I feel that I am brilliant or utterly stupid regarding the following: Emotions.
What the hell@#$%^&*(? What are they for? God in his infinite wisdom gave us these things, these "feelings." What was he thinking?
Take anger. Everybody's always talking about how it's ok to feel it, but you gotta be careful about acting on it. In other words, don't act on it. Plan first. Revenge or assassination, which has 2 asses in it. Seriously though, anger. When is this a desireable thing? Ok it's good that we were pissed at King George and his minions, 'cause without that anger we wouldn't have had The Greatest Nation on Earth. Greece.
Sorry, I can't get serious about anger. It's a total waste of time. And it hurts. And if you say well it teaches you lessons, surely I could learn them without the pain of anger. Or fear. Or desire. Or disorientation/dissociation. Or love.
Is love even a feeling? I loved that chocolate ice cream the other night. But that love wasn't a feeling, was it? It just was pleasure. Pleasure. Now there's a feeling I could get into. But if I had the choice, I'd go Borg as it were. The pleasure is just not worth the pain, anger, fear, rage, envy, frustration, exhaustion, psychedelic god-knowledge.
Some of these are feelings right?
You feel me?
I'm for flatline. And I don't care if nothing gets accomplished. Beethoven's 1st is his best anyway. And so was Willis Alan Ramsey's. And St. Francis and St. Augustine and Talmudic scholars and Rumi were all way smarter than anybody living today.
And I just don't picture any of them feeling at all. Except Willis of course. 'Cause I know him.
If this line of thought bothers you, I am sorry. But not remorseful.
There's a word for this version of me. That word is sociopath. But it is not a word often if ever applied to me. Many people call me friend, good guy, christian man, honest, hard-working, reliable. Some idiots call me brilliant, but they're just joshing.
Actually I am a sociopath. And I am skipping down a so-so path. And I will get to the end.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Saturday, December 22, 2007
change
Change is hard, espcially if there are coins involved. Paper money, less hard. But there may be paper cuts if the money is crisp enough and if you are an idiot.
What do you call someone who chooses the evening of the 21st of December to say "I'm about to hire a hit on you." ?
Easy. You call that person Wife.
Some pleasure can and will be derived from this situation, but it will have nothing to do with the Rolling Stones tune "Moving On," which, though vintage Stones, sucks. There will certainly be lots of learning. And I may take on some of the characteristics of that albino guy in the Da Vinci Code. You know, he was profoundly religious. And he self flagellated. Rock. Talk about Hard!
I was writing nice poems there for a couple of days.
Here's my Christmas poem:
A FINGER IN THE UPDIKE
The old Polish dentist
His shoulders hunched over
Suspecting foul play,
But wrong Dr. K, the play
Was fair and sweet between
Your daughter and me.
We didn’t have sex til New York
And the subway was dirty too.
I think of my father
Laying in supplies for the winter,
I think it was colder and folks hibernated.
Bernie drank a lot, the way I’ve told it.
Whether or not an alcoholic.
But I loved those trips to the State Store
With the Pennsylvania shield on the door
The keystone state
And if you need proof, well that’s just the
Alcohol content
Times 2.
Not divided by 2, boy.
As it often was.
He drank with a friend of an evening,
Discussed Freud, Marx, China, and possibly,
When I was not in the room,
Women.
Or homosexuality.
By age 23 I knew more about sex than he did.
He held forth:
"Sex is highly over-rated."
Bernie was not from Shillington (Updike’s town), but close.
Reading.
And he was a reader and a
“Writer of letters.”
Sometimes he typed, more often wrote by hand,
A neat blockish alphabet.
Point was,
He never wrote a book,
Though he seemed to want to.
A man with potential for loneliness, but no follow-through.
His great consolation and joy,
Those trips to the State Store
From which we emerged into the cold December air
With 2 or even
3 boxes of Canadian Club blended whiskey, Gilbey’s gin
and vodka.
And he and I were both happy
Laying in those supplies.
What do you call someone who chooses the evening of the 21st of December to say "I'm about to hire a hit on you." ?
Easy. You call that person Wife.
Some pleasure can and will be derived from this situation, but it will have nothing to do with the Rolling Stones tune "Moving On," which, though vintage Stones, sucks. There will certainly be lots of learning. And I may take on some of the characteristics of that albino guy in the Da Vinci Code. You know, he was profoundly religious. And he self flagellated. Rock. Talk about Hard!
