the poetry of madness
Name: Lord Malinov
driven by curiousity and an intense need for understanding, I strive to learn and express in every step of the marvelous journey that life is providing
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bluematrix
Brainwave Generator
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duckpower
Euclid's Elements
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indigo4963
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Journal of Desire
Malinov's Romances
moonglow
no one tell my dad
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One of the problems (if I dare call it such) with being an attorney is that when it rains, it usually pours. After a drought, a downpour is well appreciated. It just reminds me how wary I am of the rain. Or working, should I dare abandon my metaphor.
I am swamped, fixing my butt firmly on the leather. Abundant monies will quickly reward my efforts. I never even imagined how much I would gain by being a patent dude. My brother suggests that I stumbled into a goldmine. Perhaps it wasn't such a matter of happenstance. I have always sought the furthest reaches of what can be accomplished.
You don't make a million dollars by creating a good product and selling truckloads, not without lots of hard work, anyway. You make real money by working the system. Find a good system and work it.
I highly recommend the patent system, but that's my game. Go find your own field to plow. Don't make me crush you!
Cats and I, enjoying our Prego's, suddenly found ourselves attending Tess' first choral concert of the year. The church - St. Andrews UMC - is just incredible. Tess sings like a songbird. She takes after her old man in most of the good ways. She's a lucky girl.
Through the turbulent early days of the breakup and breakdown, I always had faith that my relationship with my daughter would normalize. Despite the bull spit that she was told, despite the fury she developed in this fog of mistruth, my faith never faltered for a second. I have been impatient at times, for moments, but I have not doubted for an instance that she would eventually understand. Understand that I love her the way only a father can. Children are such a blessing.
The boys helped me survive those dark times. Just hope we don't ride into your town, a whooping and a hollering. Cain and his boys are not a force to be reckoned with.
I'm getting better at dueling them in FPSs. Halo2 is the favorite, but a massive influx of Star Wars Battlefront on all systems gave us plenty of reason to relive the battles of the Galactic Civil War and Clone War. They continue to dominate my sorry ass, but I have done my share of carving on the sprouts. I'm not giving up this throne anytime soon.
The Devil wants you to hurry up.
The Devil wants you to go faster.
Slow down. Listen to God.
Enjoy,
Carravagio
King of Cain
I took a new office, on a different face of the building. I look directly at the building opposite, but the construction of the building is such that my building is reflected in a single column of windows while the rest of the mirror surface shows the landscape behind my view. Curiously wonderful.
"You know how you and Mom used to fight?" asked my boy. I assented. "Well, Mom and the doofus get into big fights."
"That's too bad," I respond appropriately.
"Not for me," he replies. "I don't like the doofus."
He didn't say doofus. The names have been changed to protect the stupid.
In a deep conversation with my other son, I explained to him that every one was more-or-less crazy.
"Of course, some people are really, really crazy."
"Like the doofus," he added, much to my surprise.
I never speak badly about the alcalde to the kids - I avoid the subject as best as I can without ignoring it. Smart kids despise stupid authority with a severe passion.
Lately, he looks like someone cut his balls off. What a loser. Scum de la scum.
My daughter told my eX that she is going to move in with us, if the bull spit didn't stop. We're preparing to take the kids full time. My eX exudes bull spittle. She needs time to pull herself together. I know I did.
Elara wasn't over this long weekend, which was different and sad. She's become one of us - a spark of delight in a conflagration of madness.
Enjoy,
David
I don't know what happened and I certainly don't know why or even how it happened. I don't know why I did the things I did. I had ideas before I did them about what I was doing and I had ideas about what I was doing as I did them. Now I have ideas about the "real" reasons I did them, but I probably have reasons for thinking that way.
It was like I was surfing. The surface changed constantly under my feet and I shifted accordingly, best I knew how. I did what I thought I had to do.
Now, I make the best of everything. Why not?
Carravagio
Remember what the dormouse said.
one pill makes you larger
one pill makes you small
and the ones your mother gives you
don't do anything at all.
Same as it ever was . . .
While at the eye doctor, the tech girl working on Tess became distracted as the testing continued. "Shouldn't she be paying attention to what she's doing?" Matt asked Cats. The tech, suddenly self-conscious and flustered by the ten-year-old's astute observation, went back to work.
