Lingering Loopholes in Billy Blogspot's Insanity Defense

Call me Will, I shall. Call my tail lamentable, the rest of me unforgivable. Call me, but only if you're a beautiful, extremely tolerant female with little or no short-term memory, and then only if you don't particularly care about passive smoke damage, nor share any affinity with popular trends aimed at demonizing cigarette smokers and/or the tobacco industry.
Sure, they've lied consistenly for 50 years, traded suffering and death on the open market, but they also provide a valuable service. I.E. A relaxing, albeit self-destructive, way to absorb excess time. Should not be underestimated, this filling in the loose intervals of unknown and therefore terrorizing temporal units. Particularly for those of us capable of so-called 'unspeakable acts' when faced with time on our hands. Time to tension to pain to blood, on our hands.
Not that all smokers are potential murderers.
Not that all politicians are self-serving motherfuckers
Not that all passive-aggressives are so anally retentive that calling them assholes is taken as a compliment, however off-handed.

Getting back to my own troubles.

"There is, to date, no archeological evidence to support this."

I prefer women who speak more than one language, because I only speak one-half a language.
Experts in multiple fields discount this, claiming it to be a logical impossibility, owing to the 'fact' that there is no way to tell where one-half a language ends and the other half begins, since words tend to function in multi-dimensional ways, and are epistemologically variable, yet, at the same time, co-extensively significant.
Imagine a guy saying such a thing to you and not wanting to murder him?
I prefer a woman delivering the bad news on my misreadings on the nature of the universe, on the way things do and do not work out.
Women are much less strident than men
Women have no penises in the shape of axes to grind, for one thing. Their envy may be perpendicular in nature, but their compassion runs latitudinally, often across major fault lines and almost always directly through major shopping complexes, it's true, but their embrace has a global feel to it.
As if Mother Earth herself was squeezing the life from me.
As if death were as terrible as it's cracked up to be.
As if a life can ever be completely wasted.
As if.

May I smoke?
As long as you understand that the best smoke will be your last.
I can live with that.


"One day, China will be the world's Number One Superpower."

Hey, I can hardly wait. Meanwhile, a pack of butts in the UK costs about as much as the average Chinese makes in a month.

You should switch to a Chinese brand, which cost only one US penny a pack and will kill you quick.

Hard to argue with the Chinese, who are taking over THE FUCKING WORLD!

"We eat, drink and defecate, all in the same room."

Cool! Ever do all three at the same time?

Sorry! It's not that I despise the Chinese, just that I never want to be one. If I'm reborn as a Chinese, I will give up cigarettes and start smoking opium. I will live in Shanghai, wear a grey uniform and seduce disgruntled housewives who are considering plastic surgery. Unless I'm reborn as a Chinese woman, in which case I will sleep with low-level functionaries, write fiction and become a heroin addict.

"Come on, we want some underwear!"

Don't get me started. On the whole underwear issue.


Today, I stood at the window, smoking, watching first the fog dissipate, then the sun come out, then a sudden shower, then the mountains to the west, then the neighbors, then some guy on the street who could barely walk, then a bird, then it got windy, then it got cold, then I felt suddenly that I was having a seizure, then I sneezed, then the dog jumped on me, then I lit another cigarette. Then it was 4 hours later. And I thought to myself. Hey, you're finally learning how to manage time.

I wrote a poem about it.

My mind went dead
For a moment, at the window
So I smoked instead
I saw a bird take a turd
I recalled something said by an imbecile
That I'd overheard
I dreamed I was a Chinese, shopping for underwear
Why not? I can afford it
I'm a Capitalist Communist who doesn't give a shit
Freedom, it turns out, equals what we can afford to buy
I'm so happy about this
I could
Die

Linguistic Liabilities

Of words, reckoned and the opposite, of the blather and blitz of the process
Whereby strings of things and signs and premonitions fill the dullness of
The void, and time is spread like butter upon the thin wafer of a life, both spoken and
Not...So much as it was the crash and the blast of the solid senses turned to
Rubble and dust like
A Florida hurricane, a Kansas tornado, the bizarre and ritualistic travesties performed on
The Texas panhandle
Only in this case the wind was a frozen hammer
Slamming into skulls with the force of a hundred rampaging horses
A wind with teeth and razor blade sideburns
What it couldn't crush it chewed to pieces our
Dreams
Of living above the Arctic circle
Playing guitar in perpetual night
With frostbitten fingers and noses that ran recklessly with the blood
Of our best intentions.

Lucky the man with fake hair was in charge
He stood his ground, had tools and a conceptual scheme
Years of battling the elements and being careful about his appearance
Had taught him that permanance is an illusion
That entropy rules, money talks and enlightenment is for weaklings who have lost the ability
Required to interact with the physical world

"Poor bugger that I am, I can't contract my heart enough to burst the veins.
I would like to suffocate with grief but instead I give birth to a rock."

