Voicewerk

————

The most Viking thing about him is he named the fictional capital city in his current novel, Atlantis. UFO thoughtsubmarines and all. Easy to overlook, the serious history of the city, and how despite its alien architecture articulation, modern Atlantis would look just like this text, easily used in a text bubble if one thumbs it as such. That’s not it.
Atlantis comes with a universe of assumption spread citywide.
No question the next most Viking thing about him in his drive. It is annoying. Born with this unthinking impulse to do the extravagant and the extra he makes sure it returns reformed. He applies his same unrelenting energies unto overrefinementseeking whether or not he plans on producing sheets of sheer sharper punctuation. Timing up how he has to hammer away until he has masoned this mansion to the tune of, Well, if he doesn’t use the drive he lives hardly and is mostly lost in a lonely mirageoasisofafloweringwasteland’s rage. Good luck. Go well. If he’s out there. Then there’s no predicting his disinterest in anything but arcane celestial navigation if he’s saying that this dark time around the globe higher up in this exoticdogfightingether is going to be different.
Is it different? Is he any different? Well. How does he decorate the disease of his discomfort? Does he unfurl his best red flag when he lusts for power? Not really all so much anymore. A shotofffoot happens twice in a lifetime and once in the playground Russian Roulette of opening up to another grown adult. But if he might exaggerate again once more? He’s unstoppable when he’s up to something big. Especially when he’s in his own way. When he’s up to something self-destruction based to rebuild everything on his own time, in his own way, indomitably. Is this a man drinking up motley problems, thinking up countless ways he’s not the drama of a drinking problem? While attending meetings in the Tesla Tantric Program he sits too still ‘cause he’s told he’s Pressure.
If someone strong scares someone into submission or silence, any kind of spiritkillingsubservience, then the avidly fearsome person might abscond with terrified personal energy after it’s left angrily ascattershot.
Steadied, he’s always reminded, why, he thinks there’s something remarkably unkind, borderline evil in what discomfort he’s watching: a mysterious manipulation of an uncontrollable shame for entertainment.
That’s a bold statement, mister Unstoppableindomitablepressure. Better back it up or be gone. Know what? Better yet. This is the truth.
Don’t show anyone anything until it is diamondlike.
Don’t run any kind mouth off in there is the diamondpoint.
Did he learn how his work only works from within only what redefines high quality confidence? Of course not. No. Listen. He started having regular emotional responses towards his catastrophic personal mistakes for the first time in his life. Lust wasn’t allowed to lord over his love. This was huge. Learning what drives him onward. Not fear. Nope. No, listen carefully, he’s not interested in frivolity. At thirty two years young he’s long since been twelvetimesoverexhausted by everything smashing together in his memories to waste any of his current energetic fuel on fearing that the whole thing was and has been a waste of time. Too late and too deep now to fear any and all time lost. Any fear and any fear he may or may not have felt from a final fear that he’d literarily fomo’d his time for the most high of the most shamelessly honest and real sentence shapes his Voicewerk vouched for spoke to him in silence and brought eternal light out of the black he’d brought out of a page. Reinvented his neonemotionalblacklight. Turned his soul iridescent.
They say, “Is this is all about you when you make it all about you?”
If the Tesla Tantric Program can convince a person to open their minds to the practically pornographic possibility of the program’s stated and admitted amateur but nothing less than hard core of rudimentary soul rebirth then a pigeon on fire can claim in a shadow it’s phoenician.
I promise I’ll never fuck this up again, is a lie. But a good one to own. Please, let him explain his side of the story, if ally’all’dbesokind.
First, when he says that the seventies are coming back, his clear confidence comes from the truth that this actually refers to the fact that in his best form he can put to bed seventy respectable pages before the three personalityreinventionintensive months of maniacal magic’ve ended the way he wants. What does he want? He’ll know if he was right in three months, or the end of another season, if he was right. Right in how he mixes and matches the facts and truths like real life Matchbox and Hot Wheels cars coming together in a collection then staying better together when they’re through a creative enthusiasm deliberately and delicately mashed into collapsible boxed roadwork, flexible fabric, and the Voicewerk of the real within how he’s better than ever before now he knows in the future he has wisely reinvested his time. Realized his heart has the heft he thought it did after he’s tried out a big new thing. The bettered belief in a new project is unreal when it goes beefless with his ego that edits his confidence out when he thinks he knows better.
Earthquaking revelations may derive from mismanaging how he sees the whole world awhinge his emotional mountain range for a peak at his process. What are you working on? What are you reading? Why haven’t you made me want to make more personal space for this music? Maybe they mean for dismantlement, dismembered pride pummeled piece by slimyvetetranbucketcrabjabandpoke. He won’t because they don’t look around anymore? And we’re dealing in and slipping beyond the relucent diamondback’d illusion everywhere it has been laid down. If they are at rest then he knows they think there were never and there are now no visible dents in it. The illusion. The vibration. The vision.
The way his good advice gets out to mankind makes good on all the time he spent mirroring this bifurcation back to the original source. One should know better and should know one shouldn’t show anyone anything until everything is imperfectly pearlescent. Don’t show anyone anything until it is diamondlike. And don’t dare show anyone anything until all of anything of what one does for anyone is done beyond the exquisite. Comes together, ignores the lifesavingtightropeoneveryline. The certain death if the language steps out of line. Comes across askew.
And then if it goes off more than well and fine. He won’t make the easiest early mistake of asking what is good for anyone, either. The work should say, Choose yourself like I did. Personal choice means for and makes the most sense when the work must take and choose the work’s own taste because it has no choice. This speaks on its fate. In the fire or on the fore? Own it. All of it. Owning itself is the work’s foundation.
The work says, Own yourself until the work that one does for anyone is done so that what is done is one with what is done so well that what is done is done and made to make what is done seem and feel like it was easy to make it look easy.
Look easier than a winning scintillation of a symbolically illuminable doubleU coming together in a curselesskarmiccursiveingot.
A sign that says when one learns how discretion is the better part of valor, then there is one truth in a choice for self to see true as far as true goes on for all of the self to see truth as it is. The truth within showing nothing until one makes it look more than easy when one’s made it look good. This is how the real work always works towards coming true so it can come of age.
His first earliest primal fears are what thunders in the sky that he can’t see coming and what webs of associations he can make from realizing what’s present’s unthreatening. The fear is forged from looking inside the unknown of the unseen.
At the worst job he’d ever had he was told the fundamentals of his phone conversation-making etiquette weren’t moneymaking. He should use the present script that the sales floor captain had fashioned over two decades of improved profiteering schmoozing. It made him sick when it worked. He thought he was furious that the scripted lines made him sound stupid. He realized he was enraged because distrust convinced him of its high worth but was wrong when the money started talking.
He’s a lion in a traditional fox costume until it is is time.
Every modern novelist thinks they’re the one that’ll come true in time. Boisterous confidence ballasts the Voicewerk. And every modern novelist thinks every contemporary noise works against his supremacy. He lies about what he uses to plug his eardrums from what’s obnoxious. Every muttering susurration suspect unless he’s sent his energy inside the signal. He shows off his cheatsheets and calls them real scorecards.
Every actively recovering alcoholic reads as much as the average American reader. And in His Charleston, South Carolina program. If one works a specific stepbystep procedure. If one actively works the program proscribed by the program. Their discipline’s programming has unwittingly adopted the tangentially-related and basic daytodayduties of a passionate person urgently pursuing the path of a professional novelist.
If everybody could learn to see things his way they would agree with him that it is surreal. Surreal how he’s been told he’s right when doesn’t lift a finger, doesn’t raise his voice once, doesn’t take the bait to become a knowitall. He shall not though he could indicate how and why he’s seen another universe within even one well written line’s inner life hidden from no one but itself. Everywhere he goes it is around him, like it surrounds him on all sides. These sentences. Their structures.
And their restrictions. He sees all these novelists who could benefit from hearing where he’d gone wrong. How what helped was going to the depths of the roots and beyond the innermostimpulse of the language he learned so he’d learn the lessons on his life through the liftoffsequence of his legend. He’s not supposed help. He’s not to tell people what to do nor take on power when just the right sentence and or right book recommendation’s insight, spelled out in moltensterlinganimatedemotionalespritdecours from his innermost drunklevelconfidence could assist. Not even if he believes and knows the truth that he could be the honest difference-maker that makes each budding, struggling, directionlesslysputtering storyteller set upon the judderingrollercoaster of telling their story in justifiable truth. Doesn’t matter that they figuratively flock to him. Nor that they fall in love with something new when he arrives, wherever he finds them after admit they’ve found how they’ve found a Voicewerk.
Voicewerk is what he calls the itch and wish of this calling’s craft. Voicewerk will control and contain all well-wishing within this calling.
She says to him what he wants to hear, every morning they meet, “Why don’t you just fuck me and we’ll sort everything out after that?”
She actually never says that. He’s unsure why he wants this said. To be told he has all the power. To know he has a point on this planet.
She actually says to him, way too often, “You know what I want?” When for once he would love it if she would ask him what he wants. So when she actually says to him, “You know what I want?” He has to say somethingsupersarcastic. “That’s more than an impossible question.”
“Of course it isn’t.”
“Of course.”
“No, listen to me. You know what I want.”
(Family: a fiveheadednuclearfamily he makesthemostmoneyfor.)
“Do I? You asked me like I would know. And honestly I don’t.”
“You don’t know what I want.”
“I don’t.”
“You know exactly what I want.”
“We’re not even sure what the right answer is because you won’t tell me what it is.”
“Because you already know what it is.”
“This is why I can’t answer impossible questions.”
“Tell me how many and I’ll leave you alone.”
“Sounds like either way I answer? You won’t leave me alone after.”
“How many windows exist? Every day how many windows exist?”
“How many car windows catch the sun at some slight point during the day in Charleston, South Carolina?”
“I’m talking about windows of opportunity to make a decision that’d hurt me. I’m not inventing unsolvable shapeshifting riddles here.”
“How many windows catch the big Carolina sun in Charleston?”
“You think that’s the real problem I’ve begged you define for us?”
“That’s our question but what’s the problem?”
“What’s the primary problem? What’s the real problem?”
“What’s the primary problem? What’s the real problem?”
“You don’t even know these people. They’re just new.”
“You’re right. I’ll never make another real friend in this lifetime.”
“Sorry. Fucking hell. I’m lost. I don’t need to know how many.”
He says, “We don’t ask why we pay attention as we pay attention.”
She says, “You’re avoiding it. You want the best of both worlds. You want a free pass from your convenient forgetfulness and a free pass from scrutiny. You want an adoring audience and you want not one comment on your process. Your entire personality can be summarized as what happens and what’s beautiful and what’s awful when you’re avoiding whatever it is that someone else has said you’re supposed to be doing.”
“How many car windows catch the sun in Charleston every day?”
“Please. Would you pay attention to me again? That’s all I want.”
“You’re asking I think on how I think when I pay close attention.”
“I want you to want what I want.”
“That’ll never happen.”
“I want you to want what I want for me.”
“You want me to want what you say is what’s best for you.”
“Yes.”
“Before I want what’s best for my own wants, you’re saying.”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“Can you just be a man, please?”
(The nowadaysnovelist knows better than to skip out on the ritual.)
“And let a woman tell me what I want from my own life?”
“You just want a subjective area of undefined expertise so nobody can scoreboard-check you when you run out of the will to fight back.”
“You can’t come back from the anger of asking and answering in the same afterthefactexasperatedbreath, That’s all I had to do? Say what I want? So we’re crossing genres again. Time we play wallball. I’ll warm up the rubber and we’ll rally for the serve. Chances are you’ve already realized a grown man’s lost empress? Knowing how to use evil correctly. Most people cannot believe I don’t care how they feel about me if and when I’m honest. Why should lie about having feelings towards another person? If I wholeheartedly invest emotions towards another’s opinions I’ll throw my weight around. Gets heavy for the average person when my density is deployed as self-defense. I can listen anywhere to anyone at any time. But should I want to pay close attention? Close attention must drape atop our closer attentions paid. Stop me if I’m all wrong. I know why any time someone else has pulled me back from the edge they have paid for my fastfooddinerbreakfastfood. Humanity is more innocent while it is acting more than innocent of itself’s harmfulness when it acts like it wants to be manipulated. Take the autocorrection text on a smartphone. It acts like it knows the story so we mimic how we know our story and give our story away to a deceit. You can make a mistake every time you enter a word. And it fixes it for you if you let it have all the power. You’re asking me if I’ll let you mold and shape my desires like I’d give or let my overdomineeringsmartphone get a free pass at selling my word choice short like it’s water off a flying fuck in formation’s feathered back? Hello, good morning, welcome back to the living hell of this bullshit. You don’t speak as though I’d have another idea on the shape of our lives other than how you interpret your own. You never come at me in any other way than the wrong way on anything I care about. You speak only to avoid somehow entering the wrong emotional information into our conversations. Improve upon every dalliance in the daft you make within my skull? Make you look better as a person in my head for what? And let you slide every time? Every syntax stumble unannounced. It’s highlighted handsomely. I’ll remedy your autopopulating vouchsafe and then some underneath the emotional trainwreck that is inattention aloft in the little lines no one’ll see asquiggle but you the user who has now been forgiven in the unpilfered space of one line. One word. A person who has made a mistake? Afree’d from scars they’ve caused. All of it was an accident. As if the wrong word or at the very least misspelling never occurred. All of it? Merlinlike. If you and I are here, now answering for the common thread thrashing throughout Americans today? What we crave the most is the constant companionship of a fixeverythingwizard.”
“Thinks of everything, doesn’t he.”
“Surefuckinghope at least one of us would admit we’ve tried.”
“Parents named him, Merlin.”
(Depression is at its worst when it means he misses out on his sensitivities. When he must sacrifice his sensitivity to save self-respect.)
“Why do we say keep my name out of your mouth again?”
“I’m not sorry.”
“Well you couldn’t get away with posting an anonymous review apologizing for everything with any detail either or they’d dox you.”
“Well I’m not gong back inside.”
“Is he wrong? Or is she wrong? This is all they argue about.”
She promises him that what happened back in there, moments ago, they were asked to leave, has nothing to do with his recent glowup. Please let the composition of the question use perfect compression first.
“I hate how every fucking girl keeps falling in love with you.”
“You want me to control how other people respond to me?”
“You obviously have a fucking girlfriend. Act like it.”
Now he knows from the drinks, drugs, ADHD symptomtreespread, he’s got less than no game when he’s coldsober and in a bad mood and tired and he thinks he won’t find the emotional through-line into the bright future he knows he needs to get up for, again, unless he’s sure he’s on. But his price went up? Holygodalmighty his romantic price went up? Didshejustsay he was right? Hislooksmakehim superhuman? Earlier he was joking that that was why she was off. She couldn’t focus on what she was doing because he’d been watching. Now he knows he was right. He said things would get better. He was really worth the wait.
“They all act like you’re daddy now because you’re six-four and you wear a nice watch.”
The watch is very nice. A graduation gift. But he only put it on once he’d had an extended excerpt from his novel published. Knew what time it was when he’d received the kind of nod he wanted most.
“You hate this skyrocketing rate of inflation.”
“It’s not inflation. The world is price-gouging your worth.”
“A man’s spiritual growth spirt is worth nothing to a woman now?”
“Everyone wants to talk to you because you look good.”
He feels good. He feels like he did before he sacrificed everything. How did all this happen overnight? It wasn’t overnight. He did the work. People want to know where he found the mountainmovingmotivation. That’s what he thinks about when people walk up to him with no plan, he remembers how the chill felt when he first gazed at his pinnacle.
“I’ve acted the same way this entire relationship towards others.”
“You’re too kind.”
“You want me to be rude.”
“If you’re too kind they fall in love.”
“Those girls back there were not falling in love with me.”
“You were just being kind.”
“Yes, I was just being kind.”
“You tied her fucking shoes.”
“For one. I only tied one.”
“Her face changed to the color of the walls when you took a knee”
“I stepped on the shoelace. I felt bad.”
“When?”
“When I turned the corner I stepped on it.”
“Who cares?”
“Well, I do.”
“Girls will do anything so you have to stop and look at them.”
“You’re suggesting she had me step on her overlong shoelace?”
“The gift of personal delusion gets you going when you’re sad.”
“That is how we know Americans still revere the American novel.”
“Speaking from experience, of course.”
“Of course. You want to go apologize already?”
“She knew you had a girlfriend.”
“You checked her into the fucking boards, mama.”
“She fell into your arms when you were kneeling under her skirt.”
“You can practice in the car before you go back inside.”

