Moishie called my name to the Emperor. Regardless of whether he did so to save his wrinkled balls, or if he did it when they put the hot irons to them, they will come for me.”

The Rabbi took a draught of his wine as I scowled and scribbled a reply in the tablet. Again, he read through his owl-eyed spectacles, and again he cleared my words.

“The decision is not mine to make, it is yours, son of my son. You will be named or unnamed, and that decision lies entirely on your desire to do good or ill in this world. I am not some cheap charlatan that will have my book of tricks stolen and mistranslated into German. You will be a living testament to the will of God and our People, or you will be no more.”

I paused for a moment. It had never occurred to me that the Rabbi would consider me a liability, under any circumstances. I started to respond on the tablet. Then I slowly erased what I had written and started anew. The Rabbi saw this hesitation in me and paused his sipping, his eyes two glimmering blue moons over the edge of his goblet. I scratched my response with a finality I knew would put the man at ease or end my life.

The old man’s reaction was not what I expected. His laughter exploded from his scrawny chest like a flock of ravens startled from an iron maiden and quickly gave way to a rattling cough.

“You are truly a wonder I wish were born of my loins, son of my son. Fetch me my tallit. Don’t look at me that way; I know the sun is down, but this must be done as well as possible, and I cannot turn back the time of day.”

I did as I was asked with a tremor in my hands that came from a fear of the unknown. When I returned to the kitchen, the fire was roaring in the stove, and the Rabbi was standing before it, his silhouette giving form to his body in a way which both terrified and mystified me. He thrust out one hand for the robe and drew me before him with his other.

I trembled in the shadows before him as he fit the shawl over his shoulders. He began his prayers as soon as the fabric was fastened around his waist. Each syllable he uttered resonated through me like thunder; and as his tempo and voice increased, I was sure I would not be able to keep my feet to the end. He must have sensed this, for the hand which was not holding the scroll he had produced for the start of the ceremony found my quaking shoulder. His grip was made of ice-steel, riveting my posture and drawing my eyes to his. His bespectacled gaze was like staring at two chips of azure ice by the time his reading stopped, and a sheen of sweat coated his wrinkled face as he blinked, perhaps for the first time since he started speaking.

“Kneel, son of my son.”

My knees found the rough-packed earth of the kitchen in less than a heartbeat.

“When you arise, you shall be son of my son no longer. You shall be Tzofi. Your days shall be as long as the earth finds light under the countenance of Him. You shall be the protector of the sons of Adam from all those who would do them harm. When the sun breaks the night’s back tomorrow, you shall find a voice; and with that voice you shall impart all I have taught you to the Rabbis in the Temple. You must never reveal to anyone else who or what you are, and you must never give in to the base temptations which all the sons of Adam have borne on calloused shoulders. When the sons of my sons are long dust, you shall remain, protecting not just the blood and well being of the Chosen, but the knowledge of our People.”

With a shuddering sigh, the Rabbi took the dagger from the table, and cut deeply into my forehead. The pain was the agony of a thousand beestings; and in my suffering, I found my mouth masked in a silent scream. The scroll the Rabbi held in his other hand was roughly shoved into my mouth; and as he removed the dagger from my brow, he commanded me to swallow it.

The paper was bitter, and the ink that seeped onto my tongue tasted like Egypt. I looked up at the Rabbi, barely able to make out his face in the haze of pain which still throbbed through my head. His hand found my chin, and he raised me to my feet with his hand. As my world blurred in tears, he was overcome with a fit of coughing. His breathing had just returned to normal when the rattling shock of the knocker at the front door boomed through the house.

“They are here. Go let them in.”

His words seemed weak to me, as if they were spoken from another room, rather than by the man sitting before me. He was right. When I let lose the bolt on the door, three of the Emperor’s guardsmen, along with a fourth whose finery connoted rank, stood on the darkened stoop of our house. The commander looked through me rather than at me, as he demanded to be brought to the Rabbi. The men flanking him all had their hands on their swords. I realized these were the men who would doubtless end the life of the man who had just given me a name and a soul. These would be the killers of the Rabbi.

Their swords were of no avail against my speed and strength. Bone and sinew snapped like kindling. Before one of them could even give a start of alarm, three necks were broken, and the commander’s throat was clutched in my hand as I held him aloft over the stoop. He batted at my arm with all his strength as he twitched in my grasp, a marionette in the guttering light of the dropped torches of his comrades. I tightened my fist and tore his windpipe from his throat with a twisting wrench of my wrist. I stamped out the torches and hid the bodies behind the privy in the back courtyard.