"There is probably a better way to say that," Cats advised my ten-year-old, trying to educate his tact while acknowledging the truth of his assertion. They make a fiesty pair, fiercely sharp minds and equally razorish tongues.
I should be wary of a coup from that quarter. I've already warned the elder son that younger sons can be ruthless in pursuit of a throne and Matt would be a dangerous foe, by any measure, a situation that may become worse when he reaches his anticipated stature of six-four.
Good thing they love me. A few more years and they'll be a force to contend with.
Blow winds!
If there are two great sins, they are denial and avoidance. Eradicate those sins and paradise will be restored.
In truth, the genes are our god. They issue commands of survival - refusal to obey is destruction. They created society and love. We are a manifestation of life, the expression of our genetic lords as they insistently reproduce, search and assure survival in every way possible. Our self-consciousness is a tool created to increase the odds of our genetic survival. Good is that which further propogates our form of existence. Evil is that which endangers our species survival.
What absolutes are there? asked Cats.
Absolute zero, the speed of light, vodka
Planck's distance, vacuum
The speed of light is the only absolute that isn't theoretical.
Virtual particles exist everywhere, all the time. We exist in space filled solid with matter. We only interact with particles that don't exist in virtual pairs.
The Duke of Stupid is apparently revelling in stupidity. I am holding back my forces until the stupidity settles a bit. Few things are more dangerous than being caught in a swarm of morons.
Carravagio
before dawn
a makeshift camp on the edge of the battlefield, middle of nowhere
I dreamed of a lion pride. I understood. I dreamed of venting my rage with a fierce switchblade. I understand.
My dominion has begun. The battle is on.
Has anyone else noticed the high levels of denial that seem to have infected the human race? Perhaps denial is a genetic adaptation that provides some social benefit. The genes are a sneaky lot, doing anything and everything to maintain survival. Fragile and insidiously indestructable, life seems to be.
My environment forced me into adulthood at a very young age. Every child develops in a completely unique situation, even siblings. There is basically no way to predict the ultimate beneficiality of any given environment - a harsh environment can make a leader or break a genius, while a soft environment can do the same kinds of harms in different ways. The guidance of an adult makes all the difference. Unfortunately, so few children ever mature into adulthood, so that most of our children are raised by children.
Half the people have above average intelligence (by definition) but I would guess most of those people are often crippled by emotional problems that make their actual intelligence considerably lower than their measured intelligence. Of course, some people panic because of measurement, considerably lowering their measured intelligence relative to their actual intelligence.
I'll define actual intelligence as the level of performed adaptive analysis during a normal stess-relaxation period. Do I need to repeat that? There will be a quiz later. Oh, please don't panic, those of you who are measurement sensitive. We certainly won't measure you.
My yellow brick road continues to head straight toward Oz. The sweet and kind witch is nowhere to be seen, neither have her delightful flying monkeys, bless their souls. The poppy field just ahead is worrisome, but I asked Glenda to lenda handa. Haha.
Everything has come together. Calloh, callay.
Chortle, chortle, chortle.
And with these words, the gold began to flow . . . .
Carravagio
The ocean typically represents our unconcious. The comparison is fair. We know virtually nothing about the sea. The vastness is incomprehensible.
The Universe works in synchronous ways.
My tension-heat is failing to relax-dissipate. Internal pressures are constantly arising, a desperate hunger to partake in many of the millions of choices that exist in every moment. I must let go of randomly inspired desires, if such a thing is possible.
One of the struggles of relaxing is moving past a constant refrain that insists we cannot relax. The voice isn't audible but the compulsion to action or analysis are strong. We must slow our minds as certainly as we must breathe oxygen, and nearly as often.
I have spent years with a tense mind, never once capable of bringing it down to quiet. The hunger for quiet becomes ravenous.
I continue to struggle and always will. As I learn greater skills, the demands become greater as ability inspires desire. The ability to remain calm is the most important of all. I really think we should have classes in the subject. I am told some elementary schools - private schools, probably - incorporate meditation in the morning exercises for the children. I'd love to see the data that comes from such a program. I think it would do us all well.
Why do we struggle to do things that we know are smart? My obsessive creativity and creative obsessiveness make it very difficult to maintain a rational path - unless I can retain a basic calmness that permits me to evaluate the importance and cost of proceeding as planned and adjust my behavior accordingly.