Exactly one year ago a Paris Reviewee mentioned during the time they had allotted for their work’s review and their soul’s interview, while discussing their work, mentioned his work, and they said, His novel is a Southern blessing. His novel is the current forerunner of avant-garde. He has invented a novel in which a novelist teaches imaginary novelists how to imagine how to write a novel so they can write their novels that become his novel’s real and true ability to teach itself how to write itself.

He’s convinced people pay overlargeoverextended attention amounts on him because of the work on his soul his writing has finished and this is the next level. And she’s said more than once she’s convinced people pay overexaggeratedalwaysannoying amounts of attention on him because he’s finally in beltdefendingheavyweightfightershape.
Does using all of one’s energy for working from an all or nothing life strategy become the norm over time? Maybe. Maybe not. The way he works is no extraordinary wildcard philosophy. It’s simple. If in about four or five and at a temporary overdrive maximum he dwelled within no more than twelve key areas of his daily life while he told himself that every single day he had to do each individual something in the moment and do that one something every day that one whole part of that one day until he couldn’t. In one decade he’d have a neversaydiedreamweaver’s consummately positive reputationspokenforaheadoftime kindofresult.
Ask him about her work ethic he might hype her up a bit so she looks good. Other than chores around the house, she used to not have to work to get anything. Get anything other than the bare minimum done, no, not that, she knew how to work hard. She used to not have to work to get any and all the sexual, romantic and public attention she wanted. Now she can’t get it from the man she said I love you to because she doesn’t act like she wants to win him over again after he has long since realized she’d been halfheartingherhalf of this partnering. He’s waited for her to get up to speed. Yet, she’s still too furious, too stunned. She can’t believe she can’t not be beside herself she didn’t see him coming.
Why would you want him if you didn’t believe he could become everything he promised her he would be? She thought he would have shown early high promise that tapered off over time. She wasn’t ready for the revelation, the reevaluation after the reveal, the real version.
“I heard them talking when you weren’t close by. The one you helped out said she thought you looked like Hercules.”
“A cartoon character made you lash out like that in public?”
“I didn’t lash out.”
“You did. We can’t go back.”
“Good. Why would we go back?”
“I pick that place for Friday night takeout every other week.”
“Broaden your horizons.”
He won’t push back any farther. When she’s arguing and she has gotten all the way to using a clichekindofphraseorphrasing she’s used as a weapon instead of using it as explanation for a common life theme then she’s lost stamina to think out her indefensible position. To be fair, she’d never broaden her horizons if it meant giving up creature comfort or accepting less in return than what she ponied up to give initially.
She has had thoughts like she would never survive the fastpass through temporary personal hell into the self-destruction and all the additional emotional breakdowns, before a long-term buildup into her own glowup could begin afresh. She holds on to what holds her back because she thinks it’ll help. Quizzically held onto this otherworldly force that prevents her self-empowerment with all her might. Every time he has felt the purified pressure he’s caused come together, it feels like his physical presence threatens her pride and shellack her self-esteem.
He feels her envy, hatred, in each individual heartclench in which she sits still for longer and doesn’t make a move to make her life better. The roar. The levee broken open and her stress levels never higher. A deathgrippingfixation on the obvious deathtrap of any standstill. A rage. Her rage held onto an old life where she’d once procured special status.
Her rage began condensing into a singularity once they got to the parked car, hers, that he’d driven. She wanted this fistful of force to steady her hand, and shatter and show all car windows in Charleston, South Carolina that they’d not watched her back. Didn’t see it coming. She wanted to be a destroyer of worlds because she felt she was less than important to his status, when, at thirty two and a half, first summer tan goldening his complexion, she knew he suddenly’d never looked better.

In the car, on the move, the little blue bird liquid silhouette of the Toyota Celica she doesn’t want to drive alight on every extra window pane they pass. She’s not shocked she’s accused him of wanting and having the power to make anyone do anything.
“You mean like a novelist would?”
If anyone asked him, “How did you always get back up? After life knocked you down? Every time you just got back up?” He’d have to tell anyone who asked, candidly but rhetorically, “Rhetorically speaking, I just keep it moving, keep pushing. How many times did you fall off your bike as a kid. If I put a bike in front of you now. Told you to ride it down the block and back. You probably do it without a thought. Yeah? Try it.”
The same night as the evening of the boundarycrossingshoelacetie she decided from the couch she was sure he had too much sway in what happened during their day-to-day life. During extra innings with the walk-off run on third base she tried telling him he was a terrible person the entire time they were together. That hurt. And that she’d always and lastly still usually been the bigger person in their relationship because she’d always forgiven him for more of his bullshit than she’d ever let on. That hurt too. Knowing she wanted him to feel like he should shoot for a lowbrow lowblow if she could drag him down to her level under the belt, she’d win the moment, if she’d have him suffer the illusion of fair fight in the mud, which hurt much more than missing the emotional payoff of his favorite baseball team defeating their division rivals when he turned and said that she basically shortchanged him on love using inconsistent transactional affection the entire time they were together.
After they brokeupbutnotreally and gotbacktogetheragain for the twelvehundredthtime, he realized he was leaving things out of his life. Modern fiction shouldn’t sound like a glorified book report. His life was real away from whatallandwhatever he wrote about how it seemed.
He was always accessible if the social or literal reader could read through the hyperbole he hung around his heightened hostility towards threadbare hospitalities, see him as sober journalist of human emotion, a real story of the real story of reporting real stories honestly, no matter what. So she had to resort for the quick fix of plotting minute by minute overthrows wherein she’d try tearing him down mid sentence whenever she didn’t want to allow one of his balanced argumentative passes the requisite running room. That was her destabilization goal. She wanted him off track so he’d have no choice but to choose her disorientations.

When he was sure he’d made it in his own mind? When every day felt like he more than free of the workweek drudge at the end of every day because every day felt like it was a Friday. Thanks be to Frjádagr.

When she was sure he’d made it it was during an argument. An argument about money. But maybe more than an argument about money. When he asked her to stop screaming. She screamed like she couldn’t have one conversation about a disagreement in a regular tone of voice. She screamed more at him because he wouldn’t scream back anymore. The argument he made in defending his day to day routine, that, even if he’d have the unsavory task ahead of swimming in a river so irritably salted it’s like he’s crawlstroking in hot sauce? He’s been ready. Ready for what? Taking these readers through a thought stream of a South American Bloodstream. Screaming, What does that even mean?
It’s a bewildering clarity and a chipper hype in, heightening tones, like, “Feast your eyes for this is frenetic fluid fire.
The South American Bloodstream.
If I say, That’d be fine? WhatallamIgettinginto?
Like. What is this stuff? And. Why should anyone care about it?
This is where he’s coming from. It is all in his domain. And when he’s in action and on the move in the sun belt in the Southern United States. During odd moments his energy digs under the skin. Usually? He’s unaware he’s in the South American Bloodstream, under the skin, unless someone snaps at him. It just happens. He makes himself look at it like it’s magic he respects the space and taste of and when it makes a home digging under their skin for the flex and freedom of the flow it finds then he says what’s on its mind, and he speaks into its channeling.
Even if his hello’s sound hostile? He’ll hear them then ask it to finish what it started? This is the simplest part? How so? They’ve said it’s the things he does that is what makes them do what they do. Insist his power over their reaction is indomitable. They argue against their lack of power like he’s their given god when they listen to him until it makes them angry. If he is this wicked thing? Then here’s the thing. Whenever he’s spoken up but dug wayway deep under their skin? They self-defend themselves by dousing him in a whispered hostility’s lighter fluid when he’s not around. Or when they think he can’t hear them tear him down.
He says he sees everything everyone’s doing which says that he sees that most people will wear the sum total of their thoughts on the moment by moment minds they make with their facial features. See. He knows he’s done well, and maybe a bit better than just good, in person, and line by line, when he leaves them and they’re still threading their kinetic response to him through their life-loving lens of well-composed playing postures, like, “We’re just playing around, we didn’t mean for all that shit to happen to you after we did nothing but talk shit about you.”
See. He knows the black magic of babbling in gossip loops kills off too many good people. Good people many people wish they were more similar to. Hardship for good people for no good reason. Talking shit and celebrating the self by performing joy and spiteful love in a self-indulgent celebration of another’s failure when and if it isn’t a personal problem is false power. Why would one will any kind of ill on another before learning one’s fullbloomin’ story first-hand? Can anyone see what he’s done to deserve the desire to dive through this last sentence? See why he’s made his choices? See. Going round too scared we’re not careful enough, we’re usually too scared of being careful to become and be the best version of our best versions and be what we would be if we were better. Were better how? See. In being fearlessly incarefully real enough to maximize perfecting our process at precision proclamation? Writing must sweep those on the page off their feet. Or teach them something they didn’t know before it was shared. To great astonishment. So says one pure channeledvoiceofourcostalbreeze.
The whatwasthatthatthatmansaidjustnow? Him? He said to answer for, Who has the Voice in this vision? It’s all South Carolina Steeze. The South Carolina Steeze was what it was when we got here for this one. And the man to drive it onward ventured to announce his was his because he was the man without an accent. And he’d arrived. In style.
“A man without an accent is always a writer.”
The side-eyes began in earnest. In defense of disbelief mostly.
Our American writer knows he’s a novelist once he’s finished and fired off the next one.
But the local librarians’ve dubbed his hermit-mode’s darkness-parsing-heritage that of an hostile German maximalist. He is precisely overthetopandtoomuch. Thisishowhesounds. In a crackling cadence. See this is what it is and was when he sees why they say this is a challenge; at least for them he’s too much is what he’s always heard when the stack-minders don’t say anything nice when he wants to explain to them why the way they act makes him want to leave, why he wishes they wouldn’t do that because he would like to stay around if they don’t mind. They do mind. He has nothing but a word choice to choose from. Local librarians are terrified he’ll find offense in their self-presentation. Why is he here if he’s from fucking Seattle, Washington? Why would this man move cross-country. This also goes without saying. It’s the sun. That’s it. The sun has saved his soul. He’s burned off depression. Free from original Seattle overcast gloom. Left it behind. Thinks he might have a real shot at happiness.
How so? Consistently knowing what it takes to have the right stuff.
Consistency is only a challenge when a consistent discipline remains personally undefined. Knowing what it takes is a kinetic idea. Every day this week he’s attempted a different project with different parameters that, no matter what he does to get there, have produced a proficientlyprofluentpropulsiveprose on the page. The work of taking the English language through the wall of blending words together. And making them longer by personal choice. Charging the language up to signal differently angled emotion. Is this like some Southern Gothic and Germanicized version? Why is that a lazy way to say he’s using a much longer than usual melody, not mumbling, rather, he’s actually accelerating Englishtailfeatherlettershapesintoaplatinumpeacocktail. It’s like throwing tire smoke from the line up into the grandstands from the middle of the apex. A smoke signal version of, Why would anyone ever want to do anything in one’s life that didn’t have them at the center and ready and willing and able to choose themselves first? Their story first?
Fake enthusiasm’s propensities’ll find speakers, if phony flatfooted, forever asking, for why and for what reason, have they lost their hold on the floor. Lied about. And in the retelling they tumbled from a soapbox. Real enthusiasm can’t be bothered by lies before its finished setting at least eleven and a half new personal bests. From newest, latest, greatest recently high benchmarks, if he insists on how he scores the game, the gambling risk diminishes and the spirit of what he whispers grow rich.
Everyone local faked a lividity when he first got here so before the city’s severe sunshine smelted into one sunset upon the Battery. He’d hatched a plot they couldn’t interpret. He could see through them and their words and their false word more often, even when he wasn’t aware he was seeing through every mirage they’d made to make them look good to the outside world: those not yet in the know.
To bring everyone inside ideologically Charleston, South Carolina has no distinct beginning nor end. No good nor great nickname or major money-making moniker. Nor really does Charlie have any idea what she’s talking about. Saying to any of her people. Him included.
Although Charlie especially enjoys shaking the human hand if one enjoys using physical force to make personal progress. This land is ruled by twin forces called forever flowing onward and forever running forward (the way back). Life is styled so outsiders can’t crack the olde Charlie code: it’s listening to women when they tell Him what time it is. She said, Let’s first just call our guy one name. Him. Him’s a man that is much easier to understand over time. And since he is Him, has been Him since his birth, whenever we’ll refer to Him? It will be all about He, Him, His going onward. Our collective Him has a look. It’s like he’s always been listening for the aria. For the pulse. At times, he looks distracted, because he has half an idea. He thinks he knows who she is now. Who is she? She’s the stuff he sees in the program’s programming. And she acts out the darkestblackmagicgossipbabblekarma they all think he needs. Privately he’s never not finding more storytelling ideas. He’s a novelist with a godslappinggobsmackingwhoppingknockoutpunch up His dark left sleeve. On His hands is what He’s yet to flesh out in red and blue and stars and bars. What is it? Four high ranking members of a Super Secret Society embedded in his Idrinktoomuch Ican’tquit home group tried making Him the inverse of a living amends by painting Him so poorly for other minds he’d become a social human sacrifice to save their condemned souls the trudging of their accumulated karma until their Caroline SSS leader told them that they were four fucking morons when he said, “Beaux was supposed to’ve been our spiritual leader once he came of age. Y’all’ve no idea who deals Him his spiritual protection.”
If driving finds a riverine rhythm through space. Don’t ever let any one anywhere talk anyone out of one’s god given ability to choose one’s path to walk under one’s own willpower. The subjective life experience is divine. And your internal drive is your drive for a reason. Your drive knows when it’s your turn to benefit from lifeanimations in the selfish but animal limitationlessness of earning your epic awareness in winning more than enough of what some call a clear glimpse at fate. Or destiny. If we can look through the lowdown for a manifested moment? We’d watch all four foolishly disloyal SSS members motormouthscramble before their leader. Desperately asking, Why didn’t anyone see this coming, or see him coming, know of this plot to crown him one day? “Why? Couldn’t give Him His real second chance because the moment you met Him you never gave Him one to begin with. He’s the lost one. The outcast. We never got to him. Won him over. He might be a generational curse breaker. He could potentially be a rebel in his own right. Or he doesn’t know himself. Bonafide. He’s bonafide by birth. He has the physical accouterments of a perfected man in the description an Hiterlarian Aryan Dream likeness. He is what was written come to life. And he has no idea what he looks like to other people anymore. He only sees energetic signals sent from each person’s highest solar self’s godly vibration. This was why he missed out on the recent eclipse. He was watching the reflection, refraction, rewritten emotional revision rolling across everyone’s faces. He cannot not watch the entire room.”
The four SSS members who attempted taking his life to save their own skin went rogue, deciding together to go after him anyway, after their leader denied their dark plot. And they rebelled almost exactly like the first Confederate Army members on Fort Sumter. Why? They fired the first shot from a cannon. No one misses that. And they missed their shot at whom their own king said would one day be the king of their kind. They tried killing their own ilk. Unforgivable. And they fired the first shot of a civil war they didn’t know how to finish. Unimaginably dumb. Not realizing their entire lives could easily be summarized by any onlooker decrying that they’d each been born with a demonic death wish. These four had never finished anything ever. They’d only abandoned what they didn’t understand when they lost the energy and enthusiasm to ask enough questions of themselves and the world.
So when they set in motion their own plan, they began in error because they earnestly believed they could do no wrong. And with a bombshell of a backfire they attempted misunderstood moon magic. They told the moon in the name and guise of Luna and not the essence of their tongue’s original incantationaryroots, Máni, that they wanted a thoughtless and infernal and too true fiction freed from inside his mind.
They thought this infernal fiction freed within his mind could help them kill him slowly and publicly and painfully while he was distracted. Once the social, emotional, psychological, spiritual, sexual violence could commence. They would begin to bend him into subservience until death. Browbeating his head until he could only think in purple. Wrote in purple prose. Witness the empurpled cloaking of his aura. Not be able to hear how he sounded when he tried to listen to the response after he found his calling. Only think of himself when he met with and saw others he was forced to endure and embrace, so the others would wind up seeing him act only this way, only thinking of himself when he was around them, and then they’d be told by the word of the serpentine telephonic word of mouth, this is why it is right that they should hate him. Give him no love. Take his name in vein as they wanted. Thrash his spirit to death. Except Luna is a jester when she roams the daylight, that’s why we think we can see her. Máni sees everything. And anything that sees absolutely everything has to exist outside of everything there is.
By working with attraction rather than promotion, through the outside world’s perspective, the program provides positive social proof.