I was writing nice poems there for a couple of days.
Here's my Christmas poem:
A FINGER IN THE UPDIKE
The old Polish dentist
His shoulders hunched over
Suspecting foul play,
But wrong Dr. K, the play
Was fair and sweet between
Your daughter and me.
We didn’t have sex til New York
And the subway was dirty too.
I think of my father
Laying in supplies for the winter,
I think it was colder and folks hibernated.
Bernie drank a lot, the way I’ve told it.
Whether or not an alcoholic.
But I loved those trips to the State Store
With the Pennsylvania shield on the door
The keystone state
And if you need proof, well that’s just the
Alcohol content
Times 2.
Not divided by 2, boy.
As it often was.
He drank with a friend of an evening,
Discussed Freud, Marx, China, and possibly,
When I was not in the room,
Women.
Or homosexuality.
By age 23 I knew more about sex than he did.
He held forth:
"Sex is highly over-rated."
Bernie was not from Shillington (Updike’s town), but close.
Reading.
And he was a reader and a
“Writer of letters.”
Sometimes he typed, more often wrote by hand,
A neat blockish alphabet.
Point was,
He never wrote a book,
Though he seemed to want to.
A man with potential for loneliness, but no follow-through.
His great consolation and joy,
Those trips to the State Store
From which we emerged into the cold December air
With 2 or even
3 boxes of Canadian Club blended whiskey, Gilbey’s gin
and vodka.
And he and I were both happy
Laying in those supplies.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Ring
ring.........brrring.........ring............
ok fine, don't answer that -- but since caller ID is ubiquitous now you'll likely call back.
see this ring? iz round!
I took my wedding ring off earlier today, but I couldn't keep my eye on it continuously, and I checked later and there it was back on my ring finger. Damn! Little bugger. My thought is to have some minor surgery done to my tongue and have it implanted there. That way it would be less obvious that I am married. You see.
The government will always know though. They have my tax return. And they pass it around and read it over and over for laughs. It's a riot. Our company CPA told me it was my CPA's job to monitor the situa quarterly and determine amounts due.
I told her "You're talkin to him," and she said "I don't want to hear about that." Thing is (you diligent revenuer you), I'm always completely candid, forthright, and honest in regard to federal tax owed. And I pay. Seriously though, off the record, I suspect TurboTax is causing me to overpay. Hence her comment ?
And now, I've got something for you.....an opera you can't refuse. Rigoletto maybe.
Better yet something from Wagner's Ring trilogy. The Frying Dutch Oven.
Next year I plan to write some anthemic music for jews harp and melodica. Reminiscent of the 1812 overture played by recorders and pop guns (doing the cannon part). And some dance music with no beat whatsoever. And some retro feelgood music played on Uzbeki horns (the old ones that only play 3 different notes, unless you're a virtuoso and can hit that 4th high one.)
Tomorrow....the story of the human feces in the back yard aka "Does Bear roll in shit in the woods?" (has a nice ring to it)
ok fine, don't answer that -- but since caller ID is ubiquitous now you'll likely call back.
see this ring? iz round!
I took my wedding ring off earlier today, but I couldn't keep my eye on it continuously, and I checked later and there it was back on my ring finger. Damn! Little bugger. My thought is to have some minor surgery done to my tongue and have it implanted there. That way it would be less obvious that I am married. You see.
The government will always know though. They have my tax return. And they pass it around and read it over and over for laughs. It's a riot. Our company CPA told me it was my CPA's job to monitor the situa quarterly and determine amounts due.
I told her "You're talkin to him," and she said "I don't want to hear about that." Thing is (you diligent revenuer you), I'm always completely candid, forthright, and honest in regard to federal tax owed. And I pay. Seriously though, off the record, I suspect TurboTax is causing me to overpay. Hence her comment ?
And now, I've got something for you.....an opera you can't refuse. Rigoletto maybe.
Better yet something from Wagner's Ring trilogy. The Frying Dutch Oven.
Next year I plan to write some anthemic music for jews harp and melodica. Reminiscent of the 1812 overture played by recorders and pop guns (doing the cannon part). And some dance music with no beat whatsoever. And some retro feelgood music played on Uzbeki horns (the old ones that only play 3 different notes, unless you're a virtuoso and can hit that 4th high one.)
Tomorrow....the story of the human feces in the back yard aka "Does Bear roll in shit in the woods?" (has a nice ring to it)
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