Marisa has a trait that I find in part very amusing but in part extremely worrying. It is simple, but indicates a blight in my eyes fundamentally. We were just talking, as we released dry and practically dry clothing from their castigation hanging from a flimsy drying apparatus, about the english word pugnacious. Admittedly, it is not a word I use very often. The word describes a certain feature of creatures that I do not desire to be around often.

A parallel word exists in Spanish, and therefore I expect they both come from a Latin or Lakife root. Pugnaz. The parallel seemed obvious to me but Marisa insisted that the term does not exist in Spanish. Probablamente es usado de Panchitos. She does not consider Spanish spoken in the Americas to be real Spanish, you see. I fetched her grand and more or less (according to her) unabridged (more or less unabridged is a phrase I should utilize more or less more often) dictionary and quickly discovered that pugnaz does indeed exist.

I used to enjoy a song during my desperate high school years entitled In My Ways. In fact, I am downloading the album at this moment because I have not heard it in years. Marisa is stuck in her ways. Her accumulation of knowledge up to a certain point is now immovable. She claims to be a erudite Spanish speaker. I believe her, for the most part, but any evidence that goes against her ostensibly total command of the language is immediately rejected.

This inner mechanism of hers behaves like a reflex. Like a vomit reflex, to an extent. Her sphere of knowledge has no intention of growing, let alone evolving. I come to understand her fear of travelling outside of her known world (Spain, Italy and parts of France) as an extension of this mechanism.

It’s all a bit disconcerting, eh?

Whilst Marisa continued to shop in unnamed clothing shop in an unnamed shopping center a few hours ago, I checked Facebook. The top post on my feed was by Acy. He referenced an article that had to do with the Many Minds Interpretation of quantum mechanics. I was sitting on a squat stool at the base of a number of shelves containing articles of ostensibly new clothing. Humans milled and browsed around me as I sat there, a pile of ostensibly new clothing we were about to purchase in my lap and my phone clutched in my hand.

(Many Minds Interpretation)

I opened trusty Jotter Pad and instead of tapping into Google Keyboard wobbily on my perch, I activated trusty Google Drink In My Mellifluous Speech and began dictating.

Be the observer a protozoan or a mouse, theoretically, we all collapse indeterminate wave states with our minds. Whether our bodies are in superposition with themselves before the mind unequivocally chooses a state is not something I equivocally claim to be an expert on. The thought that collapsed another infinite number of waves states whilst I sat on that bench in the unnamed clothing shop in the unnamed shopping center was that our true conscious path through the universe is unique.

Every collapse of a wave state into a choice is a fork, as they say, in the road of existenece, but only our existence. Our consciousness only traverses this singular path. Eidolons of other consciousnesses are around for the ride, be they mice or paramecia. Their conscious path split from our own in time out of mind.

We see others snuff it all the time, sure, but they are only snuffing it in our unique quantum universe - the one that careens off in our sensationally precise direction upon every observation we make. The dimension in which your pet mouse or friend Christián Newman exists in a purely conscious fashion is unreachable.

Therefore, you are the capiain of this boat.

Everything I write here is for me only. The eidolons that surround me can partake and criticise as they might, but ultimately, they are actors. I may not write the script actively, but the multitudinous realities distill to the only one where my life is center stage. For that is what consciousness is, after all. Sit for a minute and then get yourself up off your own personal bench in an unnamed clothing store in an unnamed shopping center. I am not necessarily advocating the ultimate state of selfishness, but instead, the ultimate state of responsibility.

Everything I write here is just for me. The eidolons may benefit from these words. These words may prey on them. They may rot in a ditch in Berlin with laser printed pages of these words clutched to their naked, scabbed chest.

I’m collapsing wave states as I type. I observe each pixel. They are chosen to be real by my consciousness and my personal quantum universe branches once again. And again. And again. Fuck um.

What of the zombie universes?

There are an infinite quantum universes, according to the paramecium that just awoke in its hovel nestled within the goo underneath my left thumbnail. I posit there are only a limited number of consciousnesses, however. The paramecium’s cilia figit. It’s not clear if he is still in superposition or not. Perhaps this eidolon has been with me all along. Perhaps this is our true consciousnesses’ initial time to split. Paramecium goes his way. I go mine. Fuck um.