If we believe in cliche wisdom, then he’s the one writing this story for all y’all today, tomorrow, the night that bridges both parts’ origin. So,  unless another voice versifies the vouchsafe for the vision of the votive, how has he managed to war and win when it was one versus who knows how many? Well he’d tell everybody the way this winning war story stops and starts it’s like he had to step in full understanding of why he began this study. Knowing everything they’ve done, they’ve said, they’ve wished onto his life so they could take his away from him, as if theirs were more important than what he could do if they’d merely minded their own business while respecting he knew what he was doing with his. Even if they failed early and often they wanted to set out and finish what they started. And once he’d decided to stick around long-term, they tried killing his voice first so he felt like everything unfamiliar actually felt like it was from his family tongue’s thought pattern gunplay. If they could rob him blind or make him go blind before the real triple cherry gifts he rode in on? Then they might mug him of both the song of his mother’s melody and the momentum of his father’s natural force. But they didn’t know how timing was and is everything. His heart holds the hum of if you did better yesterday, good, you better do better today.
His pulse picks up speed and it begins pounding hard when his ears ought best perk up so they can ride the way the wind works on the morrow. He saw they thought they were winning when he went silent. Ghosted the confidence he’d naturally recurring underneath his self-esteem in every ritual social situation. Thought they’d set him up to suffer for an eternity he couldn’t easily end. In unholy unaggrandized suffering he’d squeal on his shortcomings and make himself lose public respect from people who’d misunderstand how they should feel for his story and then they’d tell him that this is what you get for what you’ve done. And he’d have their tools in place to placate the siren and fantod and klaxon, send back their return on their initial  Except their arsenal was timed wrong. Why? Half-hearted accelerants don’t burst nor burn as brisk as what he’s brought. There is the real stuff and there is the off brand. Yet they want the abuse they give to feel like it’s coming from an higher power of his own personal conception. He’ll have no choice and then he’ll have no choice but to finally forgive them for all the fucked up shit they’ve pulled. Since he’s clearly codependent on everybody and everything everywhere he goes this means that when everybody and everything’s gone, he’s only got them, he’ll eventually get over all the shit they’ve pulled. Pulled. Still pulling pearl-handled black magic berettas on his back since his initial fall out of the sky underneath the knotted Oak tree, throwing out suggestions against meaninglessness, that these fools curtail stone throws, throwing gunk from the gravel and grass. Above changing levels of sensitivity below changing levels of light. If he’s with them on their mission? With them at all? Then he’s here on a mission not from god but from his deep wish to work with them right here in this body of work. He’s made of more light if he’s surrounded by threats triggered by an eternal fear projected to prevent onlookers from noticing most of the powerful are almost always bound to their babble.
They want for and so they send out for so they can then say that every night they can identify-with after they find a person best-described as deliberately paying little to no or at least apparently the least amount of attention to the present attendance around. Paint them in a deceased latecomer’s blood of jinn. Outside this mafian manslaughter in the fresh airwaves that feature zero paidforpsychicprotection the latecomer they tab as too inattentive is set afire in blockages until the dead one comes back for reanimation through noncomplicatedsocialemotionalvalidation the next night; this is the tragedy of trying to train any karmic frequency.
She’s a screaming flaming skull until she’s the rosegolden goddess.
He’s not shellshocked. His armor was smelted in olenamoringfires. He feels every single one of their angry iotas in his blood pressure. He knows this ritual bloodletting, this practice, this work that the founders have desperately freed from the last millennia by misremembering what myths they’ve made come to spoken-word fruition from misrelating and misrepeating countless old books he knows the well-meaning founders misunderstood never works out like this room’s occupants think it does.
It’s a rush to feel like some part of one is solving a problem no matter the relative problem solving level of success; in the same way copious caffeine consumption isn’t actually all that effective treating most cases of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. If he is finding how to work out what works well in this form’s hilarious impossibility? He must foremost find what fodders the pointlessly foolish til the point they fall into their shadow. What they find most and more fearsome. Everyone can lie for a lifetime for a solution for a little while. If there’s a spiritual war going on outside then there’s a day where the only way to find an abstention out of fibbing for a living is to forge a pathway free from any misdirected malice of what makes one’s old memories win out against what one’s fearless future knows one better make happen today.
One tactic is to not add a chip to his shoulder. But together chip in on adding extra links onto the chainmail of regular self-confidence by adding in casual conversation so he can never relate or relax at all the duallockeddoublelegbindingCharliehorseclampdown of questioning his confident proclamations by supplying unsuspected suspicious confusion levels when they conjure a feignedextraforcerequired to give him polite responses. If they can make it sound like it is his voice in his head when they astralproject at him their internal dialogue designed to decimate all ego then they think he can have a better chance at changing the good parts of his personality that they’ve made abundantly clear they believe abhorrent because they can’t be taught by the collective conscience of the group. Therefore, Listen to the wind blow, when sung aloud in its now famous, “Rumors” groupvoicecostuming signals his pulse to keep in mind he’s long since known why he’s heard every motherfucking singular shred of insult hurled his way disguised as beautiful blessing under the guise of curse since cutting his last soul-saving deal after finishing off the last flaming instigation needed to burn his last bridge.
We do it over until we learn why personal strength isn’t optional.
If this is working? It brings into balance two primary forms of light and dark. That is both light and dark as they are and as they appear. And then light and the dark animated and made to come alive and describe for us how their differences are illusory, almost always decided-upon in this very different perspective, so in this other and this more lavish novel way we can see the light and the dark looking at the other one as if the other is dark, when the former is the light, and the other, if not stuck in this projection, wants to look for the other’s darkness as if it is in fact the true light come through the dark, as if it were the light coming through the light so each side of our composite comparison can come full circle.
Essentially, this unification of light and dark in this fiction must figure out a foolproof latticework, and make the man we’ve all made up and made out in myth and in truth build each bit better than before.
Why? If this is better than the last one, better than the rest of them now, the form is set to do its best to flex and finesse for the right kinds of reasons. Set to inspire sympathy for inspiring how anyone would handle the righteous upward ascent. And if this is a thing improved by its work it’ll lay this down like a friendship with no fiats allowed in the concert of networks between each idea tapping into touching off endless sensitivity — and in essence its form must make the unusual look simple. A style taking up in how we’re talking about what defines defying the flagrant, the flying, the too high corkscrews of all these collaborative correlations set up between each light and dark word’s final fiery strike before each letter lends a lesson to the reader as the readers receive in every second a relucid thoughtful thought preparation, a step by step of a bridge we can breath over the killingcoldbreaksoftumblingswirlchop beneath us.
Restoring the piecemeal picayune remnants of his personality was a process in painfully repairing his mental health through deliberately diving into his spiritual respiration. And one couldn’t miss his coming back around. In these rooms he opened the future. Here? He dominates their fourth dimension to the point of their character’s bedimming. He distracts veteran members and they say he appears indomitable when he blocks off the vacuum for all the attention he’s getting. They talk about his body like it’s a bad omen for the group. He’s following the drinking gourd and they tour him through torture he deserves? He cannot play idle witness. He’s walking past all four squared-off edges of their door outside. Coming inside he entices their wishful itch for indulging their darkness. At once he is like a fearless moon during a direct solar eclipse.
Who will oppose lady luck during her every turn? Femme fatale, also known as, misfortune and misdirection. Look it up or believe him. Discipline does not discredit the shortcut. Detours are worthless when they disagree with the wish to sidestep the self-sabotage of selling short by taking the half-hearted half-death of working for the easy way out. Ease defies truth when a simplicity can be said to kill the full spirit.
Assume everyone here now can agree on one thing, though large, and noticeably intimidating if not understood. This is bigger than him. This goes deeper than him. And the opposition has said he doesn’t need amplified empathy for his amorous emanations. He can do everything he needs by himself, they say like it’s a bad thing, while they cynically take his time and steal his blessings. They’ve forgotten the morning of the moronic karmic hellfire they’re instigating as they’ve again asked for it in their blackmagicshittalking comes down hard when he’s not around. They’ve said he likes to act like all the others should’ve known of his steeze beforehand. His what now? His South Carolina Steeze. Like he names all his fantasy sports teams the same thing as this lifestyle he exhibits. They say look at him. He walks in here like his loitering in this lifetime has an action. A thing to do with you. He isn’t doing anything. He’s not up to something. He isn’t doing anything wrong and he’s not acting up and he isn’t too much nor is he doing too much of anything. If anything? He’s only one bit at a time more than a white on white thing. And in this one, this thing today, he’s brought out what has his back, all his stripes earned reformatted as his best black slash n’ zag. Look. His loitering says what? His writing makes him make money one way or another if you watch it. And how about his actions? Do the math, they’re strung along like this, unless it’s like this though, or what if it’s like this, have trust in your shut down word of mouth? Then they’ll say something. Like what? All those who willingly misinterpret his acts’ve said his loitering isn’t loitering first.
If those in crowd pretend they’re insomniac toward their true spiritual nature on purpose when he’s present to participate, then they’ll make nothing even remotely close to a justifiably appropriate response. They’re asking him to make his life harder because they’re afraid of something that’s not real. They tell him the pressure he applies isn’t meant for this time round throughout this incarnation. And if they can make him doublethink his every impulse no true instinct can flourish.
Don’t enrage the heart for longer than it takes to notice or not if one’s opposition cannot spot the bottom of the ocean of the work one’s done in order to arrive. If personal betrayal is encapsulated by one’s self telling the truth then he knows they think his loitering and so therefore his work, too, entotals an unforgivable spiritual plunder. They say that his entire being is an unjust looting, a theft, a thing it’s been since time to kill. He suspects he cannot see that this means they’ve decided they think his loitering’s lasting impartable lessons are the things with their own thoughts and wings. And some around here have said he’s built like the devil and he came in from the storm to collect upon overdue karma and came for their heads by decimating their emotional confidence.
That’s bullshit though, please, trust him on this. It’s the truth. He spoke of the world outside, after following their flock indoors where they would recycle their constantly recurring endeavors some’d call evil. He saw none of it. The cycles, the cyclops sacrifice, merciless pagan throat slash in status called out by the silently projected evil eye. No, he was on point and fucking focused. Focused, strong, straying nowhere off the truth. When his shoulders spread wider so he could speak? He only said anything he thought was of use in the room. Then some spread a word and rumor and more and some said that the slant of the ways in which he styled his planes and spiritual geometry along these interlocking angles was destructively wrong. Honestly? He isn’t sure they’re entirely sure what they’re talking about or even what they’re offended by in their taking offense with him, because, well, if he is living subversively at all? It’s as wisdom alchemized in real time in reading how we’re living in lines along literal light beams among the rafter’d roof beams; we love coming alive just underneath the animation of a sightworthy threshold.
Nothing nonviolent makes people more angry than when one doesn’t fall for anotherperson’sandtothemperfectedfalsesympathytrap. He made their wellmeaningfortheirownpersonalgain seem unseen. Took it into the unsaid. And the unsaid spitefully said, sure enough he’s right about some stuff. And he’s looking good. Until after that they had the unsaid tell everybody who’d listen to next tell everybody, Don’t love him anymore. Don’t believe in his bravado, because, look, his life is not looking good, and look at what he’s done, and look at how down he has been, and look where he’s going, hell on earth, look at him, look where he’s going, straight into annihilation, trust, we’ve seen the signs, because this is how it goes when someone is a flaring star before one’s way of living leads to self-immolation. And all of this and more to the point where they say to him that looking this good today for once in his adult life in good shape and proud of it? He’s a liability and he’s seen as an eyesore. Why so? They say it is a risk for everyone if one of them shows up indefatigably sharply composed. Or at least not ready to sign both desperate eyes to a slaughtering space.
Now sign this immediately before passing through the tall ceilings of this charming row house. Opening this door begins this odd kind of story. Odd situations one’d find exhausting unless one may appreciate the one way in which they’re infinitely weirder than the way they look. And how’s it started tonight? They said he’s more than said he’ll need a total and top flight socialemotionalobedience since what he said meant he’d threatened them with, forever. So then they had no choice but to give him everything that they had on their person. What? How does that work? He-What? They’ve accused him of doing the unforgivable. The- What’s that now? Wasting their time. He wasted the time they won’t get back. What? So he says we shouldn’t trust them at all. Why? They still continue to insist they were right about him and his life when even today they still say they know they did nothing for him to want to walk away from them entirely. Think about it for real then, is it or is this or is that any of his problem? Is he the problem? No? Then why is he the problem? He’s the problem? Yes he is. They say he’s the problem. Huh? Why do they say he is the problem? He doesn’t understand where they are coming from when they at-times randomly say to him that when he speaks up he’s only acting on an impulsive symptom. Personal insanity. Even if he thinks he’s inciting spiritual growth among innocent means, he’s inflicting their lives with his misdirected willpower? No. What he actually gives off is an arsenal for the common man without money on hand. In the South they say it is insanity for his writing to exist, that he’s unwise to speak. Doing this in the American South violates a traditional power structure’s chokehold on how we choose how we spend our time. But to live a spot-on best life? One must not hesitate to bellow before it is too late or one will be blown backwards to bitter defeat by the mob.
And if this roaringjunglecuttingsunshine power appears at first light, then one can safely hazard the surroundings will want that power put on the line. Everybody can take that one how each individual wants to guess. What it was setting up down here is that whenever one may earn trust? This trust operates like animal sympathy. Animal sympathy anyone can feel in a story, because the standard animal sympathy most need is the kind that better blow ‘em out of the common sleepwalker’s warm water of a standard thought stream shallow. And then cannonade their entire being onto new lands and wash up on distant shores. This better bring the word’s innerworkingemotions out of their subconscious, cannonade. Or if that is not what it is when it works then of course it is best one says nothing, lest one not personify the worst thing any person can do intentionally - blatantly waste another person’s time and space.
So, they say, bring it on, so he says, Let’s do it. Let’s play this thing the way I want. Let’s do it. Ready? Put a finger down. Put a finger down, tigereyedgamecockedition. Put one finger down on your own page right now if any of all y’all’ve seen your fingers find indomitably ever-present timelessly purified motion on your own page make a breakthrough in what makes your life off the page make your life make your life better when your fingers’ve made something from nothing first. First before anything else. Wait, the motion of what? This. Some couldn’t just call it pure magic so they settled for the fact of one name, then it was, Merlin.
Merlin in motion is more than kinetic poetry when it is combined with what shapes direction of the flow, because it pulls on each fleeting moment’s tallest crown point until the flow finds wings by activating the static detail like it’s an unexpected house-hopping weather vane’s new jaunt slingshot from the ground when motion’s said it’s survived arrival. Less a search for the sweet spot of the perch because when he saw this he saw from your spot, your position, your point of view, while wholly ignoring every unfairly and falsely rumor-based inbound upheaval sent for anklebreaking his spirit again so he couldn’t claw his GOODlifelife all the way back from the swampysmoldering underground remains of the unbelievably consistently rufescent dirt dished in which he’d begun all this digging. Digging to see clearly, see his own spot while realizing they couldn’t see why he’d such sterling and for them personally stirring self-esteem. Enough, maybe, you could say you saw what he meant, you could say you did mean what you said, when, again, you could say you saw the whole truth in all he does. Right? How what multiplies what magic’s always aback what’s awhirl what’s working most if not all of our more untouched intricate microinches of mutual selfinterestseeking shows us what we think when we show others how we think they think.
And he thinks we’re all at work on the war effort of what wars and what effort we afford ourselves the energies for - so we’re mostly stuck in between our misunderstood words for working out the hows and ways and what-fors of which ways we can say we do what we must. We use two dueling magicians: one, Merlin, another, madness made amockery. The reader really decides which one is which. Truth decides gullibility.
He learned the language by listening for the shape of the space in between the words when he really saw the howitworks of why we say we love to popularize call and response traditions in the deep South. Fills the void with spoken sugar when his call and response tradition thrashes through every motion he makes so he can take breathtaking skydivelines and save the rush of resurrecting his overnight’s constellation patterns.
For your gracious consideration, please save a memory for these blessings and these life-saving patterns. Save them for when life-saving reasons vanish the next morning one arises awhitewashed of blending without blushing back into our infinitely invisible superpower. It’s not at all what anyone thinks at first. Connections for learning love for why we didn’t or couldn’t see something amazing coming require certain terms and conditions. We can all see what that means, but, first off, know this.
Without fail — when he was much younger than he is in this purple Charleston, South Carolina twilight, his family told him the same simple story. This story’s wisdom offered the same sage advice for living every day of his fresh life the best he could: watch your tone. Now he watches how tone can and does make everything happen. Tone of voice makes everything happen, no doubt, so his personal tone of voice tonight is reflecting, exclusively, everything. And absolutely everything happening. This text takes on a tone of voice one especially takes up in shouts and simpers and subtle song inside of one’s chest, where, nearby the heart hammers and chugs.
A correct tone of voice can make all the difference in the world. How we see the world work when the truth is intoned makes everything move by unmasking the magic. The words we use bring light into the mind. Using words wisely prevents the indecipherable arm-span of the vacuum that is the illusion of the endless void from reaching our place in destroying incomprehensibility. Of course we should show everyone where he is within this tone. Seated upright underneath bright lights on a broad bodied plush fuzzy blue cushion backed pew bench drink-free like maybe more than half the rest of this night’s truth speakers gathered in a crescent where epicentral focus rests on the standard tone of voice decreed from behind a rotating mask donned by the mouth that month of the man or woman working the candle guttering along the precipice of the mammoth desktop slab underscored by ornately engraved lines of an ancient gamecock the color of Ayers Rock in postcard’d sunset.
Pull back this room tone’s red velvet curtain, he’s his own kind of man because he makes an authentic mark on mankind. The worst thing he could do is lie to the room, this one room in particular, so he doesn’t and he’s never and he wouldn’t even consider making the fatal attempt. The biggest liars in this room receive the worst blackmagicmadekarma. That’s the ritual significance of showing up. He doesn’t lie to them even though they lie about him and his good karma has shown his results and they refuse to accept his prosperity comes from doing the right thing at the right time and nothing else. They say he’s lying. He’s not. He’s not some random social operating room’s sacrificial lamb. Why not? He knows he would be if he were in here and pulling a fast one but he isn’t. And yet? They spread false rumors about his word, they say he’s always been lyin’ to everyone, so he should have to do their suffering for them, should suffer their insufferabilities galore, do their swim with the gators off the plank of that fat desktop, so he can do something for someone else for once, so he can suffer their collective overduekarmicagony so they need not to, since he’s got their suffering covered, ‘cause he’s most insufferable. But his easy fleer says, “You know what? I think I won’t.”
He’s been lied about so much the liars are receiving public karmic beatdowns everyone is talking about whenever the liars are not around. He’s since this last time’s fresh start been framed for the murder of their mostly overlooked misuse of the collective consciousness’s innocence. And so how should a wise man avoid a black magic gossip cult’s all-stops pulled attempt at making every voice they encounter their sonic human sacrifice so their lives improve in visible three dimensional vibration worthy of public acclaim despite their overduekarmicagony long past overdue pay date? Move in total silence until it’s time to shoot.
He is sure of where they stand. They would rather argue over who should take the karma, blame, fall, responsibility, suffering, for the suffering they say everyone should share, because, it wasn’t their fault, rather than argue over what is right and wrong about not facing down the danger of describing truth in the way of the unimaginably wrong. In this room they try to lie about their skunkwerks, how their karma works.
They say if one has brought down the entire group’s state of life? Then they must own it. Owning it is painful, humiliating, humbling. It feels like starting over for no good reason for most of the room. Reduces one’s estimation of what they deserve as well. But if one can get away without suffering, by lying about what they’ve done, done to this group’s fate, then all the unpleasant and unfair and uncanny units of suffering seconds may be dealt with by the whole group instead of one who has decided the entire room’s innocence must lose out to an unforgivable danger in life made by making a bad choice then lying about taking for granted the consequence in violating the taboo of taking on an immoral stance of commenting a wish for evildoing on the fate of an innocent individual. This is the bullshit and injustice of a diabolical destiny swap. It is a playacting manipulation of the facts to form false hope and unreal truth in a tone of voice that freely selects another’s tragedy for the other even when the blameworthy’s honest actions and words represent the problem purely. But if the evildoer can assign their assassination victim the evil eye, the funny eye, there is a chance the voice of the people will make real the rearrangement wherein a silent invisible suffering is made to pay only through sending the suffering unto another frame of mind trapped in a false reality of a labyrinthine loop in the too hot and the too cold made possible through invoking unnecessary distraction and spark devised by setting alight falselyenspicedspumesofdemoninducingdrama.
Sacrifice says, I can bring you any power you prefer if you pay for it. If you want it bad enough then you must know you are going to get it.
Except he’s never asked for any chameleon to come from his voice box so he could perfunctorily venture onto this other side of this shadow of truth, where they said they were working on building a better life.
For a long drawn out time he did not know why he knew why he’d best not alter his tone’s enunciation, conform to their particular spoken parameters. See, if he speaks, wants for anything, then it’s said like he has to have it. Have what? Have the tone take the shape and form of his and this truth told in the magic of all his nocturnal summers combined.
This nocturnal summer shimmer activation asks of his stars in this cosmological superstation of innerillumination the real truth of one big thing. What’s the primary problem underneath most night’s moonlight?
When they tell him that it is him they hustle him into his demise. Himself. His self. He is the real problem here. Why? He is pressure. He pressures and he applies the wrong kind of pressure on everybody. He’s the problem with everybody. The common combusting emotional terrorist whenever there is a problem. We sure, how so? They say he pushes all people around to the point where he takes all their power away. Although his whole life they’ve told him he’s way too sensitive? Today they’ve decided that tonight they’ll tell him that he’s not sensitive enough to say what he says is too good to not fodder eternal flames if this is how his fiery salvation forging looks in the end. He’s said that they are mistaken. He’s said their primary problem is they make up their own hallucinatory problems then they say he’s the one that’s been a problem.
The very first time he wandered into wondering if maybe he was not the terrible problem person they said he was was when he was there and there was a beautiful woman visiting from New York with two white horse head earrings of lithe thickness and an elephantine diameter they all called, Unicorn, once she left their presence. When she’d spoken up she caused a timeline shift in everyone’s lives. Less spoken language she made more moves in a vision of her version of the truth’s violence when she invoked a divine wrath forthcoming for in many ways she said she had a problem with some one thing present. She wanted to forever part ways with a personality trait she’d unwittingly adopted, a thing wrong-minded, she called, endlessemotionaldeaththreatening, and essentially it sounded like, you must do this or you will get that. Although there is never not present a pernicious emotional plot to gain the prize of power in any kind of relationship between two parties? Problems that these two have tonight are now nor were not once introduced by the pressure of his presence. If there is a problem, they are the problem, is his point.
Since he knows how everyone should see better and see more and see more clearly by the end of this new novella, and that he can prove that these people problematicize themselves, freely, that they’re racked by the fear of social pressure. He’s not immune to the charm of admitting he’s always up for a romanticized mystery before looking for retaliation when they’ve for so long gone unchecked as they have accused him of acting as their one production of fear, their pressure. The singular source of their pressure. It wasn’t his fault that it all happened like this, but, they think they can call him, pressure, and get away with it. They think they’re telling him off if they’re entitling his fresh entry the wrong kind of energy. Saying it’s always sounding wrong and always going farther diminishingly deeper south for him if they can take the micturation when they mislabel, miscategorize, deliberately misunderstand his sense of sensibility until they can call his sense of right and wrong a problem too incurably incorrect. He thinks they’re under pressure they’re lying about having self-produced. Unless they come after him, he’s under no pressure, duress, because if he’s always afraid of pressure? He couldn’t afford any vulnerability or his taking any one chance he might dare do one thing to lose power’s social influence.
Taking the plunge by telling the truth about what he would not talk about as if he’s arisen by imbibing the actual antidote for what was once the demoralization of undoing one’s demonic dirty work deterring him from doing the right thing. The right thing they know he knows is they won’t begin admitting they don’t tell the truth, don’t tell the truth about their real problems, and that that’s their true problem. Not him. They’ll tell him no truth then they’ll trust only the tentacular touch of their deceitfulness’ shittalking when he comes around. What overactive overarching deceitfulness do these tentacles spread amongst the crowds to destroy his name’s reputation? That even if he’s writing everything honest, eliminating personal fear by being as honest as he can get in the hope he’ll have his honesty come impossibly close to its real apogee on the page, that he always remains not in the right, and not once right in his writing, and not right about anything. Why do we want to write the story we share with the rest of the world? It’s empowering. It’s what history’s victors have done. The power of a top of the line performance in a perfect paragraph’s flow’s that a single statement can seal the entire world’s fate the way it wants.
They’ve said, “No don’t listen to what he has to say to you about yourself. You’d do best if you ignored him. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s crazy and he only wants attention. He’s not a good person. Everything kind he does is an act of manipulation since he’s a thief and a lier and he’s only doing this for himself.” This evening we’ve the end of this false exhibiting of him as emptyheadedrhetoric. Their wish for his downfall meets four pyretic flashpoints ablaze on four corners of the coffin they carry across their backs as he calls back all his misappropriated energy and they deal in karma they cannot withstand.
Lotus flower pedals must bloom from atop muddiedswampwaters. Swampland swallows all the above. They showed themselves when they said they wanted him to perform a ritual of public admonition wherein he says everything he’s ever said about his life is a gigantic lie. But that’d be lying. In fact his consistency is all he needs to probe their deceit and prove he’s long since been correct in how he proves his work can make all and sundry and anyone and any someone look way worse than very bad to other people if he works his tail off while this other part of the rest of the world he’s no hand in must again and again wait until no one is watching so they can slack and take a shortcut. His working smarter and not harder looks different than theirs and they say that he erring when this of his says his personal taste looks better than what they’ve been doing for too long now to backtrack. His work ethic might be the gift they don’t know how to wrangle through talking shit about it. This might be the only thing they hate more than what they can’t learn or take off of him, his envy-inducing energy making secretly dishonest cornercuttingcheaters look far worse than they feel when they’re honest.
He resents that they recast reality wrong when they’re talking about him. They have not had his problems and so when they say here is his problem, they’re wrong by ignoring him when he says they’re wrong about him. An so goes the loophole and trapdoor and terrible tourbillion of participating in a perpetual motion machine he wants no part of because he always leaves with less than he started with.
This is an argument between him and them about who is and who is not using the right words for the truth. His truth. This argument for truth is not only on whose word choice is better but which side of this argument’s words are far better for the world.
Contrasting opinions are stymying contraptions for the subject of the contradictory discussion. This is more than name calling, losing rights to a spiritual calling card, this is calling out how we decide what behaviors shall now become a social contraband.
Everybody knows we know what we know because we know one must do the work or not do the work so we don’t mistakenly value the lie of the one making light of what grace comes from doing the work. This is heart, this is in his heart, this remarkable remark-making and hustling that he harnesses in his hands, this is his first very big thing, big reason, big motivation. And it is the first big thing they fight, think they fight, when they fight against him, and when they fight against his word. What are they fighting for? A future in which they never have to admit they were wrong about his character, his truth, all parts of his name. They didn’t have to do him dirty the way they did so they fight against a time when they’ll let him win them over as he holds fast onto the love they can give him forever while he only ever holds onto the good parts of his mind’s better gems as he may have his sensitivities reign supreme, and untampered-with, so he’s sure he’s won his night for his next day.
They say they can see him coming, say they see what he wants to do to everybody, and that they see what he’s doing. They say he says to them how he’s in the wrong when he says he can’t do anything wrong.
See what it is with them is how if he wins anything worth anything from doing everything he wants? Then they have to and they can’t help but come after him too hard and his soul too fast. They want his whole entire head for gamesmanship removed. He can’t have that when all they do is show extra cards tucked up through the threads and patterns of their misleading tattoo sleeves. He can’t actually be good at playing and overruling the game arunning.
If any one of them upsets his intuitive equilibrium, he’ll catch the pressure apurl his heart. And not only is his heart in the know now, he knows too how knowing thyself is his since forever key to learning how other people work out how they live, so he can find his variety of living, and when he’ll actually also get triggered, he primes his reactions after, and he begins dodging more social emotional pain the very split second their first and second and third and fourth agitations wave their small sonic handguns underneath the hot air below his earlobes. Usually it all begins to snowball into madness arguing it is sanity whenever he speaks up and says something honest and real and they show him why they tell him why it’s a good thing that they’ll together try ruining his day. When does this happen? Usually whenever they think they’ve the free time to lend him a hand in slashing and burning everything he has that’s his.
And why do they act this way, when he’s here, under his volition, and when he’s effortlessly undoing their humiliation ritual’s diseased monitoring? This is their problem. He knows this is their problem. They clearly don’t see what they’re doing wrong. Makes one problem multiply into more problems until it’s many more problems that they then expect he will say he has yet to but will admit he has to deal with on the spot. Deal with, why, now, though? Who are these sillier animus-overdosing pretty petty people he’s surrounded by in this present scenario’s ruinous moment of antisacrosanct? It’s pretty much anyone and anybody from and of an official or unofficial organization who has actively told or announced to him that they are now or have just had or have always had any kind of problem or problems with him personally. There are problems with his personality so they’ve a problem with him personally. This is their problem. Is it his problem? Is he the problem? Almost never. Who solves this problem?
They will. They will do everything. Don’t worry. But because they share their feelings when they explain why he’s giving them all of their present problems, might be wise if we believe him when he shows us what’s wrong with how they’ve tried solving his problems for him. This we can call his side of the story. Don’t try stopping him mid-sentence.
Most of them make the same emotional shapeshifting moves against his personality. Generally they say something along the lines of how it’s always been all his fault he’s had a constant misunderstanding.
If he says he doesn’t understand why they would say that? They’ll say that it’s that. That’s it. He’s noticed what happens is they will act out their part in a ritual of conversational grillwork where through spiritual grilling they will kill for him since he can’t do it himself, they say, what they say is the part of him that presented them with a personal problem.
They wish whiplashing tongue ties for his truth if he triggers their movingtargetinsecurities. When he bothers their spirit they tell him he is the preeminent most problematic part in their personal agony. And so they panic when he doesn’t budge when he can tell they’ve gone too far out of their way to act up by playing false victim against his soul purpose when they play with his heart through this social spiritual grilling ritual that goes almost always just like this, when they begin by saying, he’s the problem, yes, it’s you, all you, you can’t be all of you anymore, yes, the problem is in your personality. This is what all makes all of you the entire problem, your personality is reprehensibly entirely responsible. Your personality did the damage, dug open a grave, did the black magic, yes, you, you did it, you there, so now, do it again, yeah, do it, spell it out, tell us about it, so we can pick it apart, so we can hand what we’ve broken in you back to you still broken so you can sort it out.
How does he deal with all of this pointless empressuring they impose? He asks if they read, what they read, and they show him what they read of him when they do or do not respond. He’ll share how he’s got one of these little pocketbook editions of The Recognitions in his personal library when he talks about why he loves maximalism. He can attest that despite the tiny type face, this one pocketbook edition he totes is surprisingly very easy to read. Of course its transportation is a breeze. He says he considers this one edition the pocket trumpet version. A very charming rarity. Who is most easily read by the wider world? The rarity.
Of course he also knows that when they say they all do care for him deeply they pretend they have control over their deepest feelings for him when they usually don’t have either their honest feeling or his true feelings untangled, unsnagged, understood. It’s all so unusual the value they place in playacting in vitriol to make other people uneasy. Then they act like the way they act, when they act like like he is not or he doesn’t ever let alone actually every moment remind them of how he’s always remained the point after point truth’s living proof of how and why he has at this point all their point of view ready to have them abandon their points of view for a good reason. They have a chance at taking a turn living this life through his personal point of view. It might help? Taking over points of view in a sly symphonic unison of uniting all their unifiable visions by deciphering the invisible in perfected concord with the truest powers produced by knowing that if he gets it right then they love him. They will love him for him when he’s in the novel. In the right light the story is they love him a lot. Unconditionally. Too.
Eventually they ask after him and ask him back and they say, we’re ready for it, so just go on now and unloose all you were dealt when you are ready and please tell us what happened. All readers ask every novel, please, share with us how it happened like it had to happen when you got got. What? You never got got? How did that never happened to you like it happened to me? Didn’t you play yourself? Like I did?
He lives life like he’s a novel, full of contradictions, and they say they’re right that they live life like they’re smart-phones, full of color coded conformities. They don’t see the same things. They look different and look at things and life and each other’s lifestyles different. They ask for a group chat’s casual crowd sourcing and the subtextual camel of this heinous ritual screams at him until his novel perspective’s taken a live or die free kind of strong singlesided perspective on a generic group issue but also sliced off several ego scalps, side-parting the silence like all his actions are authorized for astronomical authority by saying, You fucked around, and you played, you played him, you played with him. So this is what happens when you’ve played with him and other people just like him for too long. Eventually you understand why you deserve what you have even when you suspect you’ve gotten played by a player you didn’t see coming because you didn’t doing your reading and preliminary research. And every time you saw him you forgot about how he’s said he remembers everything, not too long after you thought to do it, yeah, go, sure, do it, push buttons, push his buttons, push the button.
What the fuck was that? Feeling fine? Don’t feel fine? Feel better when? Ahh. You never felt worse? Oh, okay. What is that? Then they’ll ask him, What is that though? An entirely different pressure. Is he this pressure? Is he the pressure? Or are you feeling your pressure? Is he the problem? Or is he doing his best by inadvertently bringing you up to your next best speed? Pressure. You’re sure you’re feeling pressure? Or is what you saw at first in him when you thought him too proud to speak up and you thought aloud about what you might say, might say you got out of him, was there was some deep part of him right there that also knew you desperately needed to know why on some level this could give you some larger subjective unconditional love expression. See he does something, and they say, well he’s not wrong, and if everyone then says in unison, well, he’s not wrong about anything he said, could that be all that God does? See what is that? Playing tricks? No long sleeves. Why’s everyone always assume he’s pulling a fast one when he’s out in the wild? They’ve said he brings something different to their energetics. And what is that?
And what’d they say he has wrong about what’s wrong with him now? They say he acts like his EdwardScissorhandshapinginstincts say they think he transmutes secretive emotional pulse taking dowsing rods when they and he take exotic flight paths over a toodarkenedkeyboard. Does he only want their undimmed undivided attention? Is that what they say he wants? He can’t believe they think he thinks so little of them when he’s talking to what he imagines is their highest self. The problem here with this is he has never once pretended or said he thinks he’s the dark academic popular loner grunge gunslinger of conceitedness, which is exactly where they slate him whenever he has his backed turned.
Why’d he say something disagreeable after they said something he didn’t abide by? Some of them said they didn’t but they did just say they wanted him to feel good about whatall they were taking away from him. All he’s done is show up, all he’s doing is showing up. But some people don’t like how? He shows up? Why? His personal style? His what? There is a pressure? He is pressure. He’s applying pressure. So allowing him to be himself? Is noncopacetic? And on his best days he’s in the wrong? So when they say he’s there in the wrong way, then there is a problem, and he’s a problem for some of them because, what, he’s entirely responsible for the pressure they feel now? What is that kind pressure? What is that? There’s almost too much pressure, they say, and they say, they want him limited. He hasn’t and can’t and doesn’t accept their limitations. So the way he sees it? They act like they are all caught up as cast and cadre of a caughtintheact’s tension. They reside under an unfathomably super intense pressure. And in this type of living they stand out against the background sights and sounds. He can see the palatial entitlements in the lives of their spiritualspacial essences. It’s in their vibes, auras, their glow, and it’s always outlined in an agitated irradiation, it’s a dense embittered black. Like every single printed letter on this page packs an extra lasso of one liquid pass of ink. This is a flowering anger always aligned with an enragement’s energetic characteristic. Their expressions are not charred like coal but they’re built upon sharp strikes, severe streaks, denoted by noticeable contrast.
Since he’s lived through his own blameless black mindset once before. He thinks he knows them in here because he knows what he was doing when his entire life was built in this one way before. When he sees them he sees them different. They can see he sees them different. Whenever he sees them as no different than himself they want him to get closer to themselves so they can look at them. Look close. Like this. And then he looks at them until they see he spots the difference: he sees them better if he can see them using what’s different.
While seeing everything here as if his clarities are only clarified by their contrast he can view their ambles at apparent clearmindedness in notsoclandestinecahoots with the dapper and the dark artistry they wish they could wish upon their victims and outsiders and their enemies without one witness. But it’s all the atomized pieces scattered. This is what they wish were not so horrifically dishonorably abundantly visible.
What is it? These people lack his validation. They know why they hate that he can have good silent reason for why he sees them for what they are. These are the people that have said to him more times than he can count that their days are numbered. That his days are numbered as well, now, too. They say they’re here to never dare let him forget that their and everybody’s days are numbered. That’s their truth. Bluntly. He’s sharp. He’s not short. That’s his truth. He wears a size thirteen but he’s very sensitive and he’s also talkative. He’s quicker when and if for too long the people that say their days are numbered all of sudden pretend they don’t know they’re too slowmoving, too much not aflicker, stuck onto the pinpoint of the often reprised power in a pause and a dearth and a dead spot. There’s this heat but there’s nothing there and he looks away from what too obviously wants everyone’s eyes. If he sees this in here then his not very new sneaker shellfoaminsoles grow stiffer. He has been called, Pressure. He tells people his name is, Pressure. They call him, Pressure, because they’re collectively upset he can spot their then highlight their spiritually polluted pressure points. Too clear why he knows why he thinks about these points of pressure, thinks through his working with his idea of his toes applying pressure until they can illume and remain agleam in a fly blueberry blue ablaze and arun askance all ten half-moon arches. The flow efflorescing. Why? An instinct’ll stick up for him when he’s underneath the high visibility of living and writing under unbelievably intensifying fake social pressure. They say they know his name, they know where he stays, know his drug of choice, so they know what’s best. Best believe he’s on his toes in a place where they’ve said he should have his guard down. If anyone is already reassuring him he’s just fine whenever he’s only just arrived or just recently entered anywhere? He’s ready. Redflaglowvibrationalsavvy. Since he’s been thinking over the best way to do this forever? He’s ever ready. Ever ready forevermore for all of that in particular. The stuff that sticks even after it’s washed off. What’s that? That’s the umpteenth time we’ve alluded to unspoken stuff we know he wishes he would have had improved and clarified. And if further clarified he’d’ve had an improved better way for showing everybody the need for the why of why he’s waving your attention down to what all y’all should by the end of what he has to share now have underlined in all y’all’s own special emotional signal system’s significance. Etched underneath the essential remnants of the hard lessons within how we assign meaning to life through saving, signaling, standing for what matters on our extra levels. Extra meanings. Extraordinary things too the outside world would never believe, would never believe how it begins with how he knows that they call him to call him out. When they call him they call upon his energy and they take it. Take energy’s power off of him then call him crazy every morning. All this is to be reminded of what it was like for them? For what reason? To call him crazy because he’s done having his attention looted? Robbed? See? Listen. If this underworld’s undoing is uncalled-for? Then this is a long letter or a kind of sincere storytellinglikelonglettersorthofthing that he sincerely promises he’ll burn bright in his fireplace. Finished. If no one wants this thing this booked, brought out of the shadows. Then this is how he sets to work on finally finding his way back into trusting the writing side of work he’s yet to do in the TeslaTantricProgram. It’s a life-restoration personal program also known as, The Program. All this? Also known in all circles as working the working part of working a program. Here the program will use a woman’s voice to speak to him. If we’re asking her first? She will say again she wishes he’d die from heartbreak.
Any all-welcoming enamoring end-around of energetic attraction minus promotion practices hard on itself. How it stands. How it handles you when you get here, and how it handles and harangues and hands out all of your unconditional love, pulling you off of all of what the anonymous does without effort. You do not need what the program practices. Focus. Attention. Destiny swapping. Mostly destiny swapping away your better life’s karma so they can afford to swim above the high rising tide of their behemoth karmic taxes long past overdue. That’s there’s and what’s yours is yours. Many program abusers will negotiate micromoneyloanlike soul contracts. If you agree, assent, allow unlimited access to your illuminable resources when you give validation of a personal truth? They destiny swap your witless ass and block your blessings using their destinyswap’d’inflection, belief in their blessings, basically building up a tone of voice shift in a telepathic timeline trend until more than enough of a phantasmal toolboth amount is collected.
And the program practices too on preaching how if one shows and shows up in an authentic energy, eventually, the energetics are endlessly real, otherwise some one part or more parts of it outright openly crash and burn. And we burn anything down if we sense that this one flammability can fail to not ignite and flail as it slowly falls ashflat.
To avoid that crash and burn at the hands of an outside source, well, maybe he’s clocking with an animalemotionalstopwatch when you’re cloaking your energy with a lack of enthusiasm because you suspect someone is not letting on that they have more than one or two things on you, that you could never see coming? Why’s he showing all y’all floating flatline after fatline like it’s decorum this side the Cooper River anyway? He rolls tides in then ties off vessels with no hands, nor tug boats, life in hand in the middle part of the midsection of most all nights’ moonlight. What the fuck is a Southern Suckerpunch? Southern starfire-firestorm-onion layer peeling, by, picking self-improved unpilfered sober enthusiasm. One higher power idea I’d bat about for sport is a subjective universal impression of unconditional love shown through the intersection of illumination you and I now build. But let’s be real about it; we don’t have the same idea right now. So let’s agree this is something different.
He is slightly different. One time he said aloud, in a group setting, “Jonathan Franzen once said he hopes God speaks in a voice like Denis Johnson’s. Fair assessment, I think, since Denis Johnson was in fact a full blown saint. He’s an everyman’s miracle on the page for the modern American if there ever was one.” And then in their stunned silence he assumed he’d not sinned and he went on and went off on a microdose of expanding the tangent when he said, “Denis Johnson was a program veteran too, he never shot himself in the foot, shot his mouth off when turned into the guy who wrote about becoming not the wounded but the guy who watched the other guy pull the knife out of another guy’s face. Denis Johnson’s stuff reads like the experience of sitting in a lawn chair watching a weird kid pull rare and bizarre trinkets and coins up off the bottom of an abandoned yet still swimmable private pool behind a not quite butsoontobecondemned McMansion in suburban Tacoma.” And they all looked at him like would you please put your gun away?
Tonight he knows in his heart of hearts he needs to show her he’d be too capable of being respectful in all social settings not just someone acting like a wild animal. They’ve asked, Where did you get that nice watch? I felt around for it in the feral black. They’ve said, Now watch your step, watch where you walk, the way you walk when you are here as you are here now supposedly entirely open, free, honest. Tell me no more lies or I’ll undo all of your deceit. All this means more than I pray for your safe return. I’m suggesting you hear me say, go well, as this subconscious spiritual warfare is waged wherever one must walk. How willing are you to do everything you can do in your power to get this right? Walking through a laughably explosive landmine every lateral millimeter in every direction made by a maddening make-shift chance at humiliation when metaphysical bear traps ensnare the offhand rumor’s rebound for wishing ill on a type of life beyond the enforceably enfeebled topdog power over the best nudge to know the most about what we’re doing. The right to decide how we can describe the right way to do all things just the right way in these rooms. Undiscussed conversational combat resolutions can almost always alter all revelations and change relations because we deal in revolutions and cycles if one can’t still in the spin drift of the harbingeringslipperyslopeargumentcomingaslantafunnyeye. The funny eye, the evil eye, the right to give others the power to wish for another’s righteous death. We sit through all types of talk. It’ll battle over the back and forth’s acceptable parameters and spiritual principles yet must always come down to no fight for a knife in the mud. This is a which-wolf-are-all-y’all-feeding classic dogfight. An exotic dogfight in the air of our room to determine how we share space. A diabolic dispute over fundamental emotional love and light versus fear and violence. Crosstalk versus no crosstalk gets people hot and bothered and messy. Suppression versus activation, suffering versus thriving survival. Let the newcomer speak versus bully that bullshitter until emotional sobriety erupts from the rubble of how we maul their personality at every stage. Every phase of life’s spiritual development lives here, lives on live-wires, like electric buses, forever rumbling these rooms with memories and reflections retrofitted so they’re only building spiritual immunity. How do we determine as a group how the whole group decides precisely how voracious of a spiritual suffering someone must endure to set their soul free from an accursed self-imposed infliction, disease, addiction?

