Please Proceed...

... or return, as your state my have it

to the blog http://novelink.blogspot.com

for the continuation of this disjointed diagram

which leads nowhere and everywhere

depending on your take

of infinity.

The assets of change change again; point and it's vanished.

When all the writing embodiments were exhausted, I left the room. It was well after three o’clock, and the sun was entirely blinding. People in low cute dresses pranced from shopping excursions, and straight men slouched with papers on corners, chomping cigars. The infrequency of everything armed me, with a certain vision I’d seldom seen before; could this be the reality I’d sought, under the incorporation of reckless travel and edgy circumstances?


“Everything is in negotiation, when you’re not married.” and the he was not referring to self-marriage, where life is the sound of sand falling to paper, but the satiety of water under the brink of the bridge. There was a large article on nuclear blasts of the past, and where the politics came from which demanded them, whereby the Peruvian’s thoughts truncated at late childhood which many cultures deem early adulthood, where he judged existence by the strength and quantity of cocaine, closely aligned with strong drink, music and sex. His stories were legendary; diverting the realm of blatant excess, to swoon the edge of the divine. In the restaurant we were loud and gregariously ordering noting its absence on the menu, but he spoke the reality of cunning culinary mime, and good waiters know what’s up. They cajoled the cooks to whip the stops out, and grill the heart meat slathered with the boss’ imported sauce ingredients. I thought they would throw us out of the place well before the question of coffee and desert. They told me he was over fifty, and had been a caddy for twenty five years. I was dumbfounded. Fifty~! Aghast. The dude had a demeanor of late twenties, gainfully seeking fun as employment. I thought of nobody in particular, and comparted this man to them, finding them lacking in many regards, as one might imagine, bisecting the crazy circumstances of smoking a wicked dose of bud, on the bench outside of the restaurant, my nonexistence verified. Instinct took over, leading us astray;
the rampage began.

The memorial hollow.

3
"I never thought of myself of speaking in coded paints
on an artist’s canvas."
Alethea Koan


Last week i went into a nursing home and was overcome as i walked into the large room where about 20 elderly people were sitting sunken into old springless chairs; and i looked into the eyes of death, death was in that room and i couldn't escape. lots of love to you alethea xxxx

The room was littered with empty, corner-store wine bottles and abandoned twists of tobacco; the paint was dingy and gave the impression of dead rodents filling the walls. Our eyelids were chemically razed in gallons of go-juice and my stomach was churning with smoke. Drawers of unidentifiable objects cluttered sparse counters with hidden confusion, as she peeled her close-fit leather to the floor. The pale incandescence shadowed her elegant curves to perfection—a Greek dream of a warrior-athlete woman, fluid with dance and yoga. Damn boy, you’re living large, I thought, stacks of hastily counted twenties laying crosswise like drying cordwood, just to the right of her shoes. Baby, you need to write a novel about your life. "Who would believe it?" Everyone, if they could see what I’m seeing. "That’s a funny thing to say. Why don’t you write it then?" Those souls who can see themselves are few. "Do you think you’d brag, or be humble in our book?" Humble stories are often boring, and bragged ones invoke fiction; the balance is white knuckles or suppressed adrenaline. How would you start the book?"


What do you really know about what occurred in the history of the world? Recent evidence suggests the Ming Empire sailed the coast from Kenya to China for three decades.
400 foot decks and nearly half that in beam with nine towering masts, even the swift strike ships were as long as the treasure ships were wide. Almost 28,000 men weighed 317 ships plied with goods, not to mention their million pounds of silk. One has to wonder how the technology of invention, which produced these vessels occurred. The trial and error which leads to scales of this magnitude, tends to be painfully slow. How many prototypes broke in two? How many floundered in storms? You can’t examine a moon rocket, without considering the earliest guided missiles. The giant ships posed junks as fireworks compare to a Saturn V. I slam the magazine down, and begin the book with an eyebrow pencil, on the steamy, greasy mirror.

1.
Everyone faces challenges of trust
They hope will radiate out
With the right answers lived.
2.
To flee from a ‘compromised’ venue
Does not address the ‘problem’.
3.
If the question is trust
then one must Trust
instead of disembarking from its channel.
4.
Where I promptly ended the eyeliner diatribe, and moved to a handy Italian deli wrapper surprising stiff with lambs’ cheese residue, I pushed against the wall.
" It is horrifying that we have to fight our own government to save the environment’, said Ansel Adams, famous photographer (1902-1984)
[(but the government is a collective of its people’s hidden motives/desires)]
I want to add, asking the very werewolf’s wail.

