The Illimitable Ocean of Inexplicability

Tag: Best Poem Ever

The Flight of The Hand Folded Paper Aeroplane

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Many of you, too many to count (truth be told), went absolutely bonkers over The President and Founder’s ‘Hand Folded Paper Aeroplane’ which was based on a traditional design known to anyone worth knowing across this great globe of ours.

Well, now (for the first time ever) you can see the Hand Folded Paper Aeroplane (made with love by The President and Founder) take flight (not above the highest height, but darn close) and finally achieve for yourselves, just as you’d always dreamed, moving past the agonizing boredom of ‘going bonkers’ and into the difficult to reach, but worth every sacrifice to get there, ‘going full on ape shit’.

So, what are you waiting for? Get to it!

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THE EXTREME CAPE COD COOP

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Nature is a Haunted House – but Art – a House that tries to be haunted.

– Emily Dickinson

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extremecapecodcoop

 Author’s note:
As with all things ‘extreme’ great caution must be taken when and if you can even muster considering to read the following ‘true-life’ story. Some of you, and (if you’re honest with yourself) you probably ‘feel it’ as well, are not prepared either emotionally or physically for what follows, and as such should probably not bother attempting what you are definitely not capable (because of your natural infirmities) of seeing through to the end. Maybe, if you want to know what ‘it’s all about’ you can ask someone more fit for living than yourself to ‘give it to you gently’.
-The Author

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I would very much like to claim that upon seeing the ‘Extreme Cape Cod Coop’ (pictured above) the words, “Nature is a Haunted House – but Art – a House that tries to be haunted.“, occurred to me, but they did not. And, for the life of me, try as I might, for near a quarter of an hour, I was unable to come up with any reason, plausible or not, as to why they would have. In fact, though I at one time imagined myself employed as Ms. Dickinson’s gardener, and, because of her fondness for me, privy to most all of her secrets, I, in actuality, hadn’t any idea she’d ever wrote the words I found myself attempting to twist into a shape suitable to my purpose.

Honestly, when I came across this coop of the ‘extreme cape cod’ variety my first reaction was to excitedly slap the shoulder of my assistant with the back of my hand and repeatedly say to her, “Check it out”, while gawking at this most luxurious home for chickens. This, as it shouldn’t any assistant worth their salt, didn’t surprise my assistant, and, as her position requires, she waited most patiently while I took out my camera and snapped countless pictures of this new found object of my delight from a number of different angles.

However, though I went to what some would consider ridiculous lengths to capture the ‘Extreme Cape Cod Coop’ from many dramatic and what could even be described as ‘soul stirring’ angles I  knew, even while lying on my back in order to make an image properly ominous of the coop, that it would be the more static, perhaps even boring, typically taken image that I chose as an illustration for public presentation. The reason for this being, I imagined later, days and days later actually long after I had made way more digital images than anyone would need of the coop, is that no matter from where it is seen a haunted house is and always will be a haunted house.

Now, as much as I’d enjoy leading you all to believe that any of this, what, in keeping with the very idea of haunted houses (to say nothing of haunted chicken coops), I’ll call ‘mumbo jumbo’ I must, as my nature inclines me, tell you truthfully of what transpired after departing from the Cape Cod Coop’s immediate vicinity.

No doubt it would be easy for those of you well knowledgeable of my many previous exciting adventures to imagine that upon walking away, off to accomplish a few minor errands within the local feed store, I discoursed at length, for my assistant’s edification, about the various philosophical ideas of which the Cape Cod Coop did in physical form describe. Unfortunately, this was not exactly what happened. Actually, if you were to ask my assistant what did happen she would tell you that while it not as annoying as someone discoursing on philosophical ideas, my behavior was, to put it mildly, horribly trying.

You see, from the moment I walked away from the Extreme Cape Cod Coop and passed through the automatic sliding doors which lead into the feed store, and after adjusting my breathing to a necessary shallowness in order to limit my exposure to the miasma of toxic off gassing one finds in such places, I, seemingly without the ability to stop myself, kept speaking the words ‘Extreme Cape Cod Coop’, over and over again. “Extreme Cape Cod Coop, Extreme Cape Cod Coop, Extreme Cape Cod Coop” I shot the words from my mouth. Faster and faster I continuously repeated those four words, “Extreme Cape Cod Coop, Extreme Cape Cod Coop, Extreme Cape Cod Coop”. Again and again and again until the words began to disintegrate, whole letters disappeared and my tongue, in agony from its twisting, refused any longer to aid in my uttering of another sound. Dizzy, my legs feeling weak, I collapsed upon a nearby folding chair covered in a camouflage pattern which if I had been so unfortunate as to have found myself in this condition in the woods the chair’s upholstery would have fooled me so completely that I’d have stumbled right past it as if it were not even there.

Some moments later, pretending to have had lost consciousness, I flung my head from one side to the other in, I admit, a poor imitation of what I had witnessed many fine actors do in scenes in which they suffer from a terrible fever from which it is less than certain they’d ever recover. My purpose in attempting to appear as if the victim of an illness, be it mental or physical, was merely a panicked reaction to my own realizing that I was, in the words of my assistant, “acting like a freak”.