I must admit that most everything has gone well for me since I began to focus on maintaining my calm and pressing myself into anxious situations with the intent to remain calm. The results have been amazing, and still the struggle continues. Struggle on.
Lay on, MacDuff.
Malinov
sharpening his sword
After topping off the punk doc, we engaged on a documovie - again on IFC - about some modern Delta bluesmen. Trip me out and call me a triangle. The music . . . let's just say that the little girls understand . . . and the old men were pieces of work.
Don't waste your life trying to make people understand, 'cause mostly they won't. There's a lot of stupid people out there.
saith the bluesman.
I slept hard last night, fading quickly after the tale of the Olympic line ships. I woke late, plagued by dreams of frustration, trying to make people understand, realizing the utter impossiblity of making some people be sensible. Frustration is the result of impatience. Impatience requires calm and sometimes reconsideration. Dissipating energy may be necessary, but anger often derails our efforts to obtain the results we desire.
Frustration reflects the frictional heat of efforts. In wanting, we try and in trying, we want. As the trying becomes difficult, faith in the want can be shaken, leading to the conclusion that the effort may be for naught, making trying more difficult. Frustration is the expenditure of the desire energy into disappointment.
And they say I live too much in my head. Fie upon them, fiends.
I am the wizard king. I can do anything.
Malinov
not a lizard, by any means
of course, there was nothing the punks hated more than disco and new wave. Blondie had been punk but transmogrified (by virtue of a record contract) into a new-wave-disco band. Some of the punks still spit when they mentioned Harry and her blondes. The tendency to draw battle lines based on musical taste has always been an interesting one. Rollins said the hardcore-punks were incredibly narrowminded when it came to variation on the punk genre formula. The oppressed become the oppressors saith the Fanon.
Chrissie said the punks were ultimately embarrassed by riches. Success inevitably unravelled the punk attitude. If you really want to be an artist, you are never finished saying "fuck off." The day we stop rebelling, we become the institution.
Not that there is anything wrong with being the institution, at least in some ways. But sometimes the artist isn't ready to give away his "fuck off," and that's where the record contract becomes a death warrant. Creativity cannot be tamed. Attempts to rein the impulses lead to implosive destruction.
Turning power into a tool - there's the rub. Without letting the power destroy you. There's the trick. Listening to the lamentations of regret as Sid fell prey to Nancy's horse. Some spirals are inevitably downward.
You bring me closer to God.
I was a boogie singer . . . burning through the one night stands . . . they were dancing and singing . . . until you die.
Malinov
psycho killer
We were watching Punk Attitude, a documovie on the IFC. The punks are getting older, heavier too. It is a great film, particularly for seeing clips of old performances by the varieties of punk, starting with the Velvet Underground and into the nineties. Dancing about architecture, but a joy nonetheless.
I gnashed my teeth in regret, remembering how many time Iggy came to the Lawrence Opera House when I lived there, knowing how easily I could have seen the Pop perform. Then I'll remember that William Burroughs was living just outside of town at the time. Sheesh, what a waste of golden opportunity.
Burroughs has always had an impact on my writing, in a way I don't think I can explain. His poetics dominate his writing, even when his prose became incredibly absurd. He identified the word virus. We are the carriers.
Kerouac was not as influential for me as he could have been. The Subterraneans, for example, was a magnificent piece of writing. Dharma Bums, on the other hand, was a hard pill to swallow. Trying to capture Zen in a stream novel is a strange and difficult task. Kerouac was not up to the job. As Truman would say, "that's not writing, that's typing."
Bang bang Maxwell's silver hammer came down upon his head. Bang, bang Maxwell's silver hammer made sure that he was dead.
Henry Rollins provided some interesting insight into the post-70s punk scene. He looks so scary and speaks so well. Can't judge a book by its cover, saith the Matt. Never could, interjects the Pa.
Malinov
My client's bankruptcy acquisition becomes final today. The new owners, my new clients, have thirty days to make me whole for pre-bankruptcy invoices. Since they have asked me to continue working on the project, they will probably pay my subsequent bills and costs as well. My economics are about to change radically, knock wood.