I’m sponsored. I’m terrified I tried figuring everyone out for way longer than was necessary. Like I knew of some unspoken necessary evil’s pet project. Yet everyone, and, as I get a little bit older than pre-middle aged, and just turning emotionally twenty two all over again at thirty two because we could say on this March Sixth day I got sincerely serious this time about being sober, sponsored like I’m finally trying to and finally I’m all on my own actually threading and feathering every line like I’m not lying. I’m with you and together we’re tying my scattershot shotgunning spiritual racketballs into combusting but immoderately well sculpted, chiseled, digital etchings of detailed molded molten tennis shoes with double knots preloaded and locked on for once. We’re free of the spite if we’re on the pulse. We’re fresh off the rack aglow within the blame games, and we know now how grit if giving off the right energy, even if it is recycled out of social superglue and emotional rubber arsenals I’ve on hand? It’s all as real as reality if it is curiously thoughtless and effortless as all of those offers of offsetting hopes and dreams I’ve fielded and read from how what has been said is said now by all of those that I know, and know I know I also know they’ve never ever been towards me respectful, the way I am towards them. I’ve been too fearfully everoverrespectful out of dread of a nameless belief for whatever I wanted like I couldn’t just take it. Take it like I’m taking it now, calling my shot, like so what? So. So what? So what now? What next? I’m of the opinion I’m in no way and nowhere near close to no longer resentful towards what used to be my kindness kill streak, my kind of opinion development buzz saw, and how most people thought you’ve gotta be kidding me when they saw these nightly sightlines say what most of the outside thought were laughably unrealistic lies to self of what survives in line after line if it’s in any way enamored or engraved by largess and or a grandiose special grade of personally imprinted preinstallment where I’m not only kind of lost if I don’t use this like I need this and need it like I need it and now I know I know what this is, is, too, like what it is, is, that, when I say I know why I need it. Then it’s this. This. Only this. This is what I’ve held onto. This is what I’ve had to and needed to hold onto, which is why any and every and many may ask, which is exactly what? The way I’m holding tighter onto my bulletproof belief that now that I know better I know the better moves of my now not-so non-fine-printed dark daemon habit has a bait and switch of a habitat. It’s life verifies how habit has a life of its own. Even if hidden underneath your social armor, your class, charm, charisma, your social character, now that I know you know I’m on the move and I have a pulse in your world, I have balanced bounce to brighten the contours and best all disbelief, deceive falsely-presented heartbeats if what I set alight also knows I know, right here, when I’m right here I’m in the right out there, that here is where I’m more than good for myself. And that not only was I right I should love believing if I still believe in what this is, how you’re not now pretending you’re not also cardinal-sinningly-ever-incurious toward subconsciously forever curing by the, for me it’s always done much better if it’s a non-drunk day after another non-drunk, day, before another non-drunk day, and caring for a spiritual gangster’s young wannabe internet’s entrepreneurial mobster tunnel-shorn monstrous shootingstar personal self-improving investment posturing, perched on the probability of and authenticity, of, what’s howlingly obvious that you must do, say, what you want, and then completely forget about knowing it comes down to, well, then, we’ll see.
It’s not it is what it is when it’s what it is is actually what it looks like. Looks like where there’s smoke there’s smothering sobriety gambits I run during saintly haint blue house visitations, where I make sure my living looks like it’s more ruthless than recovery if my enthusiasm is turned off. If my enthusiasm is turned off it’s like I’m next then never not prone to do everything I do like I’m burned out by being bummed out to do it, so therefore silently burned by at least one of my learning disabilities or addictions plus my indomitable memories holding hostage the honest, honestly better attempted ways I speak for you in person on the page. I hate how it feels to know every day I need more than fresh air, sunlight. A wild animal lifestyle of abnormal day after day’s civility-less levels, are, even if mostly cleaned and or covered up, living in liability guaranteed. Therefore, daily I ask strangers, will you please set my eyes straight. Yes, please, thank you, yes I’m grateful to be here. And I’m there every day. And I never find myself too particularly impatient nor amped to say why I don’t do anything in the rooms. And that’s because I’m tainted with an abruptly high-functioning high-stress high-quality sensitivity tactician’s war-chest. As an additive I’ll add that when I add my personality’s more than sometimes twitchy twist on tempting my sanity over the trip-wire, the line of, hey, look at me, now, hands up, I’ve got the burner aboom, abloom, speaking, soothsaying, storytelling. It’s like I’m living like I like it that I love knowing I know I never take a break from knowing when I’m on, then, of course, then I’m the on-fire kind of, ON, and, on, like I’m only scoring points by roaring through surreal predetermined ever-evolving full blast bantering brought out of my voice at three times twice-light-speed the exact wrong moment I need the exotic dogfighting holstered and diffused and safetied. I let things rip if it’s potent, poetic, recent, and I shred decency past mad-decent if I’ve set it up right. Or I sit back and I relax and I accept my surroundings and situation and your thresholds for your problems around certain portions of the proper use and purpose of the public setting. Onto week six of my sobriety, I finally accept I must actually accept that at any time I may find I’m not sure if I’m in the wrong, or I’m all the way right when my animal deliberately or maybe imprecisely too emphatically impolitely jackhammers free my supremely empyreal stance on enriching subjective impressions of life like it’s live or die how I live, forever compulsively refining why I’m right when I’m re-redefining my universal standards on throttling my gift for gifting go-getting, or my connection to my gifts for whatever this is within the blood sport of juddering you to your next best bet at scaling back or setting in stone how you thought provoke to instigate spirit that’s at least what I think when thinking that’s it, that’s right, that’s the spirit, my alacritous self-sentencing to sling sentences that make me believe I think I’ll throughout more than just today not want to pick up a drink. For the love of god my sobriety is a gift, a calling, it’s writing itself alive.