I worked with mad diligence, using a ratty rag from the entry hall to mop up the small puddle of blood at the front door, which I could barely make out in the slight light of the coming dawn. I ran to the privy with it, intending to throw it down into the shaft. It would be safe there with the rest of the human waste I had so many times over the years had the burden of removing. I entered the privy and turned to drop the cloth into the hole beneath the rough wooden bench. A cock crowed by the henhouse. The door to the privy slammed open, and the Rabbi stood behind me, leaning heavily on the door latch. I turned to face him. His eyes had a wild look about them, and they shot from my eyes to the bloodstained rag I clutched in my hands.

“What have you done?”

Each of his words was a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil. My eyes could not meet his gaze. I twisted the rag in my hands, turned back to the bench, and threw it down into the cesspool. When I did this, the Rabbi moaned deeply.

“What is done, is done. Wash your hands in the basin. I will have no gentile blood defacing my home this morning, or any other.”

I turned to the small bowl cut into the stone wall opposite me. The cock crowed again, this time twice, as the first rays of the sun broke across the courtyard creating a starlight dance of reflections across the water that lay in it. I washed my hands as well as I could, then I dried them on some of the fresh hay on the floor of the privy. The Rabbi coughed dryly, still hanging onto the doorjamb. After a rasping hack, he sucked in a deep breath and addressed me in a near-whisper.

“You have a voice now, Tzofi. You must use it. Before you set off on the tasks I have appointed you, kneel before the basin and read what is writ upon your forehead.”

He moved away from the door, and the small room was flooded with light from the fast-rising sun. I knelt before the water and stared intently at its still surface. The cock crowed again as I cleared my throat and read my name, right to left, as it appeared before me in the reflection staring back at me from the water.

The Rabbi cried in the morning sun outside the privy as his golem unmade itself with its own voice.

i find myself a dwarf in the orchard. my teeth long for the flesh of good apple, but i am far below even the lowest boughs. in rage, i swing at leaves, fruitlessly shaking the heavy trunks. if only my repast were as great as my anger – if only dreams were not mist and quicksilver. i whirl like a dervish, ankle-deep in rotten pulp of fallen fruit. my feet are slick with the mottled skin of an overripe harvest; of which, i cannot partake. ultimately, i will find exhaustion waiting at the knotted roots around me. my angst and fear ebb in a brief lapse of consciousness. morning will bring songbirds, and the dammnedable buzzing of bees. always the morning, always the bees.

there are no curses that can be born of the rough genitals of tonuge and mind to give form to my contempt of the sun.

at least there are still berry bushes down here, bitter though their bounty may be.

being awake is, seriously, the worst idea ever.

this is my new favorite song – i thought i would share. – for those who get it: l (shft) o to tha ” and then $ is fuckin hysterical. mc frontalot is pretty goddamn cool.

even though i have gone beyond running on fumes at this point, last night was fun. i think the range of expressions on ‘s pretty face might give eric a run for the money.

kung fu hustle is the shit, but it is not worth 10$ to see in the big screen. rental or bootleg will do just fine by ya, as long as you can read the subtitles. it is tons of fun though, even if it is only an hour and a half long.

also, scope – this swars3 parody. i may see the movie, just because of this redux.

I, , being of sound mind and body, do not wish to be kept alive indefinitely by artificial means.

Under no circumstances should my fate be put in the hands of peckerwood ethically challenged persons who couldn’t pass ninth/tenth-grade biology if their lives depended on it. This includes any or all members of the medical, legal, or political profession who consider creationism a viable theory, or who refuse to uphold the wishes of living wills based on “higher ethical/spiritual standards”. I believe in Dinosaurs, and not just becuase they wouldn’t have fit on Noah’s ark.

If a reasonable amount of time passes and I fail to sit up and ask for a well aged single barrel scotch, it should be presumed that I won’t ever get better. When such a determination is reached, I hereby instruct my spouse, children and attending physicians to pull the plug, reel in the tubes and call it a day.

Under no circumstances shall the hypercritical members of the Legislature (State or Federal) enact a special law to keep me on
life-support machinery. It is my wish that these fuckheads mind their own damn business, and pay attention instead to the health, education and future of the millions of Americans who aren’t in a permanent coma. As GYWO says: send the feeding tubes to Africa, where they can do some good.

Under no circumstances shall any politicians butt into this case. I don’t care how many fundamentalist votes they’re trying to scrounge for their run for the presidency, it is my wish that they play politics with someone else’s life and leave me alone to die in peace.

