Last night’s rain has washed the last vestige of muggy from the air. The sun is golden this morning and the deep blue sky, earth’s apology for leaving her children in the Midwest, peeks through the clouds like quicksilver patches on a quilt of slow silver. Ouch. My metaphors have been sliced, diced and put in a blender; metaphor smoothies. What’s a meta for? Breakfast.
It’s a nice morning. I’m close to reclaiming my identity. No, it wasn’t stolen, just high jacked, one foot in the Great Northwest, the other in the marginally adequate heartland. Wreaks havoc on the hamstrings. This morning this little slice of heartland is begging to differ; endeavoring to persevere, to take it up a notch to exceptionably adequate. I have delusions of adequacy. But, Gepetto, I’m going to be a real boy soon. I don’t even need blue pills for wood.
Boy, for somethings that are largely symbolic, it sure is a lot of trouble and no small stack of greenbacks. I mean divorce, like marriage, is largely symbolic, I mean unless there are kids and property. With a marriage the commitment is there or not, all the pledging thee my troth, the sickness and health, the capital punishment of what it takes to part, don’t mean jack shit if you weren’t planning on doing it anyway. Divorce too, it’s not like the marriage is intact until the judge signs, like you are all happy and sharing the conjugal bed. It’s paperwork, and whereas I remain a fool and believe in the sanctity of the institution of marriage, I maintain a deep respect for the institution of divorce.
I fought the first one, I mean emotionally, and the irreconcilable bit of that one was ironclad, stalwart, immovable object. I fought the idea of failure, of my children being from a broken home, I took my vows seriously. This second one has just been a pain in the ass. The marriage itself had much higher highs and lower lows, was a more reasonable facsimile of real life, but the damage was greater. Reconciling would have much easier but I would have incurred greater damage. Not hard to explain but it takes too many words, too much paw power and I’m bored with it.
I do get a ruling on the 29th.
I received my car title from Oregon yesterday too. When I work the nerve or sufficiently self-medicate I get to go to the DMV and go all Michigander; once more into the breech. During the tenure of the Federal governments shut down issuance of passports have been suspended. I’m guessing some countries are rejoicing.
Oh. Shit. Pardon my English, perhaps I meant; Oh. Fuck. Odd that Universities across this nation and other colonies and even the seat of the Empire herself teach remedial to doctorate classes in, of all bloody things, English. It is fundamental course work in every level of secondary education as well from A is for Apple to If you prick us do we not bleed? Just so, it’s rare circumstance wherein we need A is for Apple or If you prick us do we not bleed. And equally just and equally so, every child of normative development raised in a household where English is spoken with frequency already knows the language, what an apple is and how to pronounce A. Also the scabby little buggers know we bleed though they might giggle a bit at prick.
I’m sure I must have had a point. It’d be crazy to write all those characters (including a significant number of A’s none of which are actually associated with an apple or even a fruit) without some purpose and you, I mean especially you, know that if you think you’re crazy you’re not. Crazy people don’t think they are crazy no matter how many terms they get in the white house or how many sovereign nations they attack or how many phones they tap. I guess it’s been two, maybe three years now since they showed G Bush Senior and Junior with box seats at the World Series. Someone was singing God Bless America, the camera focused on the Bushes (typically you have to be over eighteen to watch something where the camera takes a tight shot of bushes) Senior was tight lipped, Junior was about a half beat behind and you could tell from his lips he didn’t know the words. That has nothing to do with nothing, just saying. I’m not sure I know the words. I’ve only been able to afford tickets to games where they just sing The Star Spadangled Banana.
I’m going to insist on Oh shit and/or fuck. See the deal is I was writing this in the morning, decided to do something else, got a text from my daughter about picking the grandwhelp up, went grocery shopping, shaved, poured oil into a lamp, watched some back season shows of fringe, found this fucking thing and had a clear choice; delete or ramble on with my bad self. Any atheist need a new talking point about the god they don’t believe in? If there were a benevolent force in this universe the entry would be deleted. Oh, and Firefly would still be running. I’ve been watching back seasons of Suits too because Gina Torres, the amazon resistance buddy of Mal on firefly, number two if you must in this gorum verse, is the managing partner of the law firm.
If theists need a new talking point (and honestly they do, debating with a deck full of faith is a conversation killer and a marked deck) think of all the entries I haven’t posted. Yet. One of the cool things about Prosebox, given that it’s peopled primarily by minions of OD (exclusively as far as I can tell, but, you know, I don’t get out much) is that the whole Political circle and Spirituality (is that what they called it) circle didn’t come with. I swear they’ve been having the same argument for fifteen years. At least with the political circle the names change, the spirituality circle was an argument over a five hundred year old translation of a book that was last updated some nineteen hundred and change years ago. I’m still waiting on the sequel; I understand Lazarus and John the bang bang Baptist get into it over how much deader they are than the other guy. I think Hailie Selassie is in the sequel too.
Maybe they’ll show the bushes at the premier, when they do the lord’s prayer Senior will be tight lipped and junior will be doing the lyrics to Starship Trooper or I’ve seen all Good People, something from that one Yes album, it was good for cleaning stems and seeds. It’s sad that kids today have never had to clean seeds. Damn you Sinsimillia! (gratuitous exclamation point and Word has no spelling suggestions for sex starved cannabis, for them what can’t tell a hor from an iculture, that’s what KGB (killer green bud) is; a female plant that’s not allowed pollination, all that sticky, skunky, stoney stuff is chick plant for I gotta get me some. Ok, so I can’t tell a bo from a tany, still, I’ve read a high times or two. Ok, I just looked at the pictures. What? It’s medicinal.).
Loading comments...