I spoke at length with my partner yesterday. He is eager to persuade me to give the firm more time, as demand for my expertise has risen radically. I will be billing many clients at $450 an hour. It is good to be unique. Actually, his main interest is getting my help on his patents. Their project has reached a point where no one else can give them what I offer. A few weeks of my attention will increase their porfolio's value by tenfold, well over one hundred million.
Rock hard in a funky place.
It will mean spending a few weeks in DC over the next few months. I love DC in the autumn, so that will be nice.
I am terribly confused about the cowboy hat comment. I own a few, but I don't wear them much. I have some interesting photos of my eX in a cowboy hat, but they're on tour. I can't think of anything else. Strange, stranger, strangest.
Rain has descended on our forest. The animals wait quietly. My thoughts slow as my body gently relaxes. The old dog barks. Thunder rumbles beyond the trees.
Listen.
Malinov
The Romans destroyed Solomon's Temple after a revolt. They also burned the library of Alexandria. Cortes killed basically all of the Aztecs.
One of the things I learned reading the history of the world many ages ago was that there were thousands of Empires whose tales had never graced my ears, and many more that had forever disappeared into the silence of Ozymandian sands.
Ooh, I like that. The silence of Ozymandian sands. Call Starkist.
People who cared intensely during their lives, forgotten forever - not simply unnoticed, but gone, Daddy, gone.
Tie your mother down, give me all your love tonight. I will always miss Freddy.
Vastly important while perfectly insignificant. One of many paradoxes that haunt our existence.
Hello, my name is Kasha, and I'm ADD.
Malinov
We watched a documentary on bullets - naked science - fascinating in a horrible way. They showed how different bullets tear flesh. They had an electric gun that could fire a million bullets per second. A guided bullet - still in development - can be used to intercept other bullets. Hunter seekers, here we come.
With all my books off the floor, I have only a few shelves to spare. It is so delightful to have full access to my library again. Reading has often been my standard compulsion, turning years of anxiety into a sea of letters, spaces and dots. About two-thirds of my collection is fiction, almost entirely of the "literature" genre, whatever that means. I have long been a student of poetics and romance. Words, words, words, saith the Hamlet.
Judith scoured my teeth clean this morning, one of the only dental appointments I have had where they didn't drill me or worse. Don't neglect your teeth, or you will know my regrets. At least I wised up soon enough so that I still have teeth. You'll miss them when they're gone.
Judith takes teeth seriously. I can respect that, even if the subject bores me soon enough. The receptionist is a ray of sunshine in an otherwise cloudy place
My periods are gone! . . . oh, they came back. Whew.
I was introduced to Dune in 1978 by a young woman named Selena. She was so sexy. We came back from lunch an hour late - we worked together slinging burgers for the seal - mesmerized by her description of the Baron and the wonders of spice. Her boyfriend was a brute.
Malinov
A wise scientist fellow, speaking about lake monsters and sea serpents, saith something like . . .
Never listen to a passionate believer describe the evidence. Their passion can be convincing, but only the evidence can provide proof. Evaluate the evidence yourself, with an objective mind. Would you be convinced by the evidence if your life depended on it?
It occured to me that we praise passionate speakers, for their ability to inspire emotions within us. But passion and factual analysis are synchronously incompatible. We follow emotions in contexts where reason would be more reliable.
Civilizations fall because all the smart people die. One of the unfortunate consequences of rational government is that the smart people tend to fear the other smart people and often kill them. When too many smart people die, the civilization crumbles. It has happened all through history, all over the globe.
Keep the smart people alive, if we can. It can help our survival.
Malinov
I seem to have come down with a light case of poison ivy. I have basically two scratch lines on the back of my left thigh and (I think) a small spot near my left eye. We used to have a serious ivy infestation but I did my best to commit ivy-cide and believed I had succeeded. I don't know where the ivy is, but I don't think I got it from a living plant unless it has escaped my notice. The plants, they are so sneaky.
Poison ivy sucks. You can quote me on that. Death to Ivy!
The flood - the disintegration of the Bosphorus to create the Black Sea in about 7500 BC - was probably one of the most cataclysmic natural disasters to strike humanity. A huge population, including many cities, were suddenly sunk into 500 feet of water as the ocean filled the valley dried by a lengthy ice-age. Imagine if one of our great lakes suddenly rose 500 feet, within about 24 hours. That's several thousand hurricanes worth of destruction, all at once and it doesn't go away. What a scene that must have been.