I couldn’t care less if a hundred religious zealots send e-mails to legislators in which they pretend to care about me. I don’t know
these people, and I certainly haven’t authorized them to preach and crusade on my behalf. They should mind their own business, too.

If any of my family goes against my wishes and turns my case into a political cause, I hereby promise to work the wheel of karma in such a manner that I am reincarnated as an angry swarm of anus seeking army ants.

Any proceeds made from my name should go to offset whatever debt remains in the wake of my passing. Beyond that, any and all proceeds should be donated to the PTF. Under no circumstance is my name to be used to support a “culture of life” movement. Furthermore, all functioning organs which can be usefully harvested from my body should be harvested from my body, in order to support life in a realistic manner. If needs be, I should be relocated to California for the process, where they at least have the good sense to realize that a noggin full of pink slushie doesn’t mean the rest of your organs can’t save a life.

Gimme some witnesses in the comments folks.

have piloted my program for all to see. soon, there will be much more information, probably on the web.

also, i am planning on submitting to http://writefight.org/ – and you all should to! this is a fantastic idea, help get that shit off the ground folks. i know the number of writers, big and small out there. this would take an hour, tops.

work is every bit as savory sucky today as i imagined it would be.
i want coffee, and a big honkin breakfast, which is weird because i never like breakfast in particular, unless i have time to savor it.
my brain is so fried – must survive meetings!
also, forgot my phone today, again – if ya need me, don’t try calling me.

friday night i had good fun, conversation, video games, and procrastination with great friends. i met up with at the oyster bar (one of my fav nyc spots) before heading downtown to hang with and her man. bullshit was spread, laughs were had, thoughts were born, and halo was played prodigiously. only regret – should have gotten more sleep!

saturday, i woke up intolerably early. i got about three and change hours sleep – this becomes important since exhaustion is currently threatening to overwhelm me. i hung around online, and did some work, hoping i would get a chance to chat with a few people before disappearing for the day. alas, that did not happen, but at least i got a good amount of work under my belt.

i met up with for lunch, then went to ‘s place to watch the yanks come back from behind and win a great fucking game!

i walked south from wangch61’s place after watching orgasmo, after the game – took the subway to my next engagement.

i was 5 minutes early to a friend’s opening at a gallery/store called Cronick Valentine. They do some absolutely fantastic stuff with t-shirts, and had some great stuff on the walls. i highly reccomend. i was first there to examine art, and last to buy the piece i had been eyeing all night. some great conversations were shared about shooting ranges, midievil weapons and fighting styles, and about abuse in relationships. after the opening, it was decided that more food and drink needed to be procured.

in a ragtag traipsing about the easty village, i managed to consume a wonderfully delicious hot dog (sans bun) and had one or two drinks. i was not drinking heavily, mostly because i already knew i wasn’t going to get drunk.

at around 1ish, we ended up at this bar off ludlow where someone’s dj friend was spinning. he wasn’t bad, but shit, the club was. overpriced, mixed clientele – it was just, sketchy east village. i love that stuff from back in the day, but am not so much into hip-hop clubs of that genre. too many ghetto skanks between me and the bathroom whenever you need to go.

i met a huge amount of people – i can’t even begin to remember all the names. i managed not to make a total ass of myself talking to all these strangers about a wide variety of things. i am supposed to go see a show at the knitting factory tomorrow (the possibility of which is thin in outlook at the moment) with some of these new faces i bonded with.

bonded – this is not something one normally does at a post-show drinkathon. interestingly enough though, last night we were squarely set in the middle of a bloomberg-statistic raising crime sweep, to rid the streets of lower eastern manhattan of all the dangerous elements which pay the taxes there (or at least keep the bars afloat). one of the members of this new-association crew got busted on the street for smoking a jay. he got completely narced – undercover was right in his face, ran across the street, squad car rolled by, then 30 seconds later an unmarked showed up and cuffed him. word of this travelled downstairs at the club, and i ran up to see what the situation was.

it was at this point that i realized i was the soberest of the revelers remaining (who numbered four, not including myself). i got as much 411 from the cops as i could before they dragged my friend away. the charge they were going to lay on him was minimal – however, he had an unknown volume of contraband on him at the time of bust, which i was horribly concerned about. however, given the general distress and blood alchohol/other substance levels of my compatriots, i let that fear sit until i had more data.

so, at around twoish, we ran a trek to the 7th presinct. we scared up some fantastic rat action, and i began to get into more than smalltalk with this odd quatrain i was riding along for at least a verse with. my (unfortunate) intimate knowledge of the arrest and what follows was very helpful.