Unfortunately, upon looking up at my assistant, while still trying desperately, with squinted eyes and slight, almost imperceptible (and wholly fake) tremors in my hands, in order to convey the idea that I was not responsible for my previous actions, it (quickly) became clear from the expression on her face that she was not the only one to not be taken in by my ruse. Slowly I began to notice all around me the other shoppers, some bravely doing their best to appear as if they’d not noticed and others looking at me with faces I can only compare to my memory of the expression on my mother’s face when, entering the living room of our family home, she found a large pile of excrement left by the family dog upon the carpet.

Though discouraged the fear I felt of stranger’s disdain caused me to, in an embarrassingly ham-fisted way, hold my arms out with hands open at the lights above me and exclaim loudly, “Too bright, too bright”. However, just before I was to follow this outburst with covering my eyes and exclaiming, “The phosphorescence! It burns”, something, perhaps it was ‘the voice of reason’, or maybe, just maybe something of a supernatural kind reaching out its benevolent hand to calm me. Whatever it was, and no one, in fact, can say for sure what it was, I quickly regained my usual devil may care demeanor and continued upon the errands my assistant and I had come there in the first place to accomplish.

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Epilogue

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After finding the items we needed, as well as being subjected to the gross incompetence of those they hire to be cashiers at the feed store, my assistant and I headed back on the peaceful country roads to our home, the beloved Institute for the Study of Slightly Varying Circumstances. On our way, as I always do, I spoke at length about whatever entered my mind all the while glancing over at my assistant in order to make sure she was either laughing at some joke I had told or that she was nodding her head vigorously in agreement with some excellent point I had just made, and, not surprisingly, she was.

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IMG_3979Ropes at the feed store

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A Tale of Two Posts

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What do you do when you have two posts to share with the world, but have given your word, even sworn a solemn oath, never to ‘publish’ more than one a day? You do as I have done (was there ever any doubt) and combine the posts into one.

What follows is the first of the two posts I present here. However, though it appears here ‘first’ there is no reason that it could not have been ‘second’, or even not appeared at all. That, I hate to be the one to tell you, is just the way it is. Get used to it.

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Varmint Trap, Shmarmint Trap!

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That’s what you’ve said and who can blame you?

Though, early on, before it became “a thing” there were whispers about you “getting a little too big for your britches”, but where are they now those who pointed, and even laughed, at you for your disdain of all things Varmint Trap? Nowhere. Or, at least nowhere that matters.

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That was the first post. Reflecting upon my writing of it I now realize it could have very easily gone on for much longer, “at length” as they say. However, from what I recall I became quite disillusioned, not only with the path I could foresee this particular post taking, but as well with humanity and their purpose thus far in history and whether or not their continued existence in the future was something I should concern myself with.

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2nd Post

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Ordinarily, and you know this if you at all know me, I would never not only not expose you to such as this, but not even think to consider for a moment mentioning it to myself when, as at times I have been known to do, I allow for memories of the past to flood forward and submerge this modern moment.(And all our yesterdays have lighted fools)

You know?

Some of you do. Those of you that were there. As for the rest? Well, you can go on imagining it’s different. Why not? I knew some then who did, and though they were grating and most definitely came to no good end, as I had foretold, I encourage you to act on your convictions.

With you well warned we move ahead to the second of the two.

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This Shit’s Gay

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I hope you didn’t say that when you saw another one of my posts come across your feed.

I mean, who doesn’t know better (even when frustrated by that from which there seems to be no relief) than to say something so, I think they used to call it, “uncouth”. It would ‘trouble my worried mind’¹ if someone was to even look sideways at me, even if after catching themselves saying it they went to the necessary lengths required to properly apply a lash to themselves or gladly, nay, excitedly don an extremely uncomfortable hair shirt during a particularly long hot afternoon, if even for a brief moment they had uttered the words, “This shit’s gay”.

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As you may have at some point noticed the trajectory of this second, and thankfully, to be honest, last post in this tale of two posts quickly went not only off track, but careening recklessly onto a crowded sidewalk upon which were strolling only the most innocent of those among us. It’s not my doing though. It is fate for sure. The will of some THING beyond our imaginations, but who nevertheless enjoys the same demented fantasies we regularly indulge ourselves in.

And so, there you have it. The two posts as one. Tried before you can say, but claim not that it has been done better. For, if you do, I will, upon my word, have little recourse but to announce my offense and in anger lash out with punishment against you of my leaving this blasted space never again to be occupied.

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Boom, boom, boom

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Like a lightning bolt
Your heart will glow
And when it’s time you know
You just gotta

Ignite the light
And let it shine
Just own the night
Like the Fourth of July

– Katy Perry, ‘Firework’

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I’m afraid my friends and I may have shone just a little too brightly while we were owning the night. We may just stay in bed all day, but that doesn’t mean you can’t check out some of the neat things on this web site, and perhaps even dream of one day owning your very own MAKEITSO® DOLL!

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So let it be written, so let it be done

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“Trolling is the language of the unheard”

– The President and Founder

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bones

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Now you’ve really gone and done it!