Can he do anything he wants? Why let him off easy? Is this special treatment we’re seeing? Really? Really what’s happening’s a lot of things. During any of his many unpredictable moods these days, one may find him silent. Silent at first until there is time enough to spare and witness the fire and flash and goodhumoring too relevant. And anyone willing and open and up for it could find their present time a delight with him. And delighted with him, delighted as though he were gifting you rolling presentation bound for going outside, giving you the sun one moment before you’re ready. So then you and him could see if you were ready for him when he’s a dune buggy most effortless to drive over copious silken silver sand dunes in Morocco. While in the next moment for several more hours before one thought he’d tire? A glamorous Formula One world-related gourmet dinner made possible through the stop and start of a personal, reliable, swift Lamborghini bookended evening in a moderate nocturnal weather near Monaco. Undoubtedly redoubtable. Real trouble. A man of exclusively kineticmagneticmuscle is one that can put together anything. Everyone thinks he can pull anything off. You don’t even know what he wants half the time and you root for him. Why? One look at him, you say, I did wobble and totter there for a bit. But I fell forward in love with the beautiful mystery of the world again.
When he was eighteen he ran a simulated senior political science class presidential election campaign to completion, and an extra letter grade of extra credit, under the Libertarian ticket. Delivered California one month before election day, some might say, by using his best idea for the time and place, the era and mood, the real and the true, which was a sniper-rifling popularity ploy wherein he banked on ambushing the bland expectations of the first high school classroom smart boards. It was a Snoop Dog rapping audio snippet from Nuthin’ but a “G” Thang in a commercial wherein the team’s hyperbolic presidential candidate, and her entire campaign staff danced out of the open top of a purple droptop Micheal Scott Chrysler Sebring in bright blue beshuttered shades before the heiress daughter of the local seven elevens, ABCDE (ABsehhdee) danced her ticket’s apparatus unto the swagger of the oval office, hypothetically awarded a throne of sorts overlooking Green Lake and Aurora by embracing its carful of purple convertible acclamations.
He’s not in your local newspaper anymore. He’s ghost writing a Formula One cheater fan’s vouchsafe for this weekend’s best silk white lineaments showcase throughout all Charleston, South Carolina porch and rooftop parties staged in the shapeshifting gallery lines of lower case Monegasque translated by Americana dress codes. He’ll provide notes for three points, Post Qualifying’s Pre-Race, Qualifying Position vs. Grand Prix Finish Prediction, Power Ranking forecasting the full season narrative and bonus late rumor from a murkysillyseason’d underground.