Accordingly, there are an infinite number of zombie universes. No true consciousness exists in them. They are filled with eidolons of a finite number of consciousnesses playing out programmed roles. Do they learn and evolve as do true consciousnesses? I posit yes, and therefore that they are interacting shadow consciousnesses that can and sometimes do birth their own spawn of the original.

Then why are you not actually just one of the more evolved zombie consciousnesses, Bobbus?

Well, I guess I am, or could be, or if Buddhism has anything to say about it, we all are. The Buddha consciounsess has been in the true quantum universe for eternity and remains so. It doesn’t perish. It persists! Child consciousnesses are one step away from Mr Buddha. But, according to quantum mechanics, can never return. Good for them. They are eidolons once removed from the Buddha. I’m probably a great great great * 2^65536 grandchild of this original consciousness. I, too, am not allowed to return. Fuck um. I never wanted to, anyhow. I’m fine with the eidolons of my unique path. My zombie consciousness continues to evolve into new and exciting states of being. Hades, belovéd: I’m birthing new zombies with every letter I type, backspace over, re-type and even reread.

May those eidolons prosper in universes of their own.

My posit of finite consciousnesses reduced itself to one. Damn you, Buddha.

The switch that was eventually implanted just above the double fold of fat at the base of Shambal’s neckline had been planned for ages. It was his own design, in fact, for he had foreseen his future condition. He was never pleased with what he foresaw, but, always the pragmatist, he took steps to perpetuate his soul.

Shambal’s concept of soul was shaky, sure, but basically, he meant the sphere of personality that engorged itself slowly (and sometimes even quickly) since the dawn of consciousness. A computer could drink its entirety in and regurgitate sequences at any time.

Thus, the switch.

I call it a switch because i prefer the word switch to the flat and uninventive button. Those insipid writers who dare to use the latter are, in each of my tales, tall or not, boiled in their own faeces. Fuck um.

The switch learns because it can gage the delight or despair of each creature that puts it to use. Therefore, it selects from the acumen of Shambal’s life-knowledge to produce phrases. Initially, it might resemble a random fortune generator such as the olden fortune shell command in old UNIX systems from the father planet. Not so, however! The switch learns from the delight or despair of its carers, their neighbours, visitors from zones abroad, and so forth.

Yes, Shambal’s land was finally repopulated. I’ll get around to that story another time.

One could say that the switch generated platitudes. Of course, the expressions were not platitudes when they were first vomited forth from the corpse-lips of Shambal’s mouth, but became platitudes over time. Eventually, they came to be part of the shibboleth that defined the new culture of Shambal’s old land. Generation after generation, and even after the corpse-thing that was Shambal stopped functioning, these platitudes solidified. Eventually, some were even seen as something like commandments.

One must remember that Shambal Brambel was born both deaf and sessile. I was only when the first tenebrous tentacle plunged from the night sky and uprooted him that he began to become a renowned gigolo, vagrant, gourmet and visionary. Centuries have passed and the apex of his life journey is long behind him. He has enjoyed the ease of descent for ages and like the multicellular forms who shed their complexity and become paramecia once again, Shambal has regressed.

His bed is his sessile base now. As described in other tomes, marvellous machines of his own making collect and create energy from his waste. Naught but rhythmic drones feed his brain. As Natascha used to say, the complexity of one age’s music is finally levelled to pulses. The thump of your crawling blood is the last sound that your living corpse will perceive.

Shambal was well known for his obsession with religion not only in his own land but in empires abroad both fallen and in the throes of power. He was brought up by a despotic mother stewing eternally (well, eternally until her demise) in catholic ideology. To finally flee his childhood oppression and its monkey clawing like his later cocaine demon at the back of his neck for decades and then for centures, he decided to reform the old ways and scribed the following:

The Ten Goat Commandments

• Thou shalt not have other goats before me
• Thou shalt carve my visage into every stone and tree
• Thou shalt smite human females in my sacred name
• Remember the Copulation Day and penetrate me with thy penis
• Honour my goat ancestors and goatlings by penetrating them
• Thou shalt kill only the females of thy own kind
• Thou shalt save the juices from our copulation for thy otherwise pitiful cocktail parties
• Thou shalt steal ovaries from thy human females, implant them within me so that I may gestate and birth a hybrid goat-being
• Thou shalt expose my reeking genitals to thy neighbours
• Thou shalt teach their own progeny to worship and penetrate my kind

Long ago, when the wind still whipped the edges off of sharp stones, Rabbit was a great trapper. He lived with his grandmother on the fringe of the Pellucid Desert. She was an ancient and emaciated creature, as well as the only other of his kind he could recall. Perhaps she was his great-grandmother, or even great-great-grandmother. Time was funny in the borderlands. In any case, all the rest of his kind had disappeared.