She savors a coolie as I unleash a torrent of work wound tight inside, unable to find its place in the world of cause and effect. Metaphors as compressed simile soared heights unimpeded with rhythmic flapping of wings, or hallowed rules of syntax. The smell of burning cocaine permeated the ghetto of our lodgings; the kinetic diction of falling thoughts crashed on rocks we erected below us, as concrete apostrophes lined themselves as firing squads, awaiting unlikely survivors. Her sharp eyes were softened, and her shape was so luxuriously alighted upon the couch, their sensual curves combined. I remembered her saying, you’re the master of your game; why don’t you ... and then she coughed, run with it? What game, I nailed the naively on the head. You know. Giving to others gives to self. Non self-worthiness isn’t a worthy gift to give from, etc. (the one word which ordains that which we’ll never encounter, etc.)

What whatshisname says.

(Continued from a post on the Blog : Signs)

Sleep deprivation aside, you know you’re in trouble as an artist
when you crash through an issue of National Geographic
reduced by heartfelt sobs. Jesus! When you’re raw,
almost everything candids frustration from turmoil inside.
The dyke carload parked at Lexington street
swarmed into the safe haven tavern where
the women harass the men in a matriarchal
reverse power struggle; I turn the pages, squinting over my
double whiskey conveniently provided
by the which-way cross dresser.

The apostrophe is the rhetorical addressing of an absent person, or personified thing. The ‘concrete’ is the shape of whatever’s discussed in the art form. Assonance is the repetition of vowels as alliterative to rhyme in verse. Stalwart stanchions of consonants and vowels whirl to concordance, confusing the ear assuming language isn’t interested in its own sound. Ah; the dangers of being smashed to pieces in the world are profound.

What do you need right now to be happy? What do you lack?

As if I wasted the life the dream foretold, I threw a fairy tale away, in search of something greater, as the life elapsing met the life lived, at a precarious staging ground. What is it you want? Security and good fortune? Or an idea of it, at what cost? What is foregone, and contiguous to envy, which breeds desire? If crying at a cheesy ad, about saving the world, signified something wrong, what would it be? You’re feeling something. My friend who I was in a brief, lesbian montage-a-twat with is rising from the table as I come in, depression seeping from her pores. What’s wrong? I have to go to work. I’m so exhausted, I can hardly parse the space between her mumbled worlds. Uh huh. Sorry to hear it. Yea. She slanders herself, as if I didn’t exist. More suffering makes us better beings, or so the Dali whatshisname says. Her suffering is the maintenance of security; a paycheck streaking in, though spotty, and infrequent, a schedule, though shaky, and women who want her. "My suffering is completely different." The satiety of the perception is the same breath, with different words. She rises to enter the rut she takes with conscious resignation; I heavily find the chair which deploys my state of stuckness; and together we see-saw our shared fulcrum dull bemoaning our self-imposed fates. It seems socially relevant to say this; no matter what era of history we inhabit the cause and effect [of the game] lead to each other, professing the great, and the base of the human condition in a single
penetrating glance.

Segue to perfections

At some point it became obvious
there
was no retreat from love
or infinity





She wanted to take my house mate down, because she hung up on her.



Deriving energy
from backlash



"Blinding" forces are highly energetic; for our own happiness is inseparable from others’ feelings of well-being, hate, or joy. Deriving [expansive] energy from envy, or in the midst of jealously-regarding other’s looks, or apparent fortune, is a marital art. Greed is a magnet we enforce with dissatisfaction; transmitting suffering of others, to others, vibrated by the self, makes us vehicles of an energy we’re blinking to miss, thus effectively, we’re shaped by our chosen ingredients conscious perception defines. Transmuting suffering to useable healing energy begins and ends in self awareness. All forces are waiting to be exposed to exploit themselves, into whatever we desire. The inside clues define the clauses of the ‘blinding’ forces we align to embody our enemies.

Despair is a battery we’re helpless to tap; the energy question is yesterdays’ die
we’re now cornered to live.

The new martial arts is
a slip knot. It finds itself around
the shirt collar protecting our necks.

She looks like the sky suns ignite, as they die.

The mystery of his face became a matter I touched on, the rest of the day. The members of the line who’d watched it were now a club, transmitting ruminations though time and space. The girl was Asian, and didn’t’ speak English well; her skin was pretty to perfect; I imagined airbrushes for lesser models of human being. I looked at the neighbor who lived one floor below my building, one building over, who I noticed at the table by the window. The mom who’d slept with a hundred and fifty seven men, much as any man would with pride, cite the number he’d laid, winked at me. We shared a stoned evening on the roof, when the pressure of parenthood threatened to crack her, and show and tell, she poured out her life. Don’t get the wrong idea, she said. About what? I’m thrilled you’re who you are, and you’re sharing it. I’m blessed; look how amazing the moon is. Don’t tell _______ I was here, she said. He’d never understand. But he probably would. Nobody is a wall, without any cracks. We shared that small human moment, and smiled over it, kindly. Zits and all—I laugh about it, whenever we catch yesterday
in a glance now.
In a sleepless night she came back to hem the morning in solitude;
a child screamed in the early distance. I’d suffered the demons of relationships
and all the sorrow and suffering they breed; an hour of sleep, the work day looming—
I wonder why. There I was in the café line, where were you last night? What needs to be hidden?
Philosophical rants destroy loves angels grandstand; I need to know ... I am a free individual, and the storms of the world
can veer to destroy or rebuild me. The essential mist
of no eyes seeing your perch, as the waterfall smashes the rock
it will pulverize; it’s your prerogative to be borrowed by the universe
without knowing
why.