i got the arresting cop’s badge number. i got the section of the penal code he was being charged with breaking. i was very precise in getting as much contact info, time, and tentative understanding of what his trip to seeing a judge was going to have in store. the cop, who was coming off shift, was not pleased to be assailed for 10 minutes confirming everything he went through with me, but i know from experience you can’t let this crap slide too much. ultimately, i knew this trip was going to end at 100 center street, but i was unsure what path that would take, given that we were already fairly far downtown. my last visit to central booking, i was very uptown when i was arrested, so i was shuffled around a whole lot.

important reminder of the evening/morning: when you give a bunch of peeps your bag so you don’t have to carry it through precinct security, remember to stash your pocketknife in that bag.

armed with what knowledge i could get, i rejoined the fold, and we decided to go back to brooklyn to sit the vigil, and figure out how long things would take to resolve. i assumed midmorning sunday, but fuck shows what i know. as i was sitting around googling all the possibilities that could await my friend if they did trump charges, he was languishing rather uncomfortably in situations i know too well. his retelling brought memories back to the forefront of my mind like bees in a clover field. i read my email, and realized i had to somehow update twoheadedcat. there was some great conversation, and some unbelievable rose-flavored tobacco on a wonderful water pipe (whose name escapes me at the moment), and some lovely coffee. it has been more than 10 years since i felt gelled with a small clutch of people who were aquaintences at best, but quickly became friends.

around 8am today (yesterday now), myself and another member of this posse got up and moving so that we could go down to the court when it opened. unfortunately, we had no further information from their end in terms of a court schedule. it was decided we were going to sit tight until we heard from this friend (which we hadn’t heard from since the night before).

breakfast was procured. people napped on and off. i had eggs and turkey bacon, and cursed the undead low-carb gods in my lack of doughnutness. it was around this time that there was a jailbreak at central booking, which put the building into lock down for 4-6 hours, and threw off the entire “get the fuck outta jail” process back at least that far.

around 11, we decided we needed to get the fuck out. at a point between breakfast and 11, the wife of the jailbird realized she left her keys at home. it was a good thing we had caravaned to sit the vigil together, because she would have been locked out of her house! supers were called, plans were made, and, ultimately, we resolved to go sit in prospect park and get sun, waiting for phone calls.

now, my phone was not fully charged when i went out saturday night. like myself, at that point, it was largely running on a small blue sliver of energy.

with still no real word on what was going on in the “getting to a judge” process, we recollected, got some food, and went to the goddamn park. on the way to the park, we witnessed the near-death of a two year old kid who broke away from his father, and ran directly into moving traffic. a stranger stopped and saved the kid from certain death beneath a van. it was very heart-stopping.

my phone was all but dead at this point. i wish it was not, otherwise i would have taken many pictures. today was just an unbelievable experience – in company, in weather/environment, and particularly in conversation. we saw some great kites, the shooting of a music video, some interesting lesbian activities, lots of tots and pets, and some glorious sun. details were fleshed out about the newly formed PTF – the penguin translocation foundation, whose mission is actually to transplant several species of penguin from the south pole to the north pole. they have a debriefing center in greenland, and are, in fact, a secret front for polar bear enthusiasts to ensure that polar bears enjoy the fun and convienence of oreos with flippers.

i will definitely be going back, to see these people, and to chill in the park. next time the trip should include more, people by at least one, and should not have a fixed negative agenda as a centerpiece.

when the sun finally hid itself behind the skyline, we broke camp to return to the nearest apartment and sit more vigil. we got a phone call announcing the best possible news. not only was our boy behind bars coming home, but the judge dismissed all charges, given his lack of any kind of record, and his courtesy and cooperation. green tea was made in a breathtaking service, and everyone rejoiced in the upcoming resolution to what was a grueling ordeal for all involved. a few minutes later, the jailbird came to roost, and there was much rejoicing.

i ended up taking a dumb subway back, the c all the way to 14th, where i switched to the uptown green. when i got in, i took a long shower, then went to work doing updates. i should have gone to bed at least two songs ago but i am sitting rereading all this drek, trying to get as much as i can tied down, before exhaustion literally puts me down where i am sitting.

i hope everyone else had an interesting weekend. every time you open your door, there is an adventure waiting to happen. i do not think work is going to be much fun in 7 hours!

a fistful of deep philosophical conversations in recent weeks have brought me back around to where i always find myself in the midst or aftermath of tumult – an examination of myself to the bone.