His grandmother was very weak, but at times still spoke. She never looked directly at Rabbit when she recounted what sputtered and strobed behind her eyes. Her head bobbed and swung. Her face was lined and the colour of long soiled and dried skins. It occurred to Rabbit now and again that she was completely unaware of him. He did feed and water her, sure, but those demands could have as easily been met by the brook flowing out of the hilly lands he never visited. Fish even occasionally suffocated themselves on the banks, sacrificing themselves as food before an inevitable, wasted death as the stream narrowed and dried in the desert.

During those times, she spoke in fragments. He caught as many as he could with the cup of his mind and sewed them together when curled and about to rest, or when wandering the perimeters and setting traps.

She talked of faces in the moon and a sickness in the sun. The stars were invisibly stitched together to form animals. In his mind, the shapes resembled animals caught in his pits. There was the Wolverine, the Bear and the Fox. Sometimes a coyote took the place of the fox. That other animal - the kind that lived in the village nearby - was always absent. He’d never had the occasion or luck to trap, snare or pit one of them. So they somehow were outside of the textured mythology he wove from his grandmother’s mutterings.

He often remembered his grandmother as a younger creature, speaking at length and with great coherence about the moon and the sun. The moon made faces that predestined the humour of the coming day. The sun’s sickness grew and waned, casting and dispelling shadows. He could remember snatches of stories about creatures wandering in the inky ocean between the points of light in the skies at night. The creatures could set the course of lives in the Pellucid Desert. He often had dreams of them, but in the dreams, their identity was confused. His mind’s eye told him that they were one and the inky ocean was actually a singular mass. He liked to call it the oracle. Rabbit often wondered what the oracle’s prophecy for him would be, or if it was already fixed like a carving into a stone.

Rabbit’s trapping was limited to the area within his burrow’s sightline. His speciality was stone traps. He’d been crafting them since the dim past. Some were quite formidable. He’d hew them from stone with tools as ancient as his grandmother, or more so. Were he to measure time like the strange creatures in the village did, a single trap would occupy dawn to dusk every day for months. He cleverly wired the traps to snap their serrated teeth shut. His hinges were made of the taut guts of wolverines and bears.

These creatures, not anywhere as smart as Rabbit once thought, fell time and again into another type of trap he created. Every few sunups, he found one dead or dying, impaled on spikes at the bottom of one of his pits. Some of the spikes were even fashioned from the bones of the animals’ own kind. As a wolverine panted blood bubbles from his final breaths, Rabbit liked to think that the very bone piercing the animal’s stomach and chest came from that very animal’s own brother, mother or father.

He distributed the stone jaws, small, medium and large, over his range. Each morning, his haul consisted of anything from rats to coyotes. He stewed them all in the burrow inside a great cauldron also hewn of stone. He supposed his grandmother had hewn the giant bowl herself, for who else could have? There was no-one else. There never was, not that he could remember.

Rabbit awoke before the sun gouged the black oracle from the sky every day, before even the few remaining birds began to fill the air with their nonsense. One morning, however, he discovered some of his traps were different. They had been moved ever so slightly. None of his catch was disturbed at first, but as morning after morning passed, crushed animals habitually lying limp within the jaws were missing. The traps were splattered with gore. There was too much gore, as if an animal had been violently ripped from its grave. He began to discover more and more of his traps devoid of prey. He had been robbed. He was being robbed every night.

He could not see the traps at night. Before he slept, he interpreted the face in the moon the best he could and what it could mean for the following day. He imagined the blackness between pricks of light oozing and perhaps loosing tentacles of ink time and again to caress anyone who dared to wander the Pellucid Desert at night. During the failing twlights after his discoveries, he wondered if those imaginary tentacles were the culprits.

Time passed and his food supply dwindled to almost nothing. He was strong, and still persisted, but his grandmother was reduced to nothing more than a bag of bones. She became sessile and crepuscular. She summoned her remaining strength at dawn and at twilight. She still muttered then.