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This World is Mine

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“What you lookin’ at? You all a bunch of fuckin’ assholes. You know why? You don’t have the guts to be what you wanna be. You need people like me. You need people like me so you can point your fuckin’ fingers and say, “That’s the bad guy.” So… what that make you? Good? You’re not good. You just know how to hide, how to lie. Me, I don’t have that problem. Me, I always tell the truth. Even when I lie. So say good night to the bad guy! Come on. The last time you gonna see a bad guy like this again, let me tell you. Come on. Make way for the bad guy. There’s a bad guy comin’ through! Better get outta his way!”

– Tony Montana

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saladworldinvadrs

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Yes, it’s all mine. My world. I discovered it, planted my flag, made something out of it. You, well, you walked by it countless times with barely a passing thought. Not once did you stop to have a look. Honestly, you probably didn’t care, you weren’t interested. That’s fine, you didn’t have to be, but now, now all the sudden you want a part of it. You tell everyone you’re entitled to it because you’ve been walking past it for months, but for bullshit reasons couldn’t take the time to stop. And then, in a jealous fit, you go around telling anyone who will listen it’s unfair that I could stop and have a look. You even try telling me I somehow didn’t really earn it. Well, you know what? Fuck you, it’s mine.

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BONES ON THE FROZEN GROUND

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To my fellow explorers who now find themselves in this small part of our eternal striving

Anyone who was to read the above title would most likely notice that it is in all capitals, or as those who dedicate themselves to the study of typography would say, ‘Upper case’, however, only a very few, a select few, maybe even yourself¹, would ever think about why it may be this way, would dare contemplate, for even a moment or two, the various reasons why the author may have chosen to do this, and what it was, ultimately, meant to convey to you, the reader. Now, I’m not here to tell you what conclusions those special ones among you, who give more than a passing thought to things, see further than most, think deeper than the rest, should come to about why I chose to present the title in all capitals, or to suggest you consider what possible purpose I believed served by titling this post, ‘BONES ON THE FROZEN GROUND’, as opposed to, ‘Bones in the Grass’, or, ‘Bones Found in the Frozen Grass’ or even simply, ‘Bones’ which while descriptive of what seems to be the central focus of the image is, in the estimation of anyone who thinks ‘deeper than the rest’, a pathetic effort at titling. Be that as it may, at this point, your head swimming with a myriad of questions, but due to my having told you at an earlier time that everyone gets only one question, you choose, from the doubtless incalculable number available, to ask me,”What kind of bones”?, and, after tilting my head oddly from side to side, and exhaling loudly I answer, “Who can say”? Yes, yes, I know, believe me, I know I could certainly guess, but by guessing and then presenting my guess to you a great disservice would be done to the furtherance of the mystery I was attempting to convey in the first place. For, if you have never experienced it first hand, let me assure you that coming across a pile of bones, especially as I did these, far from any signs of civilization, save the asphalt road running off across the barren landscape and disappearing into the rugged mountains far in the distance, is an experience at once shocking in an ancient, primal way, stoking unimagined fears in one’s gut while setting every single nerve on edge, and as well, for those special few I mentioned previously (again, perhaps even yourself), a sobering existential experience not easily come back from.

So now, here we are, myself, and those very few chosen (be it by some God, or chance, we may never know) who are capable of attaining higher levels of understanding, who go the extra mile to walk in not only another human’s shoes, but also go what is sometimes referred to, in whispers, by sages and mystics, as the eternal mile in order, for even a brief moment, to attain some deeper, more real, appreciation for the universe as a whole. Breathe deeply, my friend, you, apart from those countless others, have made it, have ascended to the very top as I all along knew you would, and, as no doubt, if they were not lost forever in ‘the mists of time’, the ancient stone tablets, covered in strange writing, would proclaim to all as your destiny.

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.¹ The answer as to whether or not it is ‘you’ I write about here I cannot provide, and doubt very much that anyone else, even the very creator of this world as well as any possible others that may, like us, hang in the dark vastness of space, can, but instead only humbly suggest that you could look for the answer, if you have the time, and there is nothing else worth doing, within yourself.

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The White Dog (Italicized) *now with illustrative representation*

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“And before me I did see the beast white furred and dripping fanged charged by the Gods to separate the kinds of information one from the other”

– The Book of Jack

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I.

.As expected, and, as it should be, though we’re discouraged from ever mentioning it, some things happen naturally, and, while I, like (presumably) you, or, at least others if not you, was raised to look warily upon this well established fact, now have, through force of will and the study of periodicals dedicated to this subject, overcome dark days resulting in freedom from a grudge against those who, unknown to me, know not what they do but cannot help themselves from hesitating fearfully before the white dog

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II.

This is, if all was as right as we dream it will be one day, when someone, almost imaginable, would, on raised platform, speak, to us, of the way we would have things be if not so well guarded by the white dog

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III.

.I’ve still wondered, from time to time, though I know you never bother like when we would wave to one another without a word spoken kept apart as they would have us always on either side of the white dog

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“A Date Which Will Live in Infamy”

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