You just can’t do certain things in the South in public. Like scream a rebellious caterwaul, ON THE RIVER, after finding the third eight on the river in a full house after going all in with just two pair unsuited. Not with everyone watching you can’t pull that off. Only Hank Williams calls that shot and nails it on the modern seacoastal cowboy’s lost highway. Live well. Go to hell. Go well. And he’ll be the first to admit he’ll admit he can’t keep from wishing he would trust you enough so he could tell you everything. And once long ago he thought thinking he was intoxicated by loving a woman could only sound silly said aloud. Square, not inscrutable, undutiful. And praising it aloud mostly meant asking for its destruction in half his life’s hard love lessons learned. Everrefined wellbalanced breathtaking emotional swings never not overpowering? Couldn’t admit that aloud until last night. He’d accepted endless obvious standard things about the contents and the quality of his daily routine’s rain or shine ritual. There’s a ravenlookalike everywhere he walks in mild doom and gloom too now that he’s accepted how his Pacific Northwestern nonobvious political intellectual accent in Charleston, South Carolina means his one way into unbreviloquent bravado isn’t brandied. But a good day came come from personal control in how it all comes down to showing off the strength to fight again against each and every single day. It’s just that thing. So what if he thinks it makes him think about it too much and how whenever it glows in him it’s like he’s in the sun, he is the sun. Different. Simple, standard, lamplit or electrified, dark or light, pride or unconditional love, it makes not one big bit of difference. In love in the South, a valkyrie, a vixen, a pixiemanicdreamgirl of a transubstantiation walking billboard of a loving man says come knock me off my block unless another man thinks you could actually kill him. Maybe he assumed wrong for more than long enough he was prohibited from the real thing, and that he was wise enough to know he wasn’t only sentenced to living in and through an unrelenting though inconstant threat of terror from his giving an unconditional love to a woman if he knew he was in love with her and she could see it. One thing they had in common was making the other one question which one was more attentively picking up on everything the other one was doing, thinking, when they shared roomspace with a group of people. Like every girl I meet is gonna think it’s them when I get to where I’m going? It’s not appropriate behavior to show people you observe everything. What do you mean by that? Really though. If you can without a second glance intuit you should self-camouflage, self-reflexively, carefully, slide in other options in the room, the sun, the sky, the screwed and chopped skirting kind of enhazed-y-lazy-eyes? I can see an eyecontact magnifying maximalism, a colorful double-barreled cropcirclewideeyed field fox the precisely refulgent color of the wheat fields where I met you in another lifetime. So what if when you think you can catch me not looking back at you without you thinking to yourself minus your interior monologue you’ve waited then caught me not blatantly openly lying about how much I know you’re paying attention. Say what you want said, I’ve heard everything already.

In the side eye of a different perspective she reads to me in person like something I have to write about to understand. What I’ve already misunderstood is why I’m rewriting the animal-reclaiming mythology of an exotic jungle cat if the only way I get it done is if I’m characterizing its essentials by its using an unsung yet supremely bewitching Little Prince version of an inclination toward paragraphs not petite but poetic. An always amalgamating full grown feminine adaption aware she’s at times and to everyone entirely masqueraded by a main primary text perfectly hiding other scripts outside a library of things I’ve learned about love. Things I’ve learned while overhearing conversation from the margins of a not-so-made-secret-humiliation from a granddaughtered Alfred Hitchcock adaptation of modern female narcissism, where, when it works, when it’s what I said it was, successfully terrifying, her essential quality, essence, is not unlike sacred alchemy’s arch chameleon because she can persuasively reconfigure any maquillage, moniker, namesake, she could make it socially justifiably feral for fun, when actually what I’ve found is just the opposite, she has to have this in her heart, and her fearless confidence gives her a life saving language. Well timed contrast kicks a door off its hinges. This way is different. This one is different. This is not only part of but is more than always how good things align.

The little boy’s emotional woundings he knew he was from then on hellbent on healing surfaced afresh with both hands cuffed in a rural North Carolina police station waiting room the color of a muddy river. Just man again not ready to be his own father because he couldn’t stop getting drunk. Getting drunk and getting behind the wheel of a car, on the job. Good lord please stop this bullshit, son. I know you’re out there now. Take it from me, you’re not protected by anything at the wheel, if you’re at the wheel of any vehicle, because you may be cursed to crash, ever think of that? His library, his ego, his perfectly apportioned stash of long term investment doesn’t try yet absolutely shows off the other side of the word, erotic, in the South nothing can die if isn’t cold enough, if we’re defining, erotic, through a deep coastal Southern ecological lens, sense, what makes seem a passion for superstrictlystructuredsensibilities run the gamut of sensible. In time, I see why you’ve done what you’ve done because of what you and I know about what we’re sure we’re convinced the other has done. Enough, time, here, what makes sense goes easiest on the verdant, whether that’s an haint blue or white car to reflect back the frolicsome forces of personal evil misused. If you wear black a lot you may have a problem you can’t prove. So I’m in and out of and in too deep and gone from a lot of so many differently angelically shaped shades of reddening empurpled back porch beauty queen vistas everywhere I go when I’ve brought about generous gratification delayed. Works well for me is how I’d say it mostly feels until self-will’ll whiplash some hidden soft spot with a less than laughably light-hearted MF DOOM riptide of a toe-tagging-toe-grabbing zinger of an adage I’ll run azag the rippling pillowsoft of a compassionate conversation captured, like I’m kind of going off like some cocky Kanye West again, but it’s like I feel like I’m on some, some dreams stay dreams some dreams come true, and clobbering the hook’s balance because the beat is too hot and every shot is fresh and the hype is real like it’s the use of the hashtag and not the soul-dragging use of the word, hashtag, sold too smooth inset the major league manifestation, as if he’s made every unhealed version of himself he meets within everyone else into the good music foundation on a perfectly-oddly-offset pitching opinion he’s primed so you forget it’s pitched up and not the original soul sample on an obscure Nas track he produced because he was ready. Ready. Right. New level, new devil, new red dress. You’re never ready for the wild, wild horses of why the inexplicably insane thought patterns of all the ways you can work to the way it’s often almost always been entirely your fault are wild; that’s why you stop when it’s going well enough, so you can talk about it tomorrow having survived your homemade death trap. The horrible horseshoeing and work of working through why conditional love couldn’t cut it when you said you cared about yourself, as a backbone for spiritual recovery, is a fucking foolsgoldish errand of self-will, self serving, self-seeking. All the reading I’d ever done until I picked up a novel called, Underworld. Heading out through these parts, this part of my subjectivity, just so no one is worried, please know, out east beyond the Blue Ridge Mountain shadows, you’ll always suspect on some unsaid level the humbling of summer humidity says you’ll need an otherworldly good as divine storm of a reason for any kind of ultimate sacrifice to make what plays right ad infinitum. What shall fall before no spiritual weapon formed against it. This land says, You’ll have my respect when the devil tells you the truth. She once said every time you give me validation it’s the greatest rush in the world. And then she said, “Every time you don’t stop and say hello you hurt my feelings. Will you stop ignoring me, please? So what if you’re overeagerly ungunshy whenever you’re talking with me? I like a little and a lot of lion roar in a man. No offense? Stop hiding. You act like, depending on the day’s repertoire, every single thing seems like a set-up designed to ruin your reputation. You think we want you acting all foot-shot-off when you’re around other people who can see what’s happening since you’ve probably not accepted you self-assigned too much personal blame in some similarly stimulated environment. Why you don’t remember the false red flag characteristic of whatever it was that warranted the wickeder why of the why in why you worry over some too vague personal erroneousness inset your true spiritual flow, before having enough time to learn you should’ve probably stopped thinking of this whole right here, right now, like that thing from before? You know what I think, you’ll soon think less of why you worry why you’re not living in the warp of whatever’s back there anymore, you’re here now, healed after the fact from losing how you thought but now you got to know by now you were never a terrible person because once when you tried the wrong thing, it was the last time you were innocent, you were scarred the very first time you were scared to be a good person.”

When he doesn’t believe in his success he will slouch. He doesn’t hate his mother because he understands why she made her choices. He doesn’t understand why his choices seem to trigger her demanding and draconic unusually unpredictable laconic-action-daemons inviting his limited patience for more time from him whenever he knows they know he more than believes more in his choices if he’s transparently re-staining emotional glass windows as he triggers the demons attached to hers though, her choices. Once he’s ready to go there’s no way your word against his will hold him back because he’s high strung like that for good reason. He tells the truth when he resists the temptation to try on a personally-treasonous terror for sport, for etiquette designed to minimize how he’ll best arrange his range of subjective universe possibility. He’s way too wary whenever girls pretend they’ve no interest. He’s dressed himself well, what the fuck is wrong with you, say hello. Trust eventually says, You can’t before knowing someone for a while just demand someone else has already healed all of their emotional wounds. Even the Deep Coastal South Idrinktoomuch Ican’tquit young people of Charleston, South Carolina have to reinvent the underground culture every once in a lifetime. In a while I’ve learned why here and now I’ve met my family and my soul tribe from another lifetime beyond this one. One we all said we got to by traveling through the fourth dimension of a daily twenty four of a program buoyed by the promise of unconditional love because we do freely admit we can’t just do it all, not any one of us, by any of our selves. He knows exactly when his ears turned, sharpened. He was three years old and he felt like for some reason he had to but didn’t feel the balance of the just right and well-timed emotion to ask his mother to sing him an every night emotional routine goodnight song about the amazing animals of the world because she was one foot out the door and he saw she had another pathway worth attending, but his request for standard emotional support would steer her away from what was instinct. It was a strongsupergranularsensitivitysentuphisspine from a spiritual notion when and wherein a singular moment he noticed a distinct change in her behavior because he probably wrongly assumed he thought she thought he was already more than old enough, that he didn’t need the music from the song anymore, he could do it himself, if he wanted to hear its melody, which then began a question/answer itching, and a wish, and a never-ending second wind of a bottomless desire for digging through the mellifluous mystery that had him in love, the threshold he’s sure of, that thing, yes, that thing, that thing that says, “Goddamittman. You know it when you fumble the bag into the jackpot right down the line. That’s the way I wanted that one to walk, to work out. It’s all in place and please watch the way you design your emotional silhouette for when I can’t wait to see you again. There’s a time and a place and I get why people think a.i. can write a real love story. I think the fuck not. Fuck outta’ here. Or at any rate that’s the idea.” What the hell does that mean? That’s the idea anyway. Although, just saying, for thirty two years he never asked the opening inquiry, Am I the problem because I’m interpreting things wrong? Do people love me more than I’m willing to admit and that’s why I can get this shit going? Still here. Deeper in the right style? I’m still on my mind every time I speak because I can hear what I say. Why does that work? Why does that do it for me? Well - tenth dimensional unicorns couldn’t drag me away. If you could see someone else’s highest good from the point of view of what you expect is their highest power more clearly than you could see your own through self-defensible instinct? Then, first, IYKYK, before you got here, freed from privacy, you might’ve wanted to accept that you have a chance at someone you’re in love with. Send me a text first and then I’ve a dope fresh take on the free desire of exiting the text message of, please put printer paper on the grocery list for my flight’s checklist, where we’re talking about how and why these are the things we need. I’m in my season of instructing all y’all to never not stop eavesdropping. Everything he’s writing he writes like it’s a unfuckwithablepowergrab. Who does that? An emotionally supercharged voice that can back up the way he walks like he can do anything he wants.
Why are you waiting for the next wave? Are you wet behind the ears? Meet him farther out here now or go there at your leisure and all on your own time. Three seasons, fifty day months, eight times per year. Holidays my own. How does he go from well that’s very embarrassing to now well there we go overnight? He does what it takes to get it right. His story is that he’s a commercialfreeneonsign for his desperate wish to meet himself in you when you bring out of him the most interesting man of conversation in these rooms so he’s never ever forced into a word where he must elevator pitch himself in today’s acceptable jargon standards, because day to day styles and tastes change while his language enlarges the endlessness of his private universe. His sponsor is an evil karmic masochist if he’s reverting to the old way of doing things. South Carolina summer starts in springtime and smells cerulean. Bird twitters wriggle. Planes overhead wield propeller chops that come across down below as open-ended. Every ceiling fan in motion shows off a lion’s mane as its arc sets out to align in a never-ending sun flowering.
Even if my hands itch, I won’t back down, pick up anything like the cigarette crutches I’ve picked up watch everyone watch them burn. Downtown Charleston, outside my favorite evening meeting, and again my sponsor and I play at liberating fearless polymathmatical proclivities while plain-spoken tipsy tourist pedestrians pay more than top dollar for premier paranoia produced by the haunted prison tours. Guides trudge through the same scripted sensationalizing for coin and card and credit. They take off from across our side of the street nightly at three, five, seven, eight, and eleven. My sponsor loves to show up every night after reminding both of us how we’ve earned out seats in this meeting. We’re better off if we accept we don’t have a choice in this anymore. We have to be here, completely present for this gift, even if we’re terrified.
They say with their eyes and their body language, “You’re acting way too cocky. There’s just no way you’re gonna last.” There’s just no way I’m doing this if I’m not having fun using an unlimited spiritual confidence fully loaded. And the entire program I’ve prepared on this paragraphic depth charge after depth charge is made by fearlessness found in most all nights’ moonlight, see, when things can slow down, after things get altered by what is not and has never been arrogance, but clever confidence, as a rule we abstain from alarm. Desperation can no longer suffer mislabeling or a manufactured made meaning handed the wrong perspective in anyone playing con near and far to digging deep. Though they’ve never known anyone who has done what you have done they know someone who has done something just like what you’ve done. And they’ll indirectly turn your unflattering unbreakably warped beast modalities into those of one beast of a world of a difference-maker. Consider if you’re destabilized by your confidence in your clairaudient consciousness if you have faith you know what you’re talking about.