Ain't nobody's business but the Turks.
Leaving church on Sunday morning, I found myself approaching the entire cast of my family drama as they gathered near the door. Engrossed in conversations, the only one who noticed me coming was the daughter of my eX's doofus. Her dark eyes grew large with a panicked sense of terror. I don't know the girl very much, but the fear I inspire in her is incredible. She probably understands - on a basic, unconscious level - that the crimes of her father against me give me a kind of moral license to kill him. He believes it too, sharing his fear with his daughter to multiply hers.
I haven't killed anyone, despite my rights. I would like him to understand that - in my opinion - he deserves death followed by eternal damnation. But justice is not my business. I will do my best to live a good life, to move past the wrongs that have been visited upon me. The Universe will take care of wreaking vengeance on his soul.
I decided to walk past the throng, exercising my right to avoid. I don't believe I can face him and mask the muderous rage I feel towards him. As I stepped outside, Cats bumped into her eX-girlfriend unaware and had the presence of mind to ask about some meds we needed for the elder son. Their talk was cordial, although I am told the doofus gnashed his teeth in furious frustration during the encounter. He fears not only me, but Cats, realizing that either one of us, or both, might re-enter the eX's life. When your husband pairs up with your girlfriend, you face extraordinary situations.
The girls often tease Cats about her bisexuality. Sometimes life goes to the strangest places.
I am so happy to finally have an overabundance of book shelves - it has been decades since my shelf supply exceeded my book supply. Bookshelves allow me to see my books, to arrange my books, to feel their inviting presence, to yearn for the tales and information I will discover in the tiny marks.
The Epic of Gilgamesh was written in triangles - cuneiform. Alphabets are an amazing aspect of humanity.
One of the reasons we survived and the other homonoids didn't is because we ate meat. All the vegetarian homonoids died out. Neanderthal died because it couldn't talk and the People of the Word managed to slaughter a competitor that couldn't discuss defense.
Malinov
The interesting thing about the pizza girl - to me, anyway - is that when I entered the shop the other day, I approached the counter confidently and spent the next ten minutes talking to her - about our situations, her new baby, all the things we could have discussed years ago, but for my tendency to panic.
I've come a long way, baby.
She remains lovely, although three months since the birth of her daughter. I had assumed she moved on, since she was absent the last few times I had gone to Gattis. Rather, she was preggers. I was very sad to hear this, because I have a serious attraction to pregnant women. I would have like to have seen her pregnant.
Malinov
Last week, I dropped by the old Gattis - the one near my xhouse. Much to my surprise, the pizza girl was waiting behind the counter.
Two years ago, I wrote a story about the pizza girl. It's a pretty good portrait of where I was at that time, just before all hell broke loose.
~~~
The Pizza Girl
A Fantasy in Slices
by Lord Malinov
~~~
"Hey there," the pizza girl said, "David?"
The question mark is part of the flirtatious game we play, this lovely pizza girl and I. For about six months, at least once a week, I drop by to pick up a pizza for the family. Usually she gives me a big pepperoni pizza, although every so often, I manage to sneak a supreme. The kids aren't entirely ready for the full blown pizza experience, but on well chosen occasions, they'll bear the excesses of flavor for my sake.
The pizza girl knows my name. I can hear it in her voice when I call to make my order, see it in the bright smile she gives as I enter the tiny shop. The pizza girl knows my name but pretends she doesn't. On the other hand, I don't know her name. I'm too shy to ask. When I imagine talking to her, I call her "beautiful."
"Hey, beautiful," I imagine myself saying, "how's the pizza business?"
"It sucks," she'd reply with an infectious grin. Sometimes I imagine the conversation will be easy.
I picked up five pizzas on Halloween, feeding a party of kids before they assaulted the streets on their annual candy begging mission. I arrived a bit early. The pizza girl wore low slung jeans and her pizza t-shirt tied up to expose her smooth midriff. I licked my lips as she checked the pizza progress, turning her back as I feasted my eyes on the delicious vision of her behind.
"It sucks working on Halloween," she said, after telling me I'd have to wait another ten minutes. "I'd rather go out and get fucked up."
My mind reeled with responses to that opening, so many witty rejoinders assaulting me that I found myself unable to speak. That's my usual technique - smile and imagine all the things I might say. It's not an effective style, generally, although my apparently handsome visage tends to carry the amused silence better than we might expect.
