Frankie

The Princess and the Peanut by David Albert

I loved her so much I was happy to get by just eating the peanuts out of her poo. These last six months, her meals were all poo and no peanuts. I remembered that for two years we had infrequently put forth the energy to discuss our relationship, putting tags on those revealed peanuts which were keeping me true to her and hungry for more. I had progressively realized that after each revelation, one or two less peanuts were to be found in each meal... the very peanuts I had thought we'd just constructively identified.

So, at the end of this trail of goobers, bereft of peanuts and under a glut of dinner poo, I knew now was time to head off on my own to find static legumes out there on the bigger world's dinner plate... and I verbalized this to her in a tearful conversation that laid my heart bare to her understanding of what it had been that we were sharing. At a last unexpected supper, Behold!, something resisted the creamy siphoning of this final course... a peanut appeared at the very last bite. A true inner joy that our togetherness was not swirling away on the spinning tide of a final flush brought me before her once again; elated, excited and optimistic as ever I thought I was capable to look at this too-often dark, indifferent and disappointing world. I told her a peanut had appeared and that, for my part, we could still dance in a glimmering glow of a potential committed and intimate togetherness. I wrote this out and let her read it... With that once-enchanting look of mischief in her eye, she said that "potentially" does not fit with "committed," and that I was "fablistically fatalistic."

She later served up the next meal and it was as consistently creamy and poo-ish as velveeta cheese fresh out of a microwave after five minutes. Now I'm in a studio and doing the purple-ketosis-dipstick Atkins Plan. The Dr. has identified that Poo is too high in carbohydrates.

Funk lifting

I slept for two days, eating only four regular-sized meals of salted broiled pork steaks and microwaved russet potatoes with Blue Bonnet margarine and salt. Water from the engaged, faucet-mounted, and overdue-for-replacement filter cartridge. My funk was such that even when I felt good, I felt in a funk. The diet is to deal with the headaches from eating - some mystery allergy or additive? Headaches, full-body funk, don't wanna get up but can't get comfortable lying down on either side or my back... dry nostril unpickable because of pressure zit inside... blow hard into tissue but everything's hard and dry and won't budge and there's no hot water to take a shower.

Then the funk lifts... the low grade fever sweats retreat for hours at a time... the methadone is finicky this week even though I religiously take it at the same time every day - 2:00 am. I am on weekly priviledges because I haven't tainted my maintenace with illegal substances five years running now. So I seek to subdue the daily dosing as a ritual by taking it at 2:00 and returning to sleep till around 5, when I get up for real and hit the cappucino and broiled pork etc first daily meal... Coffee and MSNBC streams of the previous day's Maddow and Olbermann...

My day... oh well... my thoughts... trying to objectively monitor what I learned long ago is my subjective self-awareness of progressing with my thinking through the funk of the slow detox I am waging and will wage at 2mg per month reduction till I get to a baseline dose to deal with the neurapathy issues that are permanent by virtue of physical, not mental, stasis. Diving into the deep blue dialectic of faith versus the rational and scientific... trying to tread water in the face of the public, accepted, half-thought rhetoric that falsly pits science against religion.... that says the Big Bang tries to explain creation when it really only seeks to illuminate the relevant facts of the earliest possible physical events for which there is proof. The nagging stupidity of those who posit, "what happened a second before that?"... like saying that the highest number possible can always be added to.... and then saying that God was there before Creation, or there is no quantity greater than God. At times like that it seems God is just a pencil-in for questions we think we cannot otherwise answer... especially when it is the wrong question for which we have no clue... but for bloody and repressive deluded ages, we have insisted that physical laws of nature can be summarily violated without the aid of devices... that more relevant than the cataloguing and understanding of the phenomena that surrounds us, we should prefer to commune with a designer of that phenomena, somehow manlike, who violates the very essence of the workings of his design at will because any man's business is universally importanmt enough to do so. A Creator so adept at transcending and plasticizing the solid Reality he has created yet incapeable of understanding the gross injustice of denying an essential awareness of his existence to every man, or living conscious organism for that matter, under his control.

Under my Belt

February has come to October and I remember I started a blog. A wordy, self-conscious weaving of an intro it was and promising revisits that have not happened until now, some months later...

during that time I have been evicted from a HUD project for tenant organizing and have been preoccupied trying to make my way, since just after July 4th, on $650 a month for rent, utilities and food in a $1200 a month world.

Certainly I websurf everyday... I should add the cost of Internet broadband to that monthly money mark needed to survive. It's $32.95 per month, and, with a MagicJack hooked up, it pays for the cost of phone service right there.

I will now try to write a little every day and build up momentum as I get more and more under my belt about how I look at the world and what I look for in the world.

For starters, my favorite book is Carl Sagan's "Demons from the Haunted World; Science As A Candle in the Dark"... I read Vonnegut in High School but did not get much of it beneath the fluidity of the style and the remorse over what Man does to Itself. Now I am here at 52, the age my father died when I was 15, and wanting of a sense of having pooted forth any artifact of accomplishment that can seen by others of my benevolent ilk.

To finish for today, after Vonnegut I ran across recordings by Frank Zappa in 1972.

Initial Indebtedness

Well, folks, just to gets things started, I offer the first and foremost batch of the many tender entendre's I am so fond of cashing-in in the furtherance of my life-long pursuit of an almost hirsute drive to self-erudicate: Bill Pasdeaux at One Man's Meet (...is another Man's poison?) .
Based on an old entendre' that I came up with during my High School days here in Phoenix, AZ, (One Man's Meat is Another Man's Defeat), it will serve as a springboard into my rebuilding of the Empire after this most recent crash and burn of circa 2003.
As I, and "it", warily stands today, I have three years of zero-tolerance chemical celibacy under my obi... how else could I manage to hold onto a computer system long enough to come to this cyber-crossroads... how else could I have mustered up enough mental clarity to even understand that a Blog is... well, a good thing, if taken and given in moderation?
"The time has come to pay the fare... to shed our chains and get savoir faire"... Midnight Oil (in a perfect world). I am saying that, for myself, the Account is receivable and this receivership-of-my-state-of-mind sails forthwith. This bill, past due, is paid by doing a dance step alone, to the Whimsy that my return to a mental and physical health must ultimately embody.
Learning the basics of this new blogging program, I multitask this personal renaissance by presuming to denude the factors in my own upcoming that, through nothing so capricious as Luck itself (and those separate decisions by my progenitors to come out here, West, in the first place) delivered me bawling, mewling and puking-up whimsey after whimsey for your cyber-diversion.
Mo' latuh!...>