The Illimitable Ocean of Inexplicability

Month: March, 2015

In the Windmill’s Shadow and Other Tales

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windmill

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“He’s an old dude rulin’
more than able to give a schoolin’
do you think I’m foolin’?”

-The Applebee’s Letters – Chapter 7 Verse 19

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Can you imagine, or I should ask, do you dare imagine, living in the windmill’s shadow? I definitely could, and would, though I don’t. I have no need to as it is a reality I live daily, and not, as it is for you, dear reader, some romantic lifestyle you listlessly daydream about whilst waiting for a page on your favorite celebrity web site to refresh.
No, as it is said today, this shit is real. Really real. And, unlike a good deal of people these days, and you may be one of them, or at least support their shenanigans from the sidelines, I have no need, nor do I, under some delusion brought on by either a chemical imbalance or a severe blow to the head, feel it my right to have others understand, empathize or in any way give a good god damn about my life’s struggle in the windmill’s shadow. However, as someone quite conscious of the absolute necessity of exposure to a wide variety of experiences from which both young and old alike may learn from and find inspiration in I present to you my unique story for whatever worth you may find in it.

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Chapter I: I often, in secret, refered to myself as ‘The Kid’

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Years ago, perhaps when many of you currently reading this were in need of assistance when it came to the labor of wiping your own bottoms I was living the life of a confirmed bachelor without the fear of eligibility as well as being a dyed in the wool true believer (described even all those years ago as ‘nutty’) that telephones were a device used only by blithering idiots and children passing the long hours of summer making prank phone calls. I refused to have one. “They can come and knock upon my door if they want me”, I was often heard to exclaim whenever the subject of telephones came up which, as hard as you kids these day may find it to believe, was rarely. Or, at times, slightly intoxicated I’d announce to whomever was within earshot, “You can just yell from the bottom of the hill”, as I lived at the top of the hill, “if you’re too damn lazy to walk up it”, followed by “and if I come to the window then you’ll know whether or not I have any interest in communicating with you”. I was definitely what you could call a curmudgeon, and a few other less flattering things as well, but, due to my young age and handsome visage this came across as charming to a certain type of young lady and thusly resulted in them, because of my lack of a telephone, knocking upon my door at all hours of the day and night.

This, I must tell you, was not all fun and games. I know, to many of you young guys out there, sick in the head as you are with constantly trying to get yourself some attention from the ladies, this seems, so far, like a fantasy come true, but, please, take my word, it was not. No, not by the longest shot one could dream of, even while under the influence of hallucinogens, is it a fantasy one should wish to experience unless descending into the fiery pits of eternal damnation is something you have on your bucket list.

The horrifying events that did take place, which I freely admit being responsible for as I most flagrantly ignored that old idiom that warns to be careful what one wishes for, cannot, for the sake of those who played their parts unwittingly, be related in detail here, though, in order to satisfy your well documented insatiable hunger for the salacious I will attempt to convey some of what might be called the highlights in the following chapter.

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COMING SOON

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Chapter II: How my habit of interjecting “Open the pod bay doors HAL” into every conversation resulted in my being ostracized from the in-group

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Sunday Epic Sunday

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fails1

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I watch Epic Fails on Sunday

because I don’t have time on Monday

even though it’s not my have to run day

or in the least bit manic in any way

for the most part

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I’ll be the first to admit that’s terrible, awful really. It’s so bad in fact that I winced when reading it aloud. I did. It was like someone had poked me with a sharp stick, and then every time after that when I attempted to read it my body tensed up in memory of the original feeling. If you know what I mean. It’s as if some ‘force’ outside of myself, or maybe, if inside already, laying dormant since some primordial epoch when our ancestors first arose to take their place as the dominant species of this planet, sprung into action like a sleeping Lion pouncing upon its prey. Except there was no prey, or actual poking for that matter. I was, quite mysteriously, flinching away from a poking I never actually received. But, I ask you, who hasn’t? I think, no, I believe that if you, reading this now, were to take an honest look back on any of a vast number of incidents from your life that you have, at great cost to the condition of your soul, attempted to obscure in or rid from your mind there would be a handful at least that could be related to the situation I found myself in just this morning. It may very well be the thing, or a very important part of the overall thing that makes us, as they used to say when I was a kid, “uniquely human”.