"I love your costume," I imagined myself saying. The pizza girl blushed.
In most instances, the pizza business is too busy for me to manage more than a few words with her before another customer calls. I don't worry, for our demand for pizza is incessant. I will soon return for another brief tete-a-tete.
"You seem tense," she'd say. I love to imagine it will be easy.
"Was that your wife who called?" she asked, last time I picked up a pizza.
"Sure was." I'm not one to deny the obvious.
"She doesn't like picking up the pizzas?"
"I guess she doesn't," I replied, once more at a loss for anything witty to say.
"Or maybe you just like coming up here?"
"Yes, I do." I am a self-proclaimed master of dialogue, yet profoundly unable to actually say anything clever on the spot.
"Have a nice evening," she says.
"You seem tense," I might reply.
"I am so tense," she replies.
"You need a massage," I observe, confident of the fact that, in fact, everyone always needs a massage.
"Oh, I do," she replies, her dark eyes aflame.
"I have a table and very strong hands."
"Do you?"
"Give me an hour and I'll relieve some of that tension." My voice had dropped to a smouldering whisper. I am so seductive in my fantasies.
The pizza girl has very long black hair, down past her shoulder blades, silky straight and flirtatiously alive. I imagine brushing my hand through her hair, drifting down along the smooth curves of her satin latte skin. Perhaps twenty in age, giving or taking a few years, the pizza girl sounds coarse and abrupt with the rest of the Spanish-speaking pizza crew, but energetic and delicately warm with me. I know she thinks about me. I can hear it in the way her voice changes for me.
"That'll be eight sixty-five." As I hand her the ten, I'm watching her breasts move gently beneath the pizza t-shirt she always wears. Full, voluminous boobs jiggle slightly with the energy of her excitement. I blindly imagine the dark nipples beneath the cloth, catch vague hints of the hardness that develops under my gaze.
"I love your titties," I imagine myself saying, suddenly crude for the sake of acceleration.
"Come back at ten," she might say with a laugh. "I'll introduce you." My cock stirs, anxious to participate in the proposed soiree. Don't worry, big fella, we won't forget you.
As she takes the change from the cash register, her hand stretches forth. My hand reaches toward her and she lays the bills and silver into my palm, gracefully touching my hand with hers, lingering in the connection for as long as pizza decorum will permit. Our eyes meet. Her nipples harden perceptibly. I want to speak.
"Thank you," is all I can bring myself to say.
The pizza guys always seem to be watching, curious, amused or jealous. Since I don't speak their language, I have no clue. The pizza girl doesn't do anything overt to express her feelings for me, so I assume she doesn't want them to know anything. Maybe she does. I can only imagine.
"Don't tell me you weren't coming on to him, slut pizza girl."
"So what if I was. Mind your own business."
Suppose we meet for a cup of coffee, a dish of ice cream, a bottle of beer. She wanted to get "fucked up," so perhaps the beer is what she'd want. We might share a twig, put the daze in our lust-enflamed eyes. I brush the hair back from her face, caressing in a moment the soft flesh of her browned cheek. She kisses me. I enfold a breast in my left hand, squeezing the heavy flesh and teasing her thick nipple. She takes my rigid cock in hand, slips the stiffness between her sultry lips. I kneel behind her, hands grasping her young round ass, riding our hunger home.
"Do you want some Parmesan or peppers?" she asked.
"Sure."
Fumbling with the pizza box, she graces me with garnishments. I smile wantonly, wishing I could dare to ask her name.
"Have a nice evening," she said. I could feel her wish to be part of that imagined time.
"I will," I replied. "You, too. Beautiful."
~~~
The Pizza Girl
A Fantasy in Slices
by Lord Malinov
The way I used to love you, Baby
That's the way I hate you now
The blues typically use humor to defuse the negative tones. Exaggeration is one of the favorite tools.
I gave you a great big mansion
You said it was a shack
I gave you a three course dinner
You said thanks for the snack
I gave you a brand new Ford
You said you wanted a Cadillac
I gave you seven children
And now you want to give them back
I saw Stevie Ray Vaughn in concert shortly before he died. It was at Merriweather Post in Maryland, an outdoor venue like those commonly found everywhere nowadays. Stevie wasn't that popular in the East, so my friends and I sat on the lawn fairly close - far closer than we would normally venture. The party is always in the back. Hearing SRV play was a soul-rending experience, as you might imagine. I can't say I've ever witnessed a more powerful musician play. Damn, he rocked.
