The Illimitable Ocean of Inexplicability

Month: February, 2015

The High School Basketball Game of My Soul

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Jack, I have two questions for you.

Is there a length you won’t go to, and, is there a depth you won’t descend to?

You have two days to answer starting now.

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take

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The referee looked the part

but didn’t know the game

The Band played 25 or 6 to 4

not at all well

and I wondered why God

chose me to be an unbeliever

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The President and Founder is laying low

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I’m cooling my heels actually. Waiting for you people to quit being ‘so freaky’. I know, it’s going to be a long wait. If you look closely at the digital image above you can maybe see me peering out from behind the curtain in the upper left window checking to see if the coast is clear. It’s not.

Anyway, until once again “it’s safe”¹ here’s part of a poem I wrote while fixing the lawn mower

Look out for the spinning weasels

they’re taking over the town

tired of living in their secret fortress

a thousand miles under ground

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.¹  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kzw1_2b-I7A

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Hi, everybody

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“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you”

 

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gloves

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“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you”

Those were the exact word out of my mouth when my assistant, noticing my obvious agitation after coming into the room in order to figure out why in the world I was making such strange sounds, asked me, “What’s going on”? Ha. I laughed after telling her basically that she was not in any way prepared for what I could tell her. In fact, if I decided to tell her simply to put an end to her ceaseless nagging me about it she would have crumbled under the weight and been of no use to me any longer. This I couldn’t allow. So, I kept it form her. You, on the other hand, I can tell. Probably should tell. Perhaps my telling you will be what’s needed. Maybe it will open vistas as yet undreamed allowing mankind to flourish far into the future. Or, just as probable, it will bring it all down, and I mean, all of it, crashing down upon us, squashing us into oblivion just another species that passed its time here for a brief shining moment on this planet called Earth.

There’s no telling.

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What are you doing in there?

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I knew a gentleman who was so good a manager of his time that he would not even lose that small portion of it which the calls of nature obliged him to pass in the necessary-house; but gradually went through all the Latin poets in those moments. He bought, for example, a common edition of Horace, of which he tore off gradually a couple of pages, carried them with him to that necessary place, read them first, and then sent them down as a sacrifice to Cloacina: this was so much time fairly gained, and I recommend you to follow his example…. Books of science and of a grave sort must be read with continuity; but there are very many, and even very useful ones, which may be read with advantage by snatches and unconnectedly: such are all the good Latin poets, except Virgil in his Æneid, and such are most of the modern poets, in which you will find many pieces worth reading that will not take up above seven or eight minutes.

– Philip Stanhope, 4th Earl of Chesterfield

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“As Lord Chesterfield advised”

Ha, ha. Lord Chesterfield! Who the hell is that? Does it matter? Sounds good. Think of yourself (if you can) urgently in need of the facilities, which have been occupied by me for nearly three quarters of an hour, banging on the door and demanding to know “What are you doing in there”?, and I answer, “As Lord Chesterfield advised”, you’d be ready to kill me. But, you’re just like that, so, I wouldn’t be surprised and I’d just keep reading. Go pee in the yard.

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Institute Trivia: ‘The Floating Head’ was originally called ‘Chesterfield’.

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YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHAT I’M TRYING TO SAY

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Gladly, have I, on numerous occasions in the past, relinquished my humble stage to Jack Horrorchild, the well loved and much respected Master of Poetization. He, who with words (magically, some would say) does easily send us soaring above like birds in the blue over towering cloud shrouded mountains and across open prairies limitless in space, and then, yes, then, if he so chooses (for whatever reasons unfathomable to us untrained as we are in his secret arts), with those words of his he sends us tumbling down, and down and down, beneath the ground burried like moles near blind and digging constantly through the dirt unable to detect any colors, but only ever to see light from dark and movement. This time, this very first time, I hesitate, just off the stage, out of the light, behind the curtain (hiding like a frightened child guilty of some wrong and attempting to avoid a whipping¹) nervously rubbing my hands together (and perspiring quite profusely) hoping (at moments perhaps even praying) for an answer to a question never before would I imagine to ask, “Should the show go on”?

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Yes. Yes, it should go on, and angry am I at myself for even thinking the thought that it should not. What madness would be required to descend upon one from who knows where that may excuse such foolishness I cannot say, and hope no one else dares either. Why would they? I wonder myself but soon realize it is the same sickness I suffered from and stop myself from any further inquiry.

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okay

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¹For more on harrowing childhood experiences see here: The Stink Milk Horror

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Patrue, mi Patruissimo

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-or-

Enough is Enough

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Like schoolchildren during the Roman Empire

you don’t know it’s not going to last

though your father goes on about the end

when he’s drunk

which is always

(it seems)

  and mom is too busy

with your little brother who has ‘problems’

that good beatings don’t do a thing about

so what’s left for you to do?

I mean, really?

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IMG_2842

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Ask yourself (if you dare)

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your friends are all consuming

so why don’t you give it a try

or are you afraid the stench will be too much

and you’ll have to run away and cry?

(like a little baby)

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The Stinky Milk Horror: Doth Breathe Forth (the Odor)

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When I was a child the milk seemed always on the verge of turning. The expiration date rushing nearer every minute, its wholesome goodness in a state of free fall that could only be saved from wretched ruin with the complete consumption of every last drop. This we did dutifully, my brother and I, always as we were under the ever  present watching of Mom who, even to this day (in her elderly but no less formidable form), is known to utter in the dark early morning hours, “Have some milk”, and then wander off to vacuum some rarely used area of the house, though sure to return for checking that we had done as she instructed, or else. Yes, ‘or else’ which as you know is meant to introduce the second of two alternatives. In this case the second alternative being a punishment for not drinking our milk that I would not (for the sake of those unprepared emotionally), and indeed cannot mention here. For whatever the second alternative was to be my brother and I never chanced to discover as our fear had been well enough guided and so deeply imbedded that the frighteningly vague implications of ‘or else’ was always enough to prompt us into doing as we were told.

Ah, but enough of my child hood suffering! No doubt you faced hardships as a child yourself and are right now guffawing at my pathetic tale wounded still, as you obviously are, by whatever wrongs were inflicted upon you by those well meaning, if inadequately trained, adults that you were, without even an ‘or else’, condemned to cohabitation with. Let us now, for at least a brief moment, put aside our own personal tales of woe and instead enjoy the words below that did come to me while I waited for an endless train to pass me by on the way to purchase milk at the market.

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stench

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 Not yet quite turned

though still stench filled

the milk described as stinky

its cardboard carton mouth

when opened wide

doth breathe forth

the odor of our impending doom

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* Fun Activity

Try saying ‘doth breathe forth’ five times fast. Maybe you can do it. I admit I found it a little difficult.

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A Personal Look at Western Civilization

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