And when it grows to the size of a mountain
We climb it with the passion of naive monsters
(of the slanty-eyed variety)
Aye, Aye, take it to the limit, to the grave and beyond
The mumbo jumbo words from
Those of us who were not quite ourselves
On the steep slopes, above the din of the end of the world
Below, the mendicants and their mystic cousins pay homage
To the palaver of our frozen lips, the primitive tunes we hum to
The growling gaiety we summon in the face of almost certain
Death
Digresses to the wizened ones, their human offspring and all their unreliable theories
Of the slack-jawed professors demanding textual credibility, certainty in the face of unreliable
Disaster
Around illegal fires, retelling the tale of Baba the Giant
Avuncular as an avalanche, disoriented as a Druid in downtown Los Angeles
Through sleepy eyes he misreads the world
Mumbles prayers through porous stone
And in his ears grow unexplored forests

Yes, she said afterwards
Yes, yes!
It's no secret we kissed, propped on a rock as smooth as a tomb
HER HIPS CONTOURED IN A CURVE ALMOST COSMOLOGICAL
Near ideal a port for my rocky past, much less a future
But she balked at lying down in the mulch and moss in the shadows of one million trees
Trees ain't always trees, she whispered
Sometimes they is monsters that eats your eyes
Girl aren't too bright, I thought to myself, but she does got a imagination

"...but I much prefer her missnomer in maidenly golden lasslike gladsome wenchful flowery girlish beautycapes."

Or so I surmised, though no bones were made about not blurting it out
Not so much the failure of language as a thing happening before the invention of
Or was it just so fresh and new that nothing so far memorized could fathom
A perfect thing to say to ensure a perfect outcome whose to say
Perfectly not speaking, none of this should even be happening
Or was it ever

Sing us a song, then, she says
Sounding more like an Australian than I care to comment
Eye wills, I tell her, but it'll cost another kiss
Who died and made you Saint Valentine's day, she wants to know
It'll keep the rocks at bay
So you say, but define bay
(Can she even guess how long I've waited to be asked precisely this question)
A deep and prolonged howl, as of a hound on the scent
Now yours is scaring me
Besides, it's good for the health
Terror, I'll bet
Aye! And a kiss for luck
Define luck
The opposite of this
More like a kiss
In so many words
But life is simpler than
Weren't it?

Desperate Lies Told By Latvian Lovers

Love happened and everyone got the wrong idea
Love was a substance that smelled okay
Love invaded our privacy and we complained
Love forced us to make concessions, after which we got angry
God is love, they say
Love is an illusion
Or a projection
Or a strategy
Or possibly a misnomer

Say it!
I love you.
Really? what does it mean?
What do you mean what does it mean?
I mean what does it mean to you?
It means everything to me, and also nothing.
So to you, love is nothing.
Yes, but in the best possible sense.
In other words, you want to have sex.
Only because I love you.

Love in Latvia, apparently, runs rampant
Making love is as common as making tea
Making money is next to impossible
Hence very few Latvians can afford to pay for love
But then there is no need
Everyone in Latvia loves everybody else
Latvian girls learn the intricacies of love in school
Latvian boys learn how to make tea, as well as Baltic bath salts

In Latvia, all life is lateral in nature
Which means that all interstices when accumulated in imaginary space result in a vector whose sum is zero
Which is another way of saying that everything in Latvia is both very familiar and completely alien
Love minus zero
Walking around is not safe, as every street leads to a kind of madness
In the style of a persistently recurring daydream
Often in the form of love
Followed inevitably by tea

And it's certainly true that a cup of tea can help keep the demons at bay.
A cup in the morning and it's almost possible to tolerate the waking state
Yes, but for how many fucking hours?
Fortunately, there is love
And rumors of Latvian gypsies who, in the act of love, can fortell the future
Enabling dead men to smile and go on with the rest of lives
As if none of this had ever happened.

Care for a cup of tea?
I daren't.
A kiss, then?
I can't promise anything.
At least promise me that you'll finish your tea.
In bed? With a monster? You expect me to sip tea as if we were in Surrey, in the spring, with
a spot of nostalgia in my Nordic skull to ease the pain? As if this thing between us has a future?

As if you had a future.
You're saying I don't?
Perhaps all I'm saying is that your concept of time is faulty.
Which, for a Latvian harlot, is saying a lot.
I'm only telling you what you don't want to hear.
If we were in Japan, we would have already missed the train.
There will be others.
Maybe in your bizarre world. Not in mine.
I love you when you talk like this.
Please don't say that.
Why not?
If I tell you, will you stop loving me?
You might as well ask the wind to stop blowing.
Which I frequently do, owing to the fact that I hate the wind
You're a man without a soul, but at least that's not your worst quality


It is probably a mistake to confuse the lovers we've had with the lost love we find it advantageous to pretend to have suffered. Love, let us be frank, was rarely if ever the goal.
Besides, love is never lost. It is merely repositioned to become a more effective tool in the complex arrangements we compulsively make in order to avoid the real issue.
Whatever that may be?
Still, where is the deception?
All of this is nothing more than the life of commerce among the maniacs, the fictive transliterastions of self-absorbed insomniacs, the non-linear accusations of phantom poets.
So go ahead, lie if you must, but, for god's sake, do it well!