At first, Rabbit thought the thief could be a cunning wolverine, evolved beyond the stupidity that landed its bretheren into the pits. The traps were not so easily opened, though, and he finally dismissed the idea as nonsense. He pondered as his own hunger grew. He reached a decision to snare the thief himself. It was a risk. It was always a risk. What if the culprit was one of those from the village?

He fashioned a loop of the strongest beargut and set out in a waning dusk. By luck, he’d caught a fox in one of his stone jaws early in the evening. It hung like two rags draping a stained, red fossil. He stealthily placed the coiled intestines, hid, and waited.

Rabbit faced the thing struggling within his snare. The looping beargut left weal after weal as it flailed. The thing’s eyes shone with a combination of surprise, rage and a strange resignation. It was as tall as a villager, but wider. It’s bulk displayed protrusions that could have been stunted extra limbs. The weals poured rivulets of dark juice through thick, matted fur.

Finally, the thing calmed, or weakened, or both - Rabbit could not tell - and half collapsed to the hardpan. Without looking directly at Rabbit, it began to speak. Rabbit listened and began to despair.

I was stealing a fox. It had been nearly severed in two parts, but I had to pry the teeth of your trap slightly to remove the tendon that resisted. I brushed against one of your marvellous hinges. I was stung, as if by an insect, and the mark has remained to this day. Surely it was concocted from the same material as these restraints that leave weal after weal on my flesh. The part of my arm that touched the hinge will never heal, nor will these wounds from your rope. It could be that what you call the oracle - the being the flows like sooty fluid between the pricks of light in the sky - wrote that sting in the earth with its black tentacles at my birth. I stared at my demise when I was scarred by your hinge. And my demise is now, as I cannot escape from your ropes of meat.

Unlike the creatures of the village, you nor I have archives or mentors to teach us how to persist in this world. Our only teacher is experience. Though I always pushed it from my mind, I knew that one experience would end me. I also knew that the end of me was not the end of my task. It had to be carried forward.

We also do not come into this world knowing exactly what we are or what we will become. We discover these things as we traipse our violent path through our lives. Better is to not have expectations of oneself, for great changes do not happen gradually. They are sprung upon us like your stone jaws upon your next meal or like the snare now binding me.

Before I slaughtered him, one older one from the village told me at length about what he called spirits and how they, unlike us, were undying. They simply passed from fleshy creature to fleshy creature at their own whim. He was only trying to entertain me with his mind in hopes I would not consume him, of course. His ruse did not play out the way he wanted, but, true or not, his story left an impression.

The villagers once got the better of me. I was foolish that day. They had me tied to a stack of timber and were set to burn me. Maybe they’d have smoked out my spirit and set it adrift. And maybe it would have found you then instead of now, as I die before you. I let them have their fun and I pretended to struggle and even moan, all the more to see their shock when I at last exploded the bonds. The strands were fashioned from fibre, not the once living meat that now sears my flesh. I killed eight and dragged two of those dead with me back into the desert. They served as food for a few days before the real rot set in.

I know you know the ones in the village. They are not like you. They stand erect and prance like owners of the desert. I know you’ve hidden in the scrub on the outskirts and watched their masses swell and wane, pulse like the maggots that will soon infest my wounds. I believe their rationale for tying me was to stop my stealing their pigs and sheep. They roast these animals. I, like you, prefer them raw.

They roast the animals they catch outside of the village, as well. Animals like you and the ancient one you live with. Before I stood in your place, I was in danger of becoming impaled on a spit and turned slowly over a fire, my life juices dripping and sputtering in the flames. The sable night sky took me, as it is taking you, and changed me. Instead of being the pursued, I became the pursuer.

I had a dream that I knew was prophesy. I am one of the replicated. I was an iteration. You are the next iteration. Don’t look away. Just by being here, you have already accepted your own iteration. The dream was cruel. It showed me this night and my demise. I viewed your loops of meat and my wounds seeping beneath them. The dream told me I’d forget when I awoke, but remember once again when prophecy became reality. You’ll have a similar dream.

I fade. The desert will swallow me as it swallows your tiny river further on towards its uninhabited centre. Go back to your burrow. Bury the thing you live with. She is dead. Go. Now.

I am always frightened when I am invited to go to a authentic concert of some ethnic music. Let’s take flamenco, for example. Besides the fact that is pretty much howling mierda, the vomit of cultural emotions, why strain to enjoy a virtuoso guitarist through that haze? Through that filter?

What is the point?