Cross-Referencing Mainstream SOc(i)al[led] Mores

Note: this non-sequitur post is preceeded by

all subsequently-dated posts in the blog

http://novelink.blogspot.com

which you can reach via the

Brock Bio Link

2.
[Awash in thought,]
[I met Carlos Santana at a crosswalk.
You’ll never know, I said. But thanks.]
[It probably wasn’t him.]


But who knows. It’s always possible the record covers speak the acute, rather than the photo-real. Like three weeks of nights and days compressed into two seconds, one recognized boldtoinsight destroys the mundane. Exhausted thoughts push Sisyphus burdens up vertical histories of their eventual demise, ‘blissfully’ ignorant of their ends. I read that Sebastiao Salgado is ‘fearlessly political’, which I appraise through appreciation of his art as bullshit, as the only thing he fears to lose in the shallow statement is his popularity, with which he raises the ante of his notoriety.

Fearlessly political is an internal framework the existing powers can not demonstrate, to demolish. What receives highlight, opens itself to admonishment; the dance of birth and union seeks terms with its own destruction. He was a bank robber from New Bern North Carolina who entertained a penchant for whippets, and ran three businesses through false fronts of ex-girlfriends with a penchant for alcohol. The party raged with eclectic masters of nothing and lovers of all; magnums of cold sake filled the vintage claw foot tub, sweating and brimming in ice, with sashimi cuts bracing square plates laid for the occasion, awaiting dollops of rice. The low end high definition elongated aspect TV played slow motion female heroine martial arts movies megaphoning heights and drops to the woefully uninitiated. At some point, waiting for a poor unfortunate, I decided puking in the bathroom’s like cutting (and snorting) coke lines ... crossing our legs, we took wagers of what did it—the really not quite fresh raw fish, the stress, or the sickly sweet mango puree which hid the sake’s octane. At some point I remember a lot of screaming.

Distressingly barefoot on glass-strew Oakland sidewalks, I played back the
movie... how each side propagates what the other will slip upon
blowing chunks of what you can’t imagine to make real.
Then, there was open-hearted Anne, a gem in her own
regard, whose desire to please and heal waited
on the American initiative to secure
a later usefulness. She angelically
held the birthday girl
as she vomited out
another year.

AS a RULE
I don’t drive drunk.
Not cars, anyway. But
there are always special considerations.
That morning, my night owl friend called
I thought : She hasn’t been to bed yet. It’s late
rather than early. But no. I had a dream you died
on your bicycle. Hit by a car. So thinking out of the box,
I diced in reverse. I became part of the problem I like to avoid.
Once a month on average, I dust off the car I possess
just for occasions as this. Naturally, it is out of gas. No wonder
I never drive it—can’t be bothered to dump a few in the tank? That’s
pretty pathetic. Anyway, I must say, a warm night with the windows down,
tunes basting, brain sporting a healthy glow in wine, sun roof open ... it’s dangerously good.
That feeling, you know? Immortality. Fun. Devil may care. It’s a from and to, which no longer matter. Everyone on the road, seems to be flying, and gleeful ... why is that? Is everyone drunk? We’re waving, it’s a parade ... the Bay bridge is high above the icebergs fools like us, are melting. To think : I almost took the evening, to work?! Utter lunacy. Towards what satisfaction? Creating more work for myself.? IT’s a strange day of impossible happenings; I wondered at thousands of plastic picnic knives in multitudes of colors, scattered across the sidewalk. Axed my brimming thoughts to bits ... I sort of looked, and tried not to look at it, waking and dreaming in one glance.

A girl is squeezing her boyfriend’s zits in the Sunday morning café line,
and my stomach churns as he grimaces. It’s the kind of thing surveillance cameras
over-again. I’m fascinated and repulsed, as she doubles her efforts to oust his
deeply entrenched blackheads ... leaning forward to check the spoils, as she deftly transfers the oily refugee to her fingernail. Yuck. Those things inhabit our faces? IT was not a cheering thought, before coffee, and after a lot of sake.

The mystery of his face became a matter I touched on, the rest of the day. The members of the line who’d watched it were now a club, transmitting ruminations though time and space. The girl was Asian, and didn’t’ speak English well; her skin was pretty to perfect; I imagined airbrushes for lesser models of human being.