Captain Plastic Planet and the Bread Wrappers of Doom

"Holy particle beam weapons."  Bodkins exclaimed, as he hung frosted inside the wheelwell
of the luxury 767 Stratocruiser.

Kid Koolit, was piloting the tear drop shaped hypersonic trash transport nearby.
7.73 seconds later, a plastic bleach jug  was sucked into the scramjet intake port.
The craft spun perilously out of control down to the acrid fields of smoke and fire below.
Bodkins could feel the sickening thud of the crash in his fine porciline bones.
He regurgetated the lime jello he had for breakfast all over the hydralic hoses of the landing gear.

Plastic Planet has been burning out of control for almost a decade now.
A munching mass of drug residue and plastic has combined with a mutant bacterial strain.
The giant size bacteria ate massive quantities of waste and excreted napalm as bodily waste.

Some trash heaps reported bacteria to be as large as a common house cat.
Possible solution to contain the strain was to encapsulate them in bread wrappers and
seal with a twist tie. The thing would then suffocate in its own waste before it could eat through the
wrapper. The question being, how to wrap several billion bacterium with limited bread wrappers?

Bodkins flight descended from altitude to land at the Nazga Plain in the Peruvian Andes.
Early aliens designed it to be trash exempt. His white extremities were paralysed. His
yellow-orange blood cells, full of dioxin residue and BHA from raunchy cold cereal,
were coagulated in his gut. He fell out of the wheelwell with a sickening thud onto the
tarmac. The air thin and cold. To him, it felt like he was in the company of Llamas and burnt
corn cakes.

General Daniel Morgan

The old memories hang like dusty fixtures in an attic.
Stored and forgotten under macabre lids and heaped linen.

I cannot presume to know who, or what I have done in the past.
I think, from my experience, there occurs a certain aridity of the spirit.
A disenchantment with the current boundaries one finds oneself in.
I have found myself at several crossroads facing a profound sense of loss.
This emotion does not correlate to a visible or tangible problem before me,
it is elusive, and an interior issue on the unconscious side.
It leaves me with a desire to seek closure.
But, then the mood passes and I settle back