Learning to divine presentiments from some arcana doesn’t make you interesting, you cunt! Why do people flock to see authentic music? What are they hearing? Are they there for some sort of ancient realism or for the chic feeling of nowness. Oh, Carlos, (licking the undulating abdomen), I was there during your performance.

There is not art to performance any longer. The contrast I see in videos Dave Willey shows me of a dance troupe gyrating to avant-garde tunes makes me smile, for sure, but it is so distance from the leprous theatres of today that I want to actually kill a goat and feed it to the dancers who strive to dance to the same music that was made to dance to in pasts they could not even fathom.

WHY DON’T THEY DIE?

I think quite a bit of this bile erupts from contrasts I have made between attempting to enjoy flamenco and then listening to an artistically relevant group of musicians like Present.

Follow your folk music, you junkies. Do it! What else have you? You’ll die a slow death. Neil Young said that it’s better to BURN out than to fade away. See the contrast?

Listen to something challenging. Stop staying within your fucking borders, you passive-agressive cretins.

I sit in a bar in Bilbao. The barman wears a beard and casually goes about his duty. This is in contrast to the previous bar, very close to the bus station, filled with backpacked women with demands for pintxos. Their drooling eyes almost matched the saliva that pooled on their thighs as they sat on metal barstools. They only wanted to get to the aeroport. It is a pity they are dead now.

But, anyway, I wrote these things to Christián, of which I shall elaborate on in turn:

I appreçiate that the Spanish in the north is more pure and delineated.

It is much easier to understand people who speak clearly. Heh. Crudity has its cruel pleasures, however, and those exposed to redneck life during formative years are victims. I find the south crude. Their gypsy and moorish blood birthed abominations. These died and fertilised the land. Music arises from the ashes (or asses) of humans who do not know anything else to do with themselves. Circumcised with drink, I am sure their filth crept into stringed instruments.

I can understand your love of the south and the rawness of Andalucia and Murcia and Extremadura. They slur their words and their brains fire on hormones dying without completion.

At times, I figure the heat is what drives people to vagrancy. Vagrancy of the mind, I tell ya. Texas held the same for me. I wanna sit here and press my ICED TEA to my forehead until the ache the LIQUOR I swigged to forget about YOU gave me wanes into oblivion. Yeah. That was Fort Stockton. There were two choices: the DRINK or the CHURCH. I suspected at times both. Fuck um.

Linguistic culture disgusts me, as it it deepens the stupidity of a land. I’d kill them all if I could, but I am a simple drunk at a bar in Bilbao at the moment.

Fleeing from cultural oppression is very similar to fleeing from heat oppression. Cold stimulates the ability to think rationally, to create sublime portents of the future. Heat lets hormones boil and excrete folk music - the music that, simply mourns loss.

Combining these things is genius. I’ve never heard Flamenco that did it. Other, much more angry forms of music do it better for me (the arbiter of ALL quality, errr). I want to put my throbbing, severed member into a goat right now.

I’m about to listen to a piece of music that will thwart everything I am thinking about at the moment. I’ll let it pause for a moment. Fuck um.

Actually, I’m done. Perhaps more later on the FLIGHT.

I wrote to Marisa just now:

Dentro del autobus, hay Ingleses delante de mi y Alemanes atrás! Ha. locos!

But they are not the strangers. I am. Jayson once told me, and actually told everyone around us, aligned with us, groovin’ with us and otherwise accompanying us on the dotted life trek through the universe:

You’re lost and you like it.

They are not the strangers. I am. They giggle like misfits, but laughter among the superficially inane is glue. Camaraderie is a disease that ultimately benefits all with its contagion. Kavus Torabi sings in my ears:

So I’ll drown myself in wine with the only living friends that I can find. If they leave me all adrift on foreign shores, would it be so wrong of me to crash at yours?

Ha. I haven’t actually perused the lyrics of this obra closely, but I enjoy what he is getting at in that, shall we say, chorus.

But still, they are not the strangers. I crash at foreign shores frequently. Or, at least, I used to. I’d say that Michal’s apartment in Praha is one of those shores I have crashed at once upon many times. What’s the irking word in Spanish? He naufragado a menudo en las playas de mis amigos. And why not, really?

I am the stranger.