That was a long time ago though, when I was a kid. That is, so long ago that there was no way, and, as far as I knew, no way anyone dared dream of to spend a Sunday watching the Epic Fails of strangers. No, if you wanted Epic Fails you had to make them yourself. I personally spent many a Sunday, ‘by hook or by crook’ (as I would say, deeply influenced as I was by a quote¹ from Ms. Virginia Woolf I came across in a discarded Playboy magazine I found in an alley), convincing other kids in the neighborhood to take actions of various sorts which I felt most likely to end in a life threateningly humorous way.

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¹ “By hook or by crook, I hope that you will possess yourselves of money enough to travel and to idle, to contemplate the future or the past of the world, to dream over books and loiter at street corners and let the line of thought dip deep into the stream”

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The Ultimate in Passenger and Driver Side Protection

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protection

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The Sloven’s Privilege

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a

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Hey, guys, can we talk seriously for a moment? I know usually were joshing together, pulling each others legs and such, but, right now I want to tell you about an experience that may resonate with some of you. Are you ready? Okay, here goes.

I went traveling for no reason.

And that’s not all. No, there’s more I need to tell you. You know how when you go into a hotel room and there are hangers provided in the closet, right? Well, I don’t use them. I know what you’re saying, “So, fucking what, loser, this is lame, get a life”, but just hear me out, please, just a minute or two more. You see, this last time I was driving around the country aimlessly, staying where ever I wanted for however long I chose, I found myself one evening in a quiet hotel room, much like any other, staring at the empty coat hangers in the closet. How much time I spent looking at them I cannot say, but the guilt I felt I can never forget. What, I wondered, gave me the right. Why could I go through life without a care for my personal appearance while others, either because of some neurosis or because of their need to earn money had to be almost constantly pressed and polished? It seemed unfair. Seven hangers available and unwanted while perhaps even next door someone had a coat that could not be hung for the lack of just one. This poor soul would be forced to either hang the garment over a chair or call down to the front desk in the hope that they could send a few extra hangers up. And me? All the while I’d be laid out on the bed, not a care in the world, dressed in nothing but my skivvies drinking a caffeinated beverage, eating chips and watching Animal Planet.

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Take a little time for yourself this weekend

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More news about The President and Founder’s hesitancy to slake his thirst at a roadside drinking fountain

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How many exactly have been wondering I couldn’t say, though, if I were to make an estimate based, I admit, wholly on my own, mostly unshared, fascination with everything The President and Founder does, I would put the number somewhere around one thousand. Yes, I know, in this day and age with all our gadgets connecting individuals in far flung locales separated by countless miles this number is nothing to, as maybe the kids of today say, “skype home about”. However, although, as I have already made mention, I am, and always will remain, regardless of any unforeseen circumstances, The President and Founder’s biggest fan I am also not loony tunes enough to think that anyone actually has any ability to comprehend what is really good, and so my estimation of how many are wondering is probably way above what the number really is. Like maybe 998 times too high, and that’s affording the benefit of the doubt to The President and Founder’s assistant ever bothering to have a look see at this web site, which, in that exotic foreign land all those not looking at this site call reality, there is probably a very low probability of that having ever happened or ever happening in the future, and so, if we were to face what used to be called, when it was what it claimed to be, “the awful truth” then the actual number of folks waiting to hear any news about The President and Founder is one, The President and Founder himself.