When it’s good both his home and his home group grows his spirit to the point where he knows what he means when he throws loose in the lasso of the hyperbole’s sobering horseshoe result. Admitting that this life I live in the novel is actually better than being an underground rapper’s favorite street corner preacher. All depends on the night before. What I had to help me get ready for doing this day like I’ve done it ten thousand times before the DMTwormholehighjumpingmicroflash is somewhat perceptible. Not perfect, never that, only perceptible. Somewhat. But in some way the kind of day I’m having depends on who we’ve manning the present American dialect’s social and silent editing powers. And if it’s not either Archangel Michael and Archangel Raphael enwreathing the curves, these illuminated articulations, the atomized but assembled by finding ourselves in the action of our flow on the wind shape on the linguistic middle twentieth century rooted new Bentley backs of our too durable duality’s double-helix in steadfast silent conjunction with the blessing of the other twelve archangels as well? Well-then-I’m-convinced this thing is an uncommon constellation of a personality helping me help myself. A living energetic personality so large it is bigger than the self I’ve felt from long before. A personal constellation immersed in the larger than life universe of language. A lifestyle we’ve taken for what’s large enough to lead us into mythology. Mythology most freely American, revolutionary, not any more or less than the humble hard work of keeping your word after a handshake for a long-term bet on simply empowering the meanings made between two spiritually well prepared people willing and able in the present unabashedly wide open way they’ll learn to weave through the ability to love the work of loving this life in a living written scripture set ablaze through an arsenal of careful, precise, conditions, under which one can work to achieve a new way to a dive and rise for a way to advise for a life lived care-free. A month-measured mythology he’s sure he prioritizes for personal reasons. He makes his mythology make amends for bad ideas he’s matched his old energy with and works with more when it makes waves where he walks. Does he have one hand on his veil-piercing head in the clouds for every moment in his kind of social shape-shifting where he won’t and can’t ignore how the anonymous is with him on this blue marble shining bright the haint blue neonsignofanowyouknowwhattodonext. This is something else.
Trying to be yourself can sound like you’re trying to be someone else. Being fresh is as simple as living like this is best version of me you’ve seen yet.

The oldest ego trick he cradles like a wounded lion is believing most people cannot believe how they treated him while in his presence, when he was really there, when all they know afterwards is an absence. Flat-out playing like he’s not noticed you’ve tribalshittalkeddragged his name through your typhonic tourbillion after cyclonic tourbillion of too muddied cigarette smoke while playing the truth off like silly puddy, saying but acting like he’s not a self-assigning-self-directed new version of selfdirectionannointing until he’s sure we’re all sure he’s sharpening now how he’s sharpening a sharpshooting kind of kind and restlessly productive good version of himself getting good and better at getting it done down the line like he’s earned it on purpose. It’s done. What have all of us noticed about what makes it worthy? We’ve first fewer stray marks befouling every living surface of where we’ve worked all this out. This is the realgemencrusted Royal We come to life in our daily life.

She says you just can’t help yourself when he walks in the room. She gives him Sade’s sweetest taboo vibes because he knows she says with her eyes she’s trapped by regaining communal approval her Daniel Island family receives for her sacrificing her reality by living trapped in Southern social values that’d uplifted the movie star era of the GOP’s seventythrougheightiesswaggerbombing. Looks good enough to be on camera every time she’s in the room. Doesn’t take a day off, just like him. And he can only vouch for this vision’s verifiable keepsafes. But out of courtesy to the common reader, here’s a primo prior disclosure. He’s far past deciding if this is real or not. He can’t give into anything and he cannot stop believing he cannot control how wrapped up in anything unnamable he’ll want to lean into until it’s unmanageable because at least it’s not solving life-problems with no hope of any sort of any short shot in the dark. Truth is that he was once and he is and he has always been addicted to reviving himself from the slow march to death that is insistently insisting on parsing present personal problems. Trust me. Honestly. Truth is this though, this is his realest inebriation. Trust. This instance and that instance of these internettediterations of itemizing one’s surrounding environment. To trust that the truth tries to bless by believing there is holy water in the chips of golden spraypaint is an authentically inebriating thought aloopment of unconditional love. An allencompassingallotmentofassortedself-alliances-forged-through-observation. Wanna know why? You know why you blur the lines you blur. What are your boundaries? Oh, good. Why? Truth be told I knew what I saw at first because the first time she had a chance I didn’t ask for what reason could she wanna show him every part of all of that? And who else sees what you’re comfortable with showing off? Entirely? Why would you do that in front of me right now this one way in particular is not up for contest nor review. And it’s not any kind of problem. Not for me. What here needs wisely widening open spacing when it looks or works wrong? This is the time to be all of what it wants to become. The white space where the words vanish underneath the veil of this white vixen. Starshiningcurlicue in a classic neon Cocoa-Cola sign. If you’re suddenly overwhelmingly afraid of showing your real emotions on the surface of your personal character because of your surroundings then you’re asking dark deep illusion what this trench is for, why it’s happening, why you’re not doing anything. She wants your attention but doesn’t have it and so she’ll do anything she can to get it back again. She has every right to be mad but she shouldn’t be doing the shit she’s doing. Why is she making this next to impossible? Because if there’s at least any problem between you and her, she can hold onto you and her.

The way she speaks she says everything to him like she’s saying everything to him in a dream they’re sharing. And that when he first arrived she thought he was in these rooms for an emotional release, the pink cloud for some time, then lurid emotionalrelationalsocialtriggering a route through the wall of finding another eleventh worst way to smash, hard, the big bright red fuck-it button, and relapse, and go drink again. He said he was glad she’d shared her emphatically low estimation of his effort at being someone meaningful in her life this time. Notice how the boundary, the little line he’s left in this last part of this last line contains contact with a subjectively interpreted separation of word clusters. All beclumped in self-protection mechanisms are the terms and conditions of relapsing if he doesn’t replay his thoughts in real time. She’s asked him, Are you paying close and considerate attention? Is your attention balanced? Are you obviously bullshitting your spiritual fitness? It’s easy to observe his thresholds and trip wires and the scar garden in the corner of the aperture of the sleeve of tattooed hearts underneath his big bodied frame’s long tan arms, he’s never not moving, it’s so hard for him to stay sober, when he has to raise his voice, when he’s asked for real consideration in a polite, warm, tone of voice way too many times. These things are here because he can’t say any of this to her, and these things are here because he can’t say any of these things in these rooms. She watches him relentlessly. She watches TikTok Tarot Card readings on repeat at home because they give her problems unlimited attention. She seems like she doesn’t know she’s in the rooms for the same reason, is what she says his resting face looks like. Her face isn’t easy to read but she’s said to him in indirect offhanded glances, “You’re not supposed to be your own doctor, not your own witch doctor, or anyone who knows which parts of which doctor you know at which times to trust more.” She told me I should’ve figured it out by now that it’s never gonna work when you’re trying to be someone else, or someone other, something outside yourself, because only yourself’s honest and deepest version of your true self will and can actually do the job the right way you know how to do it so all this innocently sounds true no matter all described. He can’t be totally lying in the moment if we compare this now with predicting what’s happening out in that then with how he’s telling truth. What, we’re lost, forgive me we’ve lost each other, we’ve lost our signal, all I hear’s a muffled version of Air Force Ones banging out the back. Give me two-pair on the truth everyone’ll consider just so we’re square.

She says it seems I can see I see she feels so helpless towards feeling bad when she doesn’t meet a noticeable standard or notable expectation set by some authority outside of herself. It’s called giving up all your will power to a power greater than yourself. Even if it’s a blackmagicgossipbablecycle or a one calling on a constant call for calling out for the forth and back of a new American karma that has to have you catching their stray shots and chips so you’ll chip in and take the evil eye home with you and let it ruin your life, only the kind well deserved, the kind manufactured on purpose for hurting your pride. If they cast enough doubt on the way you came in to their world, then ruining your name, reputation, destroying your community profile whenever they could take free shots and play in your face and yet you took no counterpunch because you were aware of the virtue of patience. It’s throwing powerfully microscopically precise macrohyperfascination at a specific area of a certain enthusiasm. It can produce ultra relatable relations between reading the text and an emotional testing ground called experience. You can teach yourself your calling. You can learn your calling by listening to yourself. One breath after another breath shows the truth about yourself, how, you’ve maybe never known until from now on that since your first moment on this blue marble earth you’ve chosen yourself, and chosen your lifetime every time you respire.
Once he grew full height, his father, tried settling scores with his father by abusing the innocence of his first son. If the program can have one worry about problems one can’t control, stuff that happened before one arrived, then the program knows it can have unlimited access to one’s power over worry. Why it loves asking how long it has been since you’ve reflected on your reflection, or how one focuses, concentrates, does anything worth doing, hard to do, hard to believe, not either, both.

True acceptance defies structure because it defies genre. What is a big book to all y’all anyway? The program treats it like a boggybillabong. Can anybody, roughly speaking, remember when about or whereabouts it was the last time that the average American asked if a personality quicksand was part of the path for this day’s biggest problems, mocked up as, will I hold myself back from being the best version of self? When they were young enough to watch at least one hour of cartoons and not catch one toofunny kind of look. The successfully recovered alcoholic is in an oddly hyperbolic frame of mind, a categorization, a self-captioning captivation, calling out spontaneous emotions and sorting them inside a deescalation rhetoric where eventually, each and every day, a recovered alcoholic winds up looking like one hell of a successful snake charmer, a charming crocodile hunter, a special type of practitioner in their private practice so when they appear in public they actually give off a glowing halo silhouette. An amenable good health’s vouchsafe so warm and endearing if socializing is required, go on, they’ve been rereadied. The program teaches people how and in which ways to read all their lives. If an actively recovering soul dodges the bulleting damages of self-punishment it’ll actively accelerate the demise of inherited alcoholism, and the ravage and ruin come down unto their existence through their genetics and predetermined bad choices, their family’s or their previous life’s karma, and it doesn’t matter of which sort, if it is coming down in a torrential nightmare from all of the above, the realer than real machete wielding jungle king of recovery can double-fist personal progress, cut the head off snaking karmic cycles from previous generations, slash and burn back the brush, scrub, overgrown weeds of energetic attachment we never entirely warn ourselves about before each incarnation’s arrival.

He thought he could put some things in action and then put some peoples’ minds at ease at home and abroad and across the contiguous body. And then when he got there, they said glad you’re here with their words, and then with their eyes, their offhandremarks, You’re not Jesus’ Son because you’re here now, bullshitting, and if you’ve thought of now or you think you’re fucking with me, fucking pulling a fast one, making all this look too easy, then, here, take this evil eye, boy, because, beaux, listen, basically, you’re the devil because you’re lying. They said this and way worse and much more and cast curse upon curse on his name, to his face, his back, idea of him -  and they said it for so long past the point karma’d already kicked horse hooves back into their busted grills, he became not overgrandiose, nor lethargically prone to pointless self-love, but a whole hell of a lot more grown used to a self-liberation in becoming by leaps and bounds more well-rounded if he lived like he was lion-like. Here, climb aboard the main point of why we’ve pointed this out, the point of this high, mighty, verbally but come from a kindnessrequiredkineticphysicallyspirtually muscled action for our lifetime of producing potency in every chiseled edge upon edge of sonic symbol slingshotting. He’ll show you shadows and light spots and hear everyone say it is all of a nefarious master plan he’s not ashamed his feats are performed for personal reasons. And sure enough they said boo to him and then said boo good of him in these rooms, like they’d been told to, and repetitively told to do. They were told to do one thing and one thing only and that was that towards whatever he said, almost anything just say or act like, What? Huh? too many times or suggest something to someone somewhere in the room, yeah, alright, anyway, since nobody knows what he’s talking about let’s ignore that, nobody knows why he thinks this thing he’s brought up is something we’ll see good preconceived reason in being brought up. And detractors, critics, oppositions, spiritual enemy combatants, trolls, set about variously obvious and nonobvious makeshiftmethods in isolating and stranding him in his own ether by cutting off the canal between the variously sized energetic vessels nearby and his subjective creation come from infinite love. He was dressed well just for all y’all, ready, accepting all who wanted the opening for his personal influence, he wouldn’t worry over sharing all of himself if he could trust the craft come to the open water. In showing up and turning out and trusting the process they’d want to see the way they would make waves on their trek and transit. Not always, but sometimes, he was bombarded, badgered, hounded, energetically pocketwatched. Today: allied and enemy energy parts of the total TeslaTantricProgram’s symphony freelance and influence a supermajority of the motivation for outward emotional expression by winning the right to issue karmic rewards and punishments for who gets to say who in these rooms sounds crazy. Who is a takerofriskstoogreat for telling the truth of jettisoning safe harbor for total circumnavigation of the blue marble self. Who is safe going aswim this way out on oceans. The right answer is what it is and it is forever and always. And always despite whatever is espoused as diatribe, doctrine, discipline? This is a thing of right and wrong in a reality described as a reality by who makes the music and who makes the sound? And whatever, or whether or not, some one, or some any one or anything, says one some thing, or some one other thing, right or wrong about what it is on those we’ve traveling these Transatlantic oceans all on their own, all on their own way, all on their own watch for their way, there’s one thing true that anyone with eyes wide can see, you can see all of those who’ve done this are those who do this, instead of talking about it. So why are we still listening to and working with an AA Big Book written in a Transatlantic inflection? Why isn’t it honest about how honest it is when it says it is honest at all times on exactly how it has perverted guaranteed power? A Bathing Ape hoodie zipper arun. It’s on until it’s gone all the way up from the gut past the third eye when you agree and accept that what’s promised by the thing inside the bottom of the subsonic boombox of the skunkworks of how this program works answers you for giving away your world view, when it promises you, of course, ask me anything you please, my child. I’ve all the answers. Don’t fail yourself. Don’t fall for “your” delusion.

They sent long-time demon killers at him until their demons fell in love with his saga. So his default resting body posture? Unimpressed. It’s not his fault he can’t answer for all y’all why’s he got to go on and get up for this for what good reason of yours exactly? He’s got to have a good reason to get out of bed for something is what he’s told everybody. So herein-lies a passive signature Seattle gloom and slouch, until recently, the nonchalant nothingbothersmeSeattlepersonality that has held him back from the lion-like days of how he walks in this bold new sunshine has vanished. This is the Vantage. This is his advantage. This is the South. This is an outright different animal of a lifestyle mostly governed by the heat. In the next century it’ll be ruled by rain. Good thing our man from Seattle has seen things when things work out. For starters he’ll microscopically pick apart microsliding scales of local Lowcountry spiritual and physical landslide protection. Let’s avoid of all things calling it merely redirecting resentment against realer revetment. Although entirelynotbulletproofed these look better than not having the basics of finding flow in both light and dark and really just all directions. They say you need every shot you can use in an always available arsenal. Connect this fox play to fix this the vixen comes back bringing better.

The distant signal seems faint. The strobe trope blips at the edge of the threshold of what’s spotted from within the distant periscope. If this is the ocean, why’ve you no letters leftover from the tundra, could it not float? Have you heat left for the turns in your burning barrels? Can you spare me the spare parts? Are you shot to shit? Did you beat back heathen swarms? Dismantle the established self-limiting belief systems and add onto your apparatus? Are you morally strong and spiritually fit?