I’m not claiming that the purpose of friends are to line the shores on which I may crash, but it is certainly convenient when they do so. I’m a fleshy shore-liner, as well, I must admit. Or, at least at times. It is important to remember that we are ALL shore-liners and to certainly visit those who line available shores. They are more than proxies. They are companions that captain encapsulated journeys. Bubbles love to intersect and partially merge. Seemingly, they always separate later. When they DO merge into a larger sphere, they tend to burst before those smaller and less hybridised.

Now I wonder whether breaking open my lager will alert my travelling companions to my intentions of becoming slightly intoxicated en route to Bilbao. I shall find out very soon, and then write about it! Glory be! Fuck um.

Though the beer overflowed onto my fingers and not my keyboard, no-one turned their apparent visual attention on me, though surely the scent of hops radiated out to at minimum one meter. The English bloke in front of me, who I overheard telling an anecdote about a pub (in Logrono?), surely caught it. I recognise a potentially drunken Englishman from a considerable distance. He is not a stranger, but in a strange land, perhaps. I say perhaps, since he may come to La Rioja in his spare time now and again to suck down red wine and fuck goats. It’s a well known English vacation plan.

It occurs to me that my bladder may explode before I reach Bilbao. Regardless, I shall continue sipping my 40 (Loyal would refer to it as that) throughout the journey.

Kavus sings:

Your congregation will die alone. Your congregation will die alone. We’ll build our empire out of their bones. We’ll build our empire out of their bones.

Jayson, the fuckup that told me once You are lost, and you like it, and I discussed how relationships are like books in a personal library. When you spend time with a friend, in depth, you once again open that tome, take out the bookmark, and read. There are paragraphs your go over again and again bearing concentration, and others you simply skim. When beers are drunk, shots shot, cigs littered like a trail of bageta-crumbs, you place the book back on your shelf, bookmark in place, to be resumed at a later date. Or perhaps not. Jayson was fond of this idea. It doesn’t really take into account minglings with groups, though. Cross-referencing encyclopedia after encyclopedia could be exhausting, not to mention the weight to heft all of them in a backpack already splitting at its seams. Christián might suggest to create an app, perhaps with voice analysis, that categorises each human (tome / novel) throughout a night of social density and later allows you to review the myriad cross-references. Jayson would probably be fond of that idea, as well. However, he’s dead. Fuck um.

The bus has paused at an anonymous town full of humans discarding their camaraderie for a time to share the surely pervasive smell of LAGER permeating the autobus. By the time we reach Bilbao, each will crave drink. They’ll flock to watering holes, begin sucking down vodka martinis, sidras, txakolis, snifters of cognac and distilled juices from their own tear ducts. Drying out is not an option, because it means facing the reality of lost camaraderie.

All this being said, it’ll be nice to decapitate Christián and leave his fetid body floating in the fountain in front of the Deutche Oper. Finally, out of fate and familiarity, the flowing water will clog, the fen will become a bog, and his flesh will ferment the liquid into a nectar imbibed by all.

Pestilence.

A facebook friend named Ron Greenough died a few days ago. I don’t know the causes of his demise, but I spent a minute on his timeline and found he posted something (I forget what now) on the 21st. Ron and I never met. Actually, during the last few years, we never exchanged any personal quips.

I believe I got to know him in 2009, soon after my mandatory exile from the Czech Republic. He was some relation of Justin or other. I’m not sure which. I never bothered to find out since it was utterly unimportant to me. I only vaguely recall that we shared some similar spiritual and humouristic views. This, too, was not very important.

He has perished and people are writing on his timeline asking him to rest in peace as if his corpse could somehow absorb the electricity that distributes these messages. I’ll state the obvious and declare that death is a function that has two arguments, or inputs:

• The deceased (or, to be accurate, the fixin’to be deceased)
• A vector or array of people that know the fixin to be deceased

(defn death [human humans]
  (map (fn [h]
         (affect human h))
       humans))

The non-deceased humans are run through the blender that I give the function name affect. This function filters parts of the fixin to be deceased according to each non-deceased and modifies the latter with them.

Ron’s death affected me enough to spawn this entry in the Martenblog. I guess, in my life, this impetus was Ron’s purpose. To each non-deceased, a differing impetus.

The subject of celebrities dying this year seems a big deal on social media. Take Prince, for example. Non-deceased humans are raving about him! Fixin to be deceased ones possibly not so much. Prince’s impetus has been to forcibly take control of the minds of multitudes and make them gather into mobbish clusters and celebrate. I did not know Prince personally, but I feel he’d probably have approved. I did not mingle with any mobbish mass, but I did listen to three of his albums the other day.

