Headphones

_ We've reduced the wind to a breeze.
_ Slightly less than a 'whoosh'. It's like when the crowd thins out.
_ No it's not.
_ I can live with that. I'm perforated; the breeze passes right through. I can live with anything.
_ As if we have a choice.
_ Choices, like baseball, exist only to break your heart. We get deeper and deeper in the yucky stuff - shit - and continue to make choices. Menu, please!
_ Slow day; people going nowhere. The sky sails on; someone cut the bowline. We've reduced the wind to a breeze. I've headphones on my mind; my ears are ringing.
_ Do you cook?
_ I started out at zero and somehow made it to one. Is that cooking?
_ With gas, brother. Chai?
_ With whitecaps.

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     ... I read a newspaper yesterday; I feel sullied.

     ... A semi-permeable perforation allowing the wind to blow the whole show into the next county; no one sees the wind, yet it's the every in everywhere. Though it blows no one knows the wind.

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Things Thunk

_ Do you find me annoying?
_ I generally, General Robert E. Lee, find you here.
_ I worry about what people think of me.
_ That's using your time constructively. In fact I can't think of a better way to spend one's time than in worrying about what people think of you. I oughta smack you in the head with a lump hammer.
_ What's a lump hammer?
_ A two-pound sledgehammer with a short handle.
_ What's a sledge?
_ Something you use to bash something else with.
_ Technically I could bash that sledgehammer with my head, at which point my head becomes the sledge, and the sledge the item bashed.
_ Interesting concept. What do you think the people will think about you when they see you bashing a two-pound lump of steel affixed to a short handle with your head? Do you think that they'll realize your head is the sledge and the sledge is the item bashed when your head is a bloody mess and the lump of steel is relatively unscathed?
_ I've better things to do with my time than to worry about what people think. Chai?
_ Chai.

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     ... Ever never full; never never empty. How big is the glass of your life?

     ... Buttons seeking holes in order to be buttons.

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Heh, heh, heh. . . Who?

_ Howdy-do.
_ Who?
_ You.
_ Who? What? Where? When? Why? I laugh at the ‘why?’
_ Why not?
_ Why not? Right? Why the hell not? Who’s to say?
_ You?
_ What can possibly stop it?
_ Another question, perhaps? Another well thought-out  question might stop it; I just don't know what 'it' is.
_ Where is the place that is safe from change?
_ Here?
_ When did we come up with these strange assumptions/demands on a forever unknowable issuance - life?
_ Today?
_ We don’t know shit; we don’t know our name. Someone gave us some odd collection of syllables and called it ‘our name’...
_ Happy birthday.
_ ... Oh really? That’s my fucking name? That’s me? Like a dog, right? Rover, Champ, Spot... a name; something to distinguish me from the ‘couch’. Laddie Boy...
_ Howsaboy?
_ To each their own... their own world; their own time; their own birth and death... It's all much ado about nothing.
_ Howsaboy?
_ I sit here the culmination and conception of all that has ever been; of all that is yet to be. Seeing things for what they are and not for what I want them to be, I sit here. I sit here understanding the emotional carnage implicit in the continual fixing of ever-passing, ever-elusive phenomena into a static self ever in search of lasting satisfaction; ever in search of meaning. I'm filling sandbags with butterfly shit, fashioning a buffer against the rising tide of time, and yet I wonder why they just float away; far, far away... Does that answer your query ‘Howsaboy?’?
_ Oooo... the old double question mark. Somebody’s having a day...
_ How did we ever fashion such rigid, ill-fitting raiment out of nothing? It’s like an angry man laughing - heh, heh, heh - all the time. Yes... it’s like that.
_ Is the angry man old?
_ No.
_ Young? He must be young if he’s not old.
_ No.
_ Much ado about nothing...
_ Much.
_ Funny... not ‘heh, heh, heh’ funny, but funny nonetheless. Why no ‘How?’?
_ Bingo... the old double question mark. Wooo-hoooo! There’s no ‘W’ in how. That's why.
_ And how! Ring-a-ding-dang-do! Did you meditate this here morning?
_ Yeah. I cramped up pretty bad and focused on the ongoing implosion in the back of my thigh until it felt like the world was shattering.
_ Old school... Howsaboy?
_ Fine as frog hair... and you?
_ I’m here, ain’t I?
_ Beautiful... We are bountiful; we are beautiful; and the jewels we fetch, each their own, from the measureless depths of an unsounded ocean are worthy of a strong string, perhaps even a shiny chain.
_ Ever-passing, ever-elusive, ever in search of... much ado about nothing. Chai?
_ Chai. Chai?
_ Chai.