I saw lots of bands at MW. Elvis Costello. Steve Winwood was so popular that we had to sit past the crest of the hill for most of the show. The all-Traffic encore more than made up for the crowd.
It disturbs me that I can't listen to the Cure. I hope it doesn't last forever.
Malinov
someone left the cake out in the rain
and I don't think that I can take it
because it took so long to make it
and I'll never have that recipe again
Here is a case where someone took a powerful musical refrain and made up some silly-ass words. I have always lobbied for lyrical-licensing, but literary red tape is the worst kind.
The photos and film of Douglas MacArthur returning to the Phillipines (I shall return) were staged. So was the raising of the flag on Iwo Jima. Although WWII was the first war to really utilize the presence of the press, some of the players understood public relations very well.
One of the biggest problems (can I make that claim for a war fraught with problems?) of Vietnam was the television press created an immediate accountability the military was not used to dealing with. Similar to the prisoner harrassment in Iraq - atrocities have always been a part of war, but now the soldiers are held accountable for their crimes. It is paradoxical - a sense of right and wrong in the midst of slaughter - but this fair-play has become a structure of modern warfare.
Cell phone cameras are going to change the world significantly, and already have. There are cameras everywhere and they can instantaneously distribute their images world-wide. Smile.
Malinov
The long ride of yesterday finally came to a close as the kids went home and collapse pursued us into slumber.
My strength grows. As the systems were shutting down, the eX called in a bit of a panic about the x-ray situation. Without the slightest loss of composure, I steadied her emotional state and returned to life with out the intense ripples I have come to expect after our encounters. It doesn't sound like much, I suppose, but for me this is a major achievement. Huzzah!
Today, along with a bit of book shelf rearrangement, I will return to the pursuit of cash. I have about two million locked up in my patent applications. Brother, can you spare a dime?
Malinov
I'll be glad when you're dead, you rascal you
I'll be glad when you're dead, you rascal you
You came into my house and took my wife to bed
I'll be glad when you're dead, you rascal you
you asked my wife for some cabbage, you rascal you
you asked my wife for some cabbage, you rascal you
you asked my wife for some cabbage and you ate just like a savage
I'll be glad when you're dead, you rascal you
you messed with my wife, you rascal you
you messed with my wife, you rascal you
you messed with my wife and now I'm gonna take your life
I'll be glad when you're dead, you rascal you
I wonder what you got, you rascal you
I wonder what you got, you rascal you
I wonder what you got that makes my wife so hot
I'll be glad when you're dead, you rascal you
I was listening to my jazz collection and was comparing the Cab Calloway and Louis Armstrong versions of this song. What a message - not as strong as the Beatles - Run For Your Life - but pretty morbid nonetheless.
Back to your regularly scheduled stuff
Malinov
I am using the satellite photo of Katrina from NASA's photo of the day site as my wallpaper. What a monster. The amount of energy in that system is simply incredible, an order of magnitude that purely belongs to nature. Our insignificane is exposed - living at the whim of a planetary system, holding on dearly to our self-conscious presence as the earth rattles and shakes almost imperceptibly, bringing feast and famine with subtle changes.
Have I run on sufficiently?
It's funny that people feel the need to persuade us. I find it difficult enough to keep a grip on my own feelings, without trying to push anyone else into whatever place I think they should be. Getting the beam out of my eye is quite enough of a chore for me.
"The Structure of Magic" - a psychology-NLP text rather than a metaphysical tome - taught us that when people generalize, they are typically thinking of a specific example, believing that they are masking their emotional intensity by avoiding a specific statement. A shudder of emotional energy will often run through the speaker when asked to reveal the specific source data.
Greg is still struggling with his leg, so we'll wait to see if the X-rays reveal any real damage. In the meantime, he's in charge of documentary scheduling. We're in the artic right now, hanging with some polar bear cubs.
In a swirl of a miracle, my eX has become both reasonable and kind. Something changed - I can guess at reasons, but they are only guesses. The sigh of relief is deeply felt. Things appear to be headed positively. Knock on wood.
