Denominative integers willingly defy the overall forcefulness by which we enter life, that succulent foe of knowing all things on a benevolent basis–at least from our pseudointellectual standpoint here on earth. We monkeys, swept from trees to town squares in a seemingly-overnight fashion, gave nobody any time to appropriately enter our problematic pituitary case into the annals of the intergalactic community. Our brash attempt to circumvent the necessary bureaucratic process–filling out the appropriate paperwork, having it notarized, sending it to local legislators and mailing one of 13 official public access stations for broadcast–demonstrates the jury-rigging, bootstrapping mentality that may have endeared us to our own species, yet alienates everybody else. When you apply simple rules to us, we seem to be inclined toward throwing tantrums. You know as well as I that our current behavior won’t fly with the more-evolved entities out there. If conducted efficiently, the contact broadcast process would be complete within a business week. So now, the more time we waste without adhering to measured standards, the more likely we are to fall altogether as a global community. Our “home” planet will slough us off before too long, tired of the countless indignities suffered at the hands of fools.
Category: Observation
Malady
The malady of present day: succumbing to the “Us vs. Them” mentality being thrust upon us from all angles, when we ought to know damn well that we’re all a product of the same origin, swirling around inside the same cosmic whole. In weaker moments I find myself doing nothing but comparing myself to the achievements/accolades of others and wondering why I’m “inferior”, even though that term is a perfect indicator of the steady regimen that the xenophobia-fabricating beancounters have been peddling for millennia. And to what end? Special treatment, of course. It may have started with something as simple as demonstrating specialized value for an extra piece of bread in daily rations, and its most recent manifestation comes as the president of the United States. Oh, what a trepidatious path we’ve been suckered into following.
His Loss
She came on through, a skirted blanket with banquet stains galore and more than her fair share of Ogden memorabilia to her name.
It would pain her to see the overworld mantra being abused so unabashedly, “be your own friend” repeated ad infinitum by a guy who really doesn’t understand “that whole mantra thing,” (his words), aside from what he deems most obvious: short phrases that are fun to mutter over and over again. He’ll be the first to tell you that he’s more a fan of the exercise’s soothing qualities than anything else; doesn’t see how he could possibly transcend the mortal coil and commune with the force that led him to occupy that particular sentient meat vessel in the first place.
Oh well, his loss.
Hi-Fi
Less-than-adventurous timebending intricacies (transcending our 3D simian roots) twiddle thumbs like the activity could possibly go out of style, were it not for these beings’ innate knowledge that thumb twiddling is the #1 commonality between all of the highest orders of primates (at least throughout all natural phases of thumb functionality as they occur along their respective evolutionary arcs).
All of this just goes to show that you shouldn’t leave an enthusiastic philosopher with nothing but the clothes on their back and a few days to kill. Without the assistance of distracting stimuli, they will inevitably be enveloped in an endless cycle of boredom and batty hypotheses, recklessly abandoning the true reason why they’ve been put here: figuring out how to better configure a universal remote for Todd’s new hi-fi setup. It’s been a real bitch and a half.
Perfectly Honest
The very notion of blending a stereotypical extra-helping son-of-a-gun with a monkey’s uncle, if disseminated properly, should just about rehydrate the masses with the piss and vinegar they’ve been sorely lacking in this age of interpretive incontinence (one would think). There’s really no excuse at this point to bank on any other outcome, if we’re to be perfectly honest with one another.
Sure, there are plenty of other theoretical outcomes, but when practicality comes knocking at the door, the ensuing scramble for pragmatism will inevitably result in the mating call of the perpetual compromiser: “let’s just call it a day, shall we? It’s not as though anyone else is really doing much to stall this circus of mottled indiscretions anyway.” Okay, so maybe that’s a bit too contrived to be the universally-accepted mating call, but you get the picture.
Each generation faces the ever-present tumult of failure-studded progress; the wisest among us will inevitably batten down the hatches and continue practicing their craft, content to further their own life’s work while the turbulence around them blows itself out.
This Here
Ordinary sanctions wouldn’t apply to the effervescent pigeon toes for too much longer, scrutinizing the woes of foreverpenguins—adept at taking their time when you just want to get a movin’ to the promised land (or at least the land referenced in books of yore). What really must happen is a distancing from tyrants and despots who normally would have built their empires upon the sweat equity of the under-the-tablers brought around from the time of the Immeasurable Reckoning.
The new standard—a babe in the woods—must rear itself without even a kindly wolf or flyover pigeon at its disposal! While certainly not necessary in this predicament, self-sabotage becomes more likely with each passing day as doubt does its dubious duty of doling out a deluge of doldrums, waiting to be conquered through a steady, dedicated hand (though it knows the chances are quite slim in this here forest).
Bully for Them
The very first horse-drawn carriage must have come as a shock to the ants taking their time crossing the land that at one point had never been designated specifically for human travel–and subsequent travails.
Now the unattached heel of a wayward boot has come across my plane of vision, and all of a sudden, horse-drawn carriages and ant opinions have no bearing over my perception as a red-blooded artist keen on taking over the world several well-placed poems at a time.
A long-suffering server has come to understand–a solid number of years ago, mind you–that people have no rhyme or reason when it comes to leaving their shit behind at a bar (even if they haven’t imbibed enough to lose their conception of personal property and the detriment of ignoring the objects directly surrounding them). Perhaps that very basic principle just isn’t present in their conscious minds in the same way as the long-suffering server–we’ll call him Frank.
Perhaps, just perhaps, they’ve transcended the idea of personal property entirely, to the point where everything is everything and nothing, and a backpack or purse or boot heel are inconsequential in the grand scheme of their lives. And bully for them.
WHARVED 