The King of Farts

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“If the women do not stop their slander, I shall lay an information against them!”

Oh, lordy me.

I have a plenitude of random-ass bits of ephemera and information gathered around me.  Part of this is the secret exploration I have embarked upon, part of it is just random fancy, and part of it is old times done come again.  Auld Lang Syne right here in my bedroom.  Old stories that are keen to be told in full and are clamouring for my fingertips to stroke upon them.  I aim to get there.  I aim to have some mental focus and not this goddamned fuzz all the time that comes from churning want in the shallow waters.  Fuzz and foam and short-lived bubbles.

I could use some short-lived bubbly down my throat and some fuzz to scrape my cheek.  Life has stood up and laughed right in my face.  My worry, my hope, my will, it took up and patted it all together and worked it over like a piece of cud before it just started laughing until it got red in the face and announced it had to go for a lie-down before chucking it all in the nearest spittoon.

Other facts: oculizers push on your eye to sort out the bad pressure, men of ill reputation and cruel intent will find their comeuppance sooner or later, there are tiny islands that you and I have never heard of where people live quite happily absent the knowledge of us and they harvest lobster and shelter birds and wreck ships and if they hope to escape, they are, I think, unaware that their little land is the destination that so many of us think of when we hope to leave the exhaustion of modern life behind, and what is seemingly unendurable, passes.  A stone or a ship or an hour of discomfort, it passes.

We are learning constantly and rapaciously.  This is the vigorous course we hope to remain upon.  Thinking, sunken into story and possibility and best of all, following the little threads that our own curiosity pulls out of the sweater of the universe.  Spin, spin, spin, until we have what we need to make a new one.  Less lumpy this time, and fewer puff balls to demarcate the poodles on your tits.

I can honestly say that in banality, I find, stress lives.  When we dance on the heads of pins, edges of blades, tips of our toes, that’s when focus takes over and there isn’t room for thinking up ways to torment ourselves with failure.  Back into the double boiler, at least for a few more days, and then we can enjoy the wild, crazy expanse that is the curious mind.  Filled with books and mysteries and projects and even, just enough banality to make us willing to accomplish the keeping of a body.  Food, drink, dance, darts, all things afternoonified.  I don’t care if it’s a day or a week, we’re going to get our shoulders lowered and our neck raised up like a goddamned swan.

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