We knock on wood because wood nymphs are very mischevious, enjoying nothing more than a bit of irony. Speak in hubris in their company and the woodies will make certain that the fall is not long in coming. So we knock on wood to frighten the woodies away. When there is no wood around, there is no need to knock on wood, because there are no woodies if there is no wood.
Has anyone else ever noticed the mischevious quality of wood? My wood has always remained fairly humorless. Well, a little ironic, if the truth be told. Not nearly as sarcastic as glass. Glass really pisses me off.
Malinov
skating the thin ice of life
It is curious how little it takes to enrage some people. The slightest suggestion that touches a nerve sends people into paroxysms of fury. A word can be enough to unravel the most civilized of people. Interestingly, I have a full quiver of words.
Every death is a tragedy. So it goes.
I am taking my son to get his leg X-rayed this morning. He smacked his knee on the bus yesterday, causing the pin in his femur to agonize him. It is unlikely that there is anything wrong, but we can't be too careful.
Malinov
Bob Denver passed away.
I loved that man.
So it goes.
Malinov
The world is run by thugs. Big thugs, little thugs, authority is thuggery. Sad, yet inescapable. The meek probably wouldn't do much better if they were put in charge. In fact, chances are they'd become thugs. Power corrupts, they say. The also say that absolute power corrupts absolutely, but I disagree. Absolute power can't be corrupted, because it already has everything. I suspect that they mean an absolute that isn't quite that absolute, just mostly absolute. Absolute power would be God. Is our universe corrupted? Do stars take bribes?
I feel bad for everybody who suffers, but people who live on the Gulf coast should expect hurricanes. People who might be in the path of a storm should get out of the path. People who build in hurricane rich environments should build very strong buildings. By accepting the risk, you accept the consequences.
I spent half my spring and fall nights in the storm cellar hiding from tornadoes. The sound of a warning siren is almost comforting to me. Strange world.
Dallas has a minimal vulnerability to natural disaster, relative to most places. Drought. Locusts. Tornadoes. Refugees from natural disasters in other places. Better than living on the lip of a volcano, anyway.
I built a bookcase yesterday. I still have splinters, if proof of my hands-on participation is required. Not just any bookcase, but custom fit for the space. 72 feet of bookshelves - almost enough to hold the books stacked on the floor. Progress is happening.
I am feeling frustrated and I don't know why. Sometimes emotions are very curious creatures. Come out of that dark corner so that we can have a look at ya.
Malinov
Stress is an intellectual waste product that accumulates quickly in the body. Exercise and mental calmness are the best ways to get the think-shit out.
Malinov
Civilized life requires constant compromise. Everyone hates compromise, as it usually means no one gets what they want. The only solution is to reduce desire, but desire is frequently tied to motivation, so that the constant compromises wear down our morale.
Yet we cannot afford to allow our attitude to falter, not for long anyway. Depression is a short road to the Styx. Come sail away.
So compromise must compromise. Ah, the truths get deep here. Put on your wading attire.
I've been pondering Sisyphus lately, spending eternity pushing the rock up the hill until it rolls back down. Circles. Striving. Success.
There is always a trick. Everything is simple, once you know the tricks. Everything but the doing.
Malinov
in it deep
"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose."
Co-dependence - where I come from, the term is used to describe a person who helps to maintains their partner's dependence on a vice because the dependence on the vice maintains the partner in a state where the partner is also dependent on the person. I need my fix - you help me get my fix - so I need you - so you need my vice.
Hence, one person is dependent on the vice and the other person is co-dependent on the vice.
People are not co-dependent on each other. A person cannot be described as a "co-dependent." Used in that fashion, it sounds like a tax term. Can I claim you as a co-dependent?
Just a pet peeve. My eX used to toss the term around as a justification for everything she had done. Never mind that she was herself dependent. It was all clearly my fault. Jeez Louise. I would have got away with it too, if it weren't for you kids.
My belief in the mental health community is rather faded these days. I believe completely in what they do, but have discovered that many haven't a clue, or much of one. The willingness to toss around flip diagnosis and analysis is disturbing.
Cecil says there is no proper English term for the "bathroom" fixtures. All we have are polite and impolite euphimisms. We're apparently socially afraid to discuss our place of defecation and urination. Pardon me while I take a "rest."
Patents, money, c*nt. Get working.
Malinov
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