Next Installment:

The President and Founder wonders whether or not to use the hangers provided

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Now, I don’t want you to think that I think you’re a clown, however, last evening when I saw you alone and crying I did not think of the classic song, ‘Crying’, by Roy Orbison, but instead was reminded of the smash hit by Smokey Robinson and The Miracles, a performance of which you can enjoy at your leisure right here

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Honored Guest of The Institute

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gargantua-and-pantagruel

illustration by Gustave Dore

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From

Book II Chapter 16

of

The Life of Gargantua and of Pantagruel

by

François Rabelais

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Panurge was of a middle stature, not too high nor too low, and had somewhat an aquiline nose, made like the handle of a razor. He was at that time five and thirty years old or thereabouts, fine to gild like a leaden dagger—for he was a notable cheater and coney-catcher—he was a very gallant and proper man of his person, only that he was a little lecherous, and naturally subject to a kind of disease which at that time they called lack of money—it is an incomparable grief, yet, notwithstanding, he had three score and three tricks to come by it at his need, of which the most honourable and most ordinary was in manner of thieving, secret purloining and filching, for he was a wicked lewd rogue, a cozener, drinker, roister, rover, and a very dissolute and debauched fellow, if there were any in Paris; otherwise, and in all matters else, the best and most virtuous man in the world; and he was still contriving some plot, and devising mischief against the sergeants and the watch.

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Maybe you’re gonna change my life around

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Here she comes, you better watch your step
She’s going to break your heart in two, it’s true
It’s not hard to realize
Just look into her false colored eyes
She builds you up to just put you down, what a clown

– Lou Reed ‘Femme Fatale’

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She’s the kind of girl you dream of
Dream of keeping hold of
You’d better forget it
You’ll never get it
She will play around and leave you
Leave you and deceive you
Better forget it
Oh you’ll regret it

– Phil Collins ‘Easy Lover’

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jacquelinePOETIZERESS

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Oh, I felt a rush like a rolling bolt of thunder
Spinning my head around and taking my body under

Alright, that’s enough, for now. Maybe later, at some future date unimaginable to us here in the present, prisoners of the past and falling, flailing towards the unknown, we can (with good reason) find more lines from songs which aptly describe Jacqueline Horrorchild and our relationship to her, but, at this time let’s instead get down to brass tacks.

A special few of you, devoted followers of The Institute, and admirers of The President and Founder, who have become enamored of that world renowned wordsmith, Official Poetizer and all around good egg Jack Horrorchild will now face a reality more nightmarish than any dreamed of by folks who do that sort of thing. Jack is gone. Yes, I am quite aware that he has left before only to show up hours later expecting a heroes welcome which we gladly gave him time after time, however, this time, I’m afraid, is different. So, as living in the past is unadvisable, and as we (or most of us anyway) are not given to dwelling on what cannot be changed we bid adieu to Jack Horrorchild until we meet again, and, quickly turning, give our warmest welcome with much excitement and anticipation to Jacqueline Horrorchild the interim Official Poetizer for The Institute for the Study of Slightly Varying Circumstances.

[APPLAUSE]

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When you climb to the top of the mountain

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HUZZAH!

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HE HATH RETURNED!

Is that right? Hath? He hath is like he has, right? I don’t know. I’m sure if you know you’re telling yourself, but, no matter, now that Jack’s back. Yes, so long had Jack Horrorchild been gone that most had forgotten and the others given up resigned to live out the rest of their days hopeless before the inevitable. Not me. No. Not me. Why would I when all the time I knew? Secure in the knowledge was I, from the earliest reports of his disappearance through the media frenzy all the way into the third installment of the world premier mini-series based on the actual events, that one day he would return.

Oh, but enough about my exceptionalism. Let me instead direct the light upon my dear friend, Jack Horrorchild, Official Poetizer for The Institute for the Study of Slightly Varying Circumstances.

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intermittent

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The Poets will tell you

but do not listen

clasp your hands to your ears and hum loudly

a tune of your own devising

or one heard on the radio will do

not your favorite necessarily

but annoying enough

to drowned out the Poets

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