Key to the Highway

A lot going on it seems, but being able to pay attention to it is another matter.
Is it because so much of what is apparently going on makes you wish nothing was going on?
Or should we take the mystical point of view: Nothing ever really happens. It's only the illusion of things going on.
Which is the beauty of mysticism. Assume the mystical viewpoint and you never again have to worry about what may or may not be going on.
Or is this simply dressed-down narcissism?
The only things going on are the things I care about.
Forget the fact that I no longer care about anything.
Either way, it's all in our heads.
If only our memories weren't shot.
We might be able to recall what this means.

My Life As A Neutrino.
The fascination with this invisible, omnipresent particle remains at fever pitch.
This from a particle physicist, who assures us that the only interesting things going on cannot be seen.
A self-serving point of view, to be sure, but nonetheless compelling.
Anything materialized into physical form is but a dim, shadowy insinuation of the energy that made it possible.
Were we able to visualize the electro-chemical energy of a single human thought, we would be instantly rendered pleasantly insane, turned into the sort of raving mystics for whom a fart is as satisfying as a work of art. Sometimes more so.
Hold up an index finger for one second, indoors or out. One hundred million neutrinos have just passed through it. On the way to where, one wonders? Imagine a hundred million Americans descending at once upon a Wal-Mart, then passing through it so fast that no one has a chance to shop. Would the media construe it as a disaster of unknown magnitude, or some sort of avant garde art project?
If we could see this ongoing barrage of neutrinos, every day would look like the worst blizzard imaginable. Forget the girls of the Yuki Guni, the Akita Bijin in her sexy Arctic parker. We'd all be walking around with seeing-eye dogs.
But very little accumulation. Virtually no shoveling.

The Year of the Rooster.
Also known as the Year of the Widow.
No suprise that Chinese men are somewhat disinclined to comtemplate marriage for the next 12 months.
For those men already married, the Chinese government suggests keeping the fingers crossed and buying cheap, Chinese knock-offs at Wal-Mart.
Apropos of nothing in particular, an official Chinese news release stated:
"In China, where the population virtually outnumbers neutrinos, we do not fear the virus of democratic propoganda
spewed forth in invisible, revisionist waves from the West. However, like our decadent, Western counterparts, we do fear our wives. The Year of the Rooster is no laughing matter."

When the rooster crows at the break of dawn,
Look out your window baby and I'll be gone
You're the reason I'm traveling on
But don't think twice, it's all right


Recent Comments.
Moving, articulate and LONG.
Is it a cause for concern when comments to a blog become longer than the blog they attempt to comment upon?
When is a blog not a blog? When it turns into the comments of itself, feeds off them, becoming that which it is not; the anti-blog; the blog mutation of its former self; the monster in our midst; the equivalent of a large dog with little or no training.
Or is there no distinction between the blog and the comments it engenders? Is the medium indeed a circular loop beyond cause and effect, a non-linear system with high spin and minimal entrophy? Has the serpent finally swallowed its tail? Have the chicken and the egg reached an out-of-court settlement? We won't know for sure until someone does the actual math.
But there is hope
That the humanists among us
Will survive the blast.

To the names of Twain and Vonnegut, we can add the likes of Petrach, Pico della Mirandola, Thomas More and von Humboldt.
Even Goethe, whom Henry Miller fondly referred to as 'that great German windbag."
These men did not so much hate God as assume that His work on Earth was done. After all, why go to the trouble of making a man, only to strip him of his autonomy?
One definition of being ethical is to accept the responsibility for both the beauty and the madness we inflict upon the world around us.
Even when we conclude the non-existence of the self - as some of us are inclined to do in the wee hours, when the phantoms come a calling - self-determination is no less relevant. In other words, I'll be the one to determine whether or not I exist.
Times, of course, have changed. Postmodernism makes it very difficult to claim humanist sympathies and still keep a straight face. The Pragmatists, who want it both ways, invoke irony as the means to bridge the metaphysical divide.
The point, I suppose, is that there is no point in confining oneself to a single point of view. Today I'm feeling like a postmodern, pragmatic humanist. Tomorrow, who knows?

Nietzsche gets the final word (from Ecce Homo)
"I know my fate. One day there will be associated with my name the recollection of something frightful - a crisis like no other before on earth, of the profoundest collision of conscience, of a decision evoked against everything that until then had been believed in, demanded, sanctified. I am not a man, I am dynamite."

(Happy 18th Birthday, Amber Leigh)