• Purple Rain
• Around the World in a Day
• 1999

I enjoyed my time with these albums and attempted to actively listen as much as possible. Slaving away over the terminal for the sake of patching up a few bugs for James’s peace of mind interfered with my concentration at times, as usual. Purple Rain is very enjoyable. The second album, less so. 1999 could expunge its own second half and I’d not blink my singular, ogling eye.

Needless to say, I did not tear up for either of these two corpses. Other corpses will probably have the impetus to create a flow of tears from my singular, ogling eye. We’ll see. I may or may not let Martenblog know.

Fuck um.

That capsule of condensed filth that calls itself Christián and I were discussing mild philosophy a few minutes ago. He claimed that two things he ponders on consistently are:

• Whatever you are doing now is the meaning of your life.
• Wherever you go, there you are.

I’m a fan of both views of life. In fact, they are intimately entwined, and, as Shambal claims, Intimacy is the flower that blooms from cruelty. Taken from a modern viewpoint, both of these views cruelly elide ideas risen on pedestals by our culture. An obvious one is that our lives are a culmination of the past. Our moments concentrate our past prowess into a sharp focus. What’s more, we are set on paths to fashion us into arrows. Our birth is the twang of a string. We rip through the atmosphere of life, puncturing any obstacle on our course. Our death leaves our shaft thrumming momentarily. Hopefully, we have achieved the centre of the target – unflinching success.

I’’d rather drag through life as a wandering blunt object. I’ll cover more ground. I’ll meet more obstacles. I’ll probably only injure a few of them, and hopefully learn the shape and contour of the rest.

Is it really cruel to the arrow? It’s cruel to the idea of the arrow. Who wants to be honed to something prescribed by a mythical cultural textbook, anyway? Follow in the footsteps of the success of your father, bah! Fuck um. In fact, most want to be honed into that arrow. They are born into it, whether they know it or not. They strive for it. They toil for it. They die for it. They certainly deserve to die for it.

I know they don’t want my pity, but it exudes from my weeping pores for them. Their eye is ever on the thrumming of the shaft after the point is buried into the wooden block of success and of death. At least they could take heed of the flight, of the course as it is in progress! Enjoy life. This does not mean enjoy your evenings at the pub after a day’s toil. This does not mean enjoy the time with your family during weekends and holidays. This does not mean look to days by the lake when you can lie dreaming while your eyes defocus on the sky. These are the rest stops along the course. They are the weigh stations. Stop for a breather. Have a glass of water. Nah, make it Brandy. Make it seven snifters of Brandy. Fuck um. Sit at a table with your compatriots and share complaints about the journey - the toil.

I’m on the road. I enjoy the road. I want to stay on the road. I’ll hang at a weigh station time and again, but I’ll be whipping out my little journal to scratch out some ideas while I’m there. And you won’t hear me bitching about my mornings or my yesterdays or even about my secretary’s dessicated cleft.

The more i live, I feel that to live simply and without the weight of ambition is the most enlightened path. Create what you can, but don’t worry too much about the end product. The journey is all the more fulfilling. The process of doing, of living. I want to be on the road of life, not at one of its numerous rest stops. This also fits with both your #1 and #2.

I’m working on a piece of music for the credits of Dani’s production. His film has inspired me to create. I’ve always needed a sort of impetus to begin the creative process. I used to walk around that bleak park in Seminole, stopping at arbitrary benches to scratch out a sentence or two. They weren’t to be used just then or even in the near future, but to serve as impetuses for future writing (or even composing!).

I am doing my best to follow the philosophy described above as I compose my piece. I am proceeding slowly. Very slowly. Why? Because I am enjoying the journey. Well, that is one of the reasons. The other main one is I can reflect on the parts, or themes, and let them soak into my subconscious. My subconscious serves as a plaintive vessel to contemplate even when the rest of that squishy organ encased in my malformed skull is busy with more conventional tasks.

I began writing this thinking I’d describe the parts of the piece that fit together, but I’ve decided not to. I believe I need a few more days of letting it soak in muddy puddles pooled in my mind.

The working title is Let Miners Be Interred. Pretentious pap! Hah! Fuck um. In the end, I’ll probably ask Dani to retitle it. I like the naive way he approaches creativity. It is refreshing.