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     ... Diamonds turn back to coal when the black cat strolls.

     ... George Harrison: Living In The Material World, a documentary by Martin Scorcese, premieres in two parts, on HBO, Oct.5 & 6. Can you take me there?

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Give The Living Room

_ Glom...
_ Glomus...
_ ...To steal; to become attached to.
_ ...The patron saint of those who’ve glommed - through no fault of their own, mind you. He - Glomus - was roly-poly round, like a nutty-buddy.
_ The other night I thought that ‘body’ wasn’t a word so I looked it up and came up with ‘glom’.
_ Random House’s Random Dictionary - make up your own alphabet.
_ Whaddya say? Howsaboy?
_ Simple... in order to facilitate the return to forever.
_ The girls in here love eavesdropping on our repartee; they think we were educated by Jesuits.
_ Crazed flowers rock the rock garden; satori so still.
_ French - Irish; be kindly wanderer through this garden’s ways.
_ English - scouse; Harry’s son.
_ Some fish swim through or around the net; others remain. How many numbers are one?
_ I think I drink too much coffee.
_ What you’re saying is that you don’t drink enough.
_ Couldn’t have said it better myself.
_ Nothing is ever full. It is either desirous or overflowing.
_ Yes. I don’t drink enough coffee. Two chais, please!
_ I’ll have two, too.

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     ... Peace, like a river, flows underground; war rages above.

     ... Please advise: simple, simpler or simplest? Give no reason.

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One Step Two

_ Your man over there...
_ Wait a second, here. What do you mean, “ Your man over there.”?
_ It’s all you, babe; this whole menagerie, cacophony, insanity... it’s all you. Me? I’m you. Sly and the Family Stone, “ Thank you for letting me be myself.”
_ Whatever.
_ Anyway, he has the ‘Sweater by Darwin’ thing going, quite nicely, I might add, with the hair growing out of the top of his shirt.
_ Sweater by Darwin?
_ Yeah... the missing link. He could be it, bridging the gap between primate and human. Someone had too. I bet if you give him a piece of aluminum foil he’ll be quite fascinated with it.
_ Evolution hinges upon the systematic progression of life forms; a posited beginning moving ever-onward toward a finality; it’s the same shit we’ve been fed a million times over, only in reverse.
_ By disproving the theory of evolution you’ve proven it - knowledge dispelling ignorance; disillusionment.
_ Go stare at a wall.
_ I am.
_ Gruel... I want some gruel.
_ Gruel... the food of the thrice born. And then to stare wall-ward, never quite getting there... fucking fabulous. Garson! Gruel! Now! Some form of broth! Now! An unbroken vista of blankness; a wall unpainted! Now! And a piece of shiny tin foil, please.
_ Somewhere along the long line of time, of evolution,  a name was plucked out of the strangeness and it is applicable to you. Some kind of hole... yes, it was some kind of hole.

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     ... When cancer research delves into the realm of thought, and the uncontrolled burgeoning of repetitive mind, there may be some questions raised regarding what is ‘controlled’ growth. Cancer... the name is fascinatingly frightful. My father died of cancer... he’s with me all the time.

     ... Joy is the uncontrolled burgeoning of a flower in bloom. Beware of doctors who shave; they haven’t come to grips with their own burgeoning chaos; or perhaps they have and just enjoy a fairly hairless situation. Whatever.

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