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“A Little Less Conversation” – by Elvis Presley.
My Black Leather Anniversary with Barbarella
A milieu I love. . .
Supple sentences with first and second meanings, and others beyond.
Outrageous challenges with cleverly planned slip-points, rebuttals with elegant brevity; deceptions and guiles, patent explanations of the obvious, fleeting allusions to the unthinkable. . .
As a preliminary, the conversationalist must gauge the mood, the intelligence and the verbal faculty of the company.
To this end a few words of pedantic exposition often prove invaluable.
“By an axiom of cultural anthropology, the more isolated a community, the more idiosyncratic become its customs and conventions”.
This of course is not necessarily disadvantageous.
On the other hand, consider a person such as myself: a rootless wanderer, a cosmopolitan. Such a person tends to flexibility; he adapts himself to his surroundings with out qualms or misgivings.
His baggage of conventions is simple and natural, the lowest common denominator of his experience.
Evincing a kind of universal culture which will serve him anywhere.
I make no virtue of this flexibility, except to suggest that it is more comfortable to travel with than with a set of conventions, which if jostled, work emotional strains upon those who espouse them.
If everything depended upon the quality of one’s conventions we would have to examine the so-called quality for its usefulness.
Over complicated, over strict conventions limit a person’s life options – much like religious conventions. They confine a persons mind and stunt their perceptions.
Why should we even consider a limit to the possibilities to this, our one and single life.
I am not always right – but sometimes I am. Perhaps right in terms of “What is right for me”, in terms of the ends I am trying to achieve. However, in order to be successful, I have to so arrange events that others will be on my side to share my vision of what is up ahead for us.
So as they may be prepared to share the same idea and the task required to achieve and realize that Idea. Which is not always easy.
They have to be seduced into believing it – with me.
“In a given set of circumstances – and within a given program of events with a set of architecture and
environment whose parameters are known: by proceeding logically, one will observe the
development of a pattern, emerging from the seemingly unconnected data.
The pattern will have three answers of varying degrees of success.
Success. Failure. Dissolution”.
~ Life In My Fathers House
But you do know me . . .
You know, but onward the journey
With out a map. Without a star
Entering uncharted territory
Walking down here
is so undoing
It would be easier to fly
And so, see all there is
To be free
It is colder up in these reaches
But far clearer.
As clear as
Tied to the fast lane
In the Red Queens Race
We see only the track
Oblivious of the cheerful, scorning
Crowd of non-Participants
We believe their chant
To be the truth –
That we have the wings
And dreams beyond this ensorcelled realm
of grey sleeping mass
We do not see………
Points of light in the emerald green beyond
Where the speed of thought
Is winged with fire
Power beyond the
Starless and Bible Black
Is ours for the wishing
If only we could…
But if wishes were fishes, we would all cast nets
as the old saying goes.
And you my little Ipanema Graca? Thinking of me…So afraid that I would come back in a “JIffy”.
Porra Conchita! Nema sono ti.
“I never died”, said he.
“I never die”, said he.
For all the heroes going out, how many were boxed, shipped back, expired in their floating miasma of choked off dreams and tears – a menace to navigation, a pollutant to love and affairs of the heart: and all the family back home gets is the memorial flag.
Scores of candidates must expire for one or even two to win, you said.
Always a merry shrug: “Save me from this place, adore my body, explore me until I melt away, Fall into this sky so blue”. Sunrise in this bed was a mystical event & I should forget, lest I get killed accidentally, when my survival instincts back-fire, I know you would follow me thru’ the Gates of Hell.
Our jealous quarrels: Over my dead body – I said.
Yes here we go into a 3 part digression already. Talking of a subject deteriorated into two other disconnected states. We rush – Jealously. Sinking in exposition, as in quicksand.
Well things deteriorate right enough. Everything is deteriorated. Deterioration everywhere. I know this is not what it used to be. But us? we lead on party to party, el supremo disco, and no one ever to contest the fact: that we may be crazy, but we cannot be stopped, especially La Dona Contessa del Conchita Isis.
I think your theories are crazy. But not crazy enough to be true: How can we live amongst so many wonders and not be overwhelmed by the sheer mystery of existence? Our knowledge is so small and our conceit so great
I was never at a want for words. Too much to say, that was my complaint: every thing to get said, and all at once, or I will forget it. Already I forget half of what I have written, or half of what I was in a mind to write. Pen cannot keep up.
“A man with a watch Knows what time it is
A man with two watches
Is never sure.
The same thing applies to women...”
~In my Father’s House
I make mad side notes. Notes of notes for further pages. Your love made
a fool of me – as my love of you made you make a fool of yourself on as
many occasions. Oh those long close winters next to your supine stealth,
smooth as steel, soft a ssssilk and as supple as leather. I think we got
arrested more times for “public indecency” they called it, than when we
were apprehended fucking in public. Usually with bystanders cheering us
I dream you.
Your skin is made of glass and you are like the streamline tireless motor of the limousine >>
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