His presence empowers his mind and he settles everything on the spot. He says to them he means it when he says he’s settled everything. Come up to him and ask him, How are things going? And he says he’s certain everything in his life has settled. He’s settled up. He’s settled in. And there’s an equilibrium. He says everything is settled because is he wrong? He can show everyone the way gears work in his mind and how he takes his mind up through countless speeds. He can work them into a bigger picture throughout every moment he settles everything he sees - and that settles everything. That’s it? That’s it. That’s settled. And that that has settled all and everything? This means he sees that everything is as it is in his life for one reason, he’s built everything this one way and just so so he can say and show them how everything is settled. And show it off if anyone comes across it. No. Just how it’s been settled. Not even how it’s done anymore. Only how it’s settled. And how only for a long time throughout everything he settled he didn’t deny the old life was killing him slowly, how everything of the atavisticalwaysconcerning and allconsumingeverythingevil he’s only ever survived in fate twisted inside out to show him to him and his mind that he’s lived for this part of this life log enough to show himself and others what it is within his personal experience so all of the long parts are properly apportioned before he’s talking about all of this in all of this one yarn with all y’all all aboard. Right here now for this one. This yarn. This one yarn of a golden fleece. A one of one and a one of one more from more than ten million of his painstakingly specific and personified examples of a good come from resurrecting his uncivilized survival instinct. Here there’s an abuse of the common collective innocence on display. Under ultra high wattage fluorescent floods the wide eyes of this innocence are flashbombed slow second after second but this old dominion’s domino style leadership is the good kind of fearsome militant warlord. So he’s been shown, and so he’s been told, and so he’s seen for more than long enough. There’s one woman there often with blue eyes begetting the unflattering descriptor, bug-eyed, that he’s never seen not wear the widest smile when he walks inside. She chain-smokes and she never sits still for more than a second. He doesn’t know her story but she has a mental aberration exacerbated by an unrestrained response pattern to her lifelong responses to her life’s overall responses. Then there’s a lot more going on too. That’s the stuff they work on when they’re all back in here. And they call it showing up.

They believed he didn’t deserve his natural abilities. They thought this? This couldn’t be the guy. Why not? What’s their problem? They wouldn’t and they could maybe somehow but really they didn’t do any of the work themselves, so they can’t know because they’ll never know what kind of work this took from him, what this work took out of him. They were not with him hour after hour in stack after stack. He knows this is not his problem. This is their problem. And yet they try bringing their problems to his attention as if he is their only personal problem as they describe their personal problem. He isn’t sure if they are unsure or unaware, he isn’t sure they’re sure either, or both, most likely, that all they do is project their irrational self-hatred onto what observational capacity they’ve amangle as they hamfistedly attempt taking him down.

If they’ve even one fraction of a percent chance of distracting him from his long term goals they’ll take their shot at his clever confidence. Why? If he’s one minor majority share of the say-so in his future after he’s proved himself right, all along, they’ll have a zero percent say in how he spends his time day-to-day. Therefore they try dominating his days and nights and weekends by bulldozing his personality’s impetus. They tell him what he should do while not studying why he’s doing what he’s doing when he’s doing what he should be doing exactly when he’s supposed to be doing it. In turn they shapeshift, and then in a flash they’re all unrelenting energy vampires vainglorified by playing victim. They love playing victim after trampling their karmic viper tails. He’s never had a problem with their personality until they came after him personally. In fact he’d go so far as to say he’d not ever one first whiff of a malicious wish towards any of their collective soul, until the time they said through their actions they did wish ill for his soul, and so of course they played a snake in the grass and came face to face with their fault in this and fought against their wishing he’d engage in humiliating himself through enacting a manicvikingmindset in a very inappropriate raucous social combat he knew not to tamper with the edges of, since if he lifted even the slightest tone of his voice near the outskirts of hostility? Even but one time? Then he’d ruin his reputation by recklessly defending his reputation, only further ruining and disputatiously sullying his name. This is the purpose of not parting the pluff mud but taking the bridge.

When they treat him too different he points out every discrepancy with grace until he has to tell them he knows they know it is bullshit how they’ve deliberately, intentionally, repetitively let him suffer and left him suffering, with no hope of help, kickboxing his karmic debts with black magic by wishing he’s stuck sitting with no hope for the end of his isolation far outside their collective sympathies. He shows up for himself, and his future, here for himself, he’s here for them, he speaks like they say he’s supposed to but they don’t allow him a slice of the full soul-restoring flux of the unguarded energetic channel that comes to life after their Cerberus is satisfied there’s no actual outside threat. The improper projection from a sick person onto the life of another who is not the source of the projection is obvious for everyone except for the mollycoddled motion picture maker til they’re called out on it. In order to fall back in love with a lively mystery you should let the universe flirt with you until you snap out of your joy-dismissing existenatial dread. He must rescue this brilliant blinded empress from their emptyheadedness, so when they ask, What are you doing here? He has one thing, one mind, one idea to say without saying, Fixing everything that was broken and stolen from me when I was told when and where to stop doing all that I must. I did not need distraction, even though someone threatened my next life if I didn’t pay attention to what they said I needed force fed. If there’s one point of no objection, point of order about how I’ve made it through my good order after order after lowering my guard in gaining on my own gainsay, it’s that I can pretty much produce all proof upon a piece of paper that says I can say, “He” can do anyhting to prove a point and even especially when this is a classic Everybody Versus Me rumble. Certain emotional vocabulary varieties are hillarioulsy self-sabotaging. One’s step after step of nonhalfsteppingselfdialogue deserves what it has earned exactly and not only what another tongue wants it to sound like. They want him taken down from his authority, arguing he doesn’t have experience, completely abolishing the precedent that anything good comes not from experience itself, but what one does while transforming expirience, and the truth that this type of lifestyle demands above all the work of the type of a gift that experience itself does not teach. If the top of the dogpile is where a perspective is unmuddied and unscathed then the smartest person in the room is the one that knows the most about the room’s shortcomings and the potential positive benefits. If it is a race we’re running, in spiritualhumanevolutionvessels, one knows a greater nuanced life when one is getting the most out of moves one makes in one’s machine. Allow others to keep the score? One makes more of the most wonderful results release from moving around and arrnaging the ideal angle of one’s entry and exit through perfect winning lifelines.
Self-mastery through balancing unconditional love’s light and dark parts disinhibits blending together good and evil euphoric arcadias until eventually the directly beneficial relation of the self in flow to others stuck at a standstill on one’s sayso fillsanymoderatelytooverlargestadium.

If he sets a standard emotional boundary too high he burns out and if he lets an emotional boundary play too lowfi cool he falls asleep.

The truth in text should sound like one has fixed a broken earbud. When he’s moneyshotmanictoaretrochampionsleaguejerseyonatee? He sounds like he’s clairaudient with their destinies and their highest good. He wonders where they would walk if he’d just have ‘em listen without any older predilective prejudice predetermining his fate for once, not just underneath a blue moon, but underneath most night’s moonlight. He knows the other unspoken option is he becomes a silent gigantic threat through instinct the instant the voice of the outside opinion states explicitly or implicitly that it opposes him outright, no matter the facts. The Southern Gothic brings out the best of bluffing big in both worlds. He studies motion, the shape of the action, the line of the taken shot. There’s a difference between being steadied and seeming muted when any current conversation at once ambulates a rough edge of personality. Does one observe or obsess? Does one participate? Let this thing pass?

He’s arrived reformed and fresh-faced and glowing and for what? So they can say he can’t have what he wants from this world because the pressure his presentation prepares will always misdirect their best chance for growing a healthy point of view, because against all available evidence supporting the contrary, they argue to agree he is the problem. Why are they together making life harder for him for no obvious reason, what’s the point, what’s the problem, what’s the proper tone of voice? Most likely? It is divine wrath. When it thrashes all of its own volition. He says, he fills his perception of this space, with, what, isn’t here til he says so, so, he can’t be responsible for what they’ve said isn’t a real thing.  Spiritual discernment allows one to organize and differentiate what is wise to take as a personal concern and what is wiser to take for granted.

He brings individualities out of every inch and crevice. He craves the hyperspecificity of what’s catalyzed his obsession in each instance.

They suffer from a misdirected fear of public embarrassment. They feel some type of way and then they wish it was his responsibility. But it isn’t. Never was anything to do with him even if he is triggering it.

You might be seeing something. But you don’t know nothing.

How would anyone believe him? Honestly? How does he describe the celestial music no one has ever heard before? Music he knows only he knows about. It’s not the same as any music he’s ever heard. And he only heard about this music because it was the music he knew best. The melody, the movement, the breaks, this space was built into the iTunes album artwork postage stamp, the same one that appeared everywhere he went. It dominated his random time checks. It’s probably still stuck on his iPhone’s home screen. An album artwork not found nor spotted on the walls or the windows. And an album artwork never anywhere found outside the closest first four edges confining the iTunes album artwork. Just in the one box. Headphones connect by Bluetooth? Album artwork ready to go, ready to play, ready to dominate his imagination and begin again living rent free in his head for an entire year. Until he clicked it: play. When he pressed play for the first time he said he’d never heard music before he heard the music behind the mysteriously recurrent album artwork. Is there an easier way to say he was humbled by the overwhelming confidence level this astonishing music afforded his imagination? He believed in reaching for the life he loved, again, and then reaching into the unknown for the umpteenth time, a better piece of what he could bring back from the depths of nothingness. The depths of what everyone couldn’t see unless he could show it to them.

This is a German couch cushion chair. Isolated from the whole rest of the body as was initially delivered. This one piece found a place apart from where the rest resides. The gray foam back and the matching bottom segmentation are both firm enough. But this is not a hard chair. This is not a setup for slacking off. In his German chair he cannot avoid making decisions, small, moderate, indecently large for this hour of the day. These mornings need no immoderately proportioned context. They know they aren’t free from what follows their stripes, their tail feathers. How does one admonish the one asking, have a seat, when he can show the inqisuutor, look, I already have one, I got mine, I don’t need yours.

Underneath most night’s moonlight he is only measured as real when he is fearless.

Success argues against the argument for shortcutting’s pride. Fatigue facilitates conditions necessary for greenlighting shortcutting. Doing hard work when it seems not worth it illuminates high values. It’s always so confusing, trying, figuring out all theseassociatedbackwoodlike freeassociations the dry flock expects one’ll figure out on first sight, like they have today, but they forget what it was like, so they need the mess the man makes to remind them of what it was like, while they were first renewed, by retraumatizing their literal raw experience in the right way. We have to kill ‘em. Why? ‘Cause they’re harvesting resources, human love and light, in such great quantities, with no repayment plan in the works, and so little remorse for it they shouldn’t have access to anything.

If he can resolve the problem of his paying attention through the long term then he’ll absolve his disordering. He won’t be caught dead nor threatening his every bit of energy with repeating an indecent fate. His standard vibration is a lot better than she’ll make him think it is. She doesn’t realize her family’s practically bodybagged their depression era trauma responses in the jollygoodtimeofdeeplydarksuperstition. And this is why he finds it so undeniably right to act unsympathetic towards her attempts at picking apart parts of his life, like clothing donation to the local Good Will, when he can do it, when he can’t, and demanding he let her completely control the ebb and flow, terms of engagement. Why? What are you doing? Why would she need to tell him when and where and for what reason he should not donate oversized shirts today? He’s never going to wear them ever again. Trust him, his cutoff game.

There are all the records of all the events on one’s facade. And there are enormous, copious, rewards for doing hard work when no one is watching. It speaks for itself. There are no surviving long-term active novelists with bad habits in their early thirties. They don’t find the steam after the long haul or they’re still going. No novel knows not how to speak for itself in its final rewriting. Novelists will do hard honest work so copiously rewarding systems will pay out invisibly big. Novelists know who will become the backbone of his readership if he’s in his early thirties: all the aspiringlatecomingwellwishingnevergotgoings.
Of these two groups in this notsobinarybifurcation, which group should or would one assume owns the bigger more beautiful libraries? On the surface, yes, exactly, correct, no one can tell the difference.
A transgressive track record lends credence toward an outside influence producing for the one that goes their own way a shittalking summary of a villain’s arc for doing only the wrong thing. Only good transgression, in doing the right thing at the right time for the right reason, when outside influences expect no action apart from the bad actor doing only the morally, ethically, economically incorrect thing, can come alive in a novel universe for years before it sits in reality.
He is judged for punsihment based on rules he’d not known he’d recieve a daily grade on until everyone started acting differnet when he’d won a few very specific but very big things, things in an eternal life. His dad was very proud and framed it the time he was in the newspaper. His dad hid his pride, if there was any, when he went from making daily newspaper stories come to life to making his fiction come to print. His dad said he wanted nothing to do with him, and then he said, I know.
In this work, we do what can be done until noticing the difference one has made, because chances are that that is more than enough. If one may not notice the difference they make because one is not primed to expect one’d do well? This is and is always too depressing to leave unaddressed. This cannot pass. A select sensitivity must soar above.

A shutdown, unscheduled, shutters the storefront. The light in here, if he’s listening correctly, is blocked off from being able to breath. There’s this pressure too, that somebody is sending him suspiciously unaccounted for paranoid dread. Gets hot across his forearms except the signal source sits back behind where he imagines the back of his tormentor’s eyebrows are auguring the spring loaded scrunch in his. And how does writing about any of his imagined animal instincts, run amok, make any of them ameliorate? Improve at all? It doesn’t make any change unless he can think through the many mixed motivations. Why would anyone want him in thoughtprocesslessirons unless they cannot stand to see him work his problems out? And turn his life around? Why can’t he imagine himself successful without the baggage? Who wishes he were not wiser than what has been working lately?

He’d love helping everyone into another hypothetical scenario. If they’d help him learn what he needs to know about himself in order to survive his blind spot’s social mistake making, he’d say, If you would or you could just listen when he speaks without reservation for once right now, if you would allow the time and space of making this moment special by letting me have the grounding mechanism of the floor, then, Don’t show your mind is not good advice. You cannot give all parts of yourself away unless the whole comes across as devoutly sacrificial. Why would you sacrifice what you have no choice but to accept as the thing that got you through the worst parts of your life up this moment? It’s a damnable demeanor not a single outside source can emulate. The thing he won’t give up because he could argue it is godgiven. Not so fast. It’s personal. The enviously bloating rotisserie chicken ablaze in the guts of his most outspoken oppositions becomes a projection they use to suggest he is selfservingselfseeking exclusively and to a fault. He’s not. He’s really fucking not though. He’s thoughtful. Why are we rewarding the thoughtless accusation? Are we too tired to see what is true and what isn’t? This is foolish. Why fall for the foolsgoldoffolly? Fall off all over again? For what? Aren’t all y’all sick of sitting back up after slapping back down against rockbottom? Addicted to suffering? Since at least in symbolic suffering one feels safely at home in the hell of self-produced nosediving? Again? Am I the only one who’d say this is fucking bullshit? She loves interrupting when the action of energetic potential expands. He had a view of the world he had to accept wasn’t allowing him to get what he wanted out of it. At first he thought his problem was one city until he realized he began internally suspecting that this new city was the cause of his present suffering. Everywhere he went he was reminded they were both prohibited from their better future. They were not given long promised chances. Instead of financial independence before their thirties, they were energetically drained by both sides of their families for as long as it took for them to put their feet down in a new home, because their families provided convoluted financial support he could argue that their family’s generations initiated when they were his age. He’s told he’s supposed to be grateful he works sixty seven hours a week.

Don’t let your boredom ruin my good time means the same thing as don’t let your fear ruin my complete confidence.

If he doesn’t feel tired but they say he looks and sounds like he is? Then he’s probably openly motivated by proving right the roots of a bad attitude, is what he’s learned to expect they’ll claim. This travesty, never mind the more obvious indication to the contrary. He’s kind. He’s kind to everyone. He’s especially kind to new people. He’s cleared away all his old grudges. And he’s nowhere near as narrow-minded towards whom receives his gratitude. What’s that now? He actually wants the world to become a better place. Why? Everyone would stand to benefit, including himself. However, someone has to ask him, and ask him for him, because he’s afraid he can’t afford the emotional heft the wrong answer would pull off his back. But what if his writing is an animal thing designed so he’s not an immovably stubborn object overthinking and therefore energeticallyovermanning every karmicless opening where he’s supposed to leave space for the good kind to come rushing in? Is this a ruse so he’s not out proudly promoting personal problems? Every energy vampire he’s ever met has taken at least one leaded shot at the heart of his voice by taking an underhanded angle through the small of his back by saying he’s only hunting lines for outside attention. This is poison: accusing others of malice when the present problem probably comes from nothing but clumsiness carried out and carrying on and on and onward to the point of obnoxiousness. The obsequious kind. If the interpersonal damage patterns are unrelenting there’s more than a good chance he’s not in charge of charming their agitations to dance.

We won’t admit we’re kind of here because we wish we were more aptly kind across the board. Our sentences here dig for our hearts under the unseen halves of themselves long after our energy has elected another reality eschewing truth telling entries entered elsewhere.

One should only invest what can be easily afforded in loss, not, just everything from everywhere as if without effort one were always going to lose it anyway.

It’s all about the way you look when you take something serioulsy.


He knows no one wants to believe in how they say that no matter what you say you see in here, you’ll never not have to always know how and why this is just you versus you in here which is if it is even just for him the firstratekindofunbelievable.
————