what i am, what i strive to be, what i want to be, and everything that lies in between. the truth, as i said earlier in the week, is a slimy thing. a grail almost. something always sought after and never attained. everything is shades of grey, and it is hard to contend with the greyscale pallete when you don’t have greater purpose or any particular hope in life.

i have, at different stages in my life, supplemented different things in my world view to try and prop up the stool of purpose. spiritualism, dogmatic religion, existentialism, radical realism, love, hate, pessimism, optimism, violence, subjugation… the list goes on. all these props are so binary. i am a strong believer in the process of thesis>antithesis>synthesis. what i have never been able to strike upon is the dull melange of all these sharp outlooks needed to navigate the river.

there was a fight i had once, with my parents, when i was in 5th grade. it was the first time in my life my marks were ever anything but stellar. the reason was i realized i didn’t have to put everything into my work to get by, i only had to do that to get aces. if i slacked, i could pull b’s with ease. fortunately, or unfortunately, the teacher i had at the time noticed the change in me. what i was handing in as solid b work, she graded harshly, in an attempt to kindle some fear in me, and make me redouble my efforts. when i called her on the inequity of the red pen, she cited her knowledge of my potential as the reason for the lower grades, even though some of the things i was getting a c for, other people were close to an a with.

it frustrated me, to be judged against my potential. i determined to stay with it, to enjoy fucking off at class, and doing the minimum to get by. i managed to spread my social circle past one (a mean feat in a cliquey group of 16 private school kids), and was actually hanging out with a couple of the “cool kids”, mostly because they sensed the change in me. i was no longer a nerd, i was someone who knew a lot, but didn’t care about knowledge. i stopped questioning everything, and just took notes. i stopped making connections, and dealt with knowledge in concise little packets.

at the time, i was still very catholic, and the line that turned me around (as fed to me by my father) was that in not performing to my potential, i was actually committing a sin, maligning the gifts i was given by not using them to the fullest. it was a very personal blasphemy. i was to be a priest, after all.

i changed my ways. my grades came back up. the thin friendships i had just started cultivating evaporated, leaving me to my one (and best) friend of my youth. i sought forgiveness. i spent the entire next quarter at school saying three decades of the rosary after every test in a combination of thanks and attrition for what i have, and how close i cam to embracing the idea of squandering it. with my grades resecured, i never gave the matter much thought after that. looking back, i have never, before this week, realized how much this outlook has become ingrained in my personality, despite the justification for that mindset long ago having lost relevance.

i wonder, sometimes, what it would be to be ignorant – to not consider the world in a wider spectrum; to not contemplate the spiral of our species (downwards or otherwise). would beauty and horror have different definitions? would i sleep easier never questioning the things that i have thrown my faith behind? when i was at my parent’s farm this weekend, there was a brief discussion of the pope’s death, which had just happened before we got there. bill’s wife was watching the proceedings on fox news. my father and i discussed the ramifications of the media farm, and how much confusion had been caused by the leaked misinformation in the itallian media. bill’s wife was unshaken by all of it – her response?

“fox news never reported he was dead until he died.”

significant insignificance. this woman believes whatever the talking box tells her when set to that channel. she does not question it, only reacts to it. maybe that is why she is a prodigious needle pointer, and i am a collector of odd bits of information – we use our idle cycles differently, because of how they fit into our world views.

hubris is the counterweight to the life of freeborn ignorance. i am constantly aware of how much i run at the mouth, and use my handle on words to twist an argument. there are times i admonish myself for it mid-process, and other times i don’t even recognise it until it has already long passed. my proclivity for devil’s advocacy is one of the outlets i use to keep my perspectives fluid. if i can defend a thing i hate as profoundly as i can defend something i believe in, then surely i cannot be locked into any one way of thinking.

the problem with being a fanatical devil’s advocate, and losing the things you believe in, is that, ultimately, the arguments begin to turn on themselves. a word whirlpool, with all sorts of ideas, images, hopes and desires sucked into the current.

i do not think there is an istar buried at the eye of the maelstrom.

i do not have any answers, only questions. the answers to those lead only to more questions.

i wake up every day because of thesis>antithesis>synthesis. i don’t know what step i am at at any given time on any given subject until i pick up the tread of a new revolution of the spokes. i refuse to stop at a breakpoint and call it “done”. done is just another way of saying “i give up”. there is never done.

the wheel weaves as the wheel wills. i don’t know how much more patterning i can stomach without some answers that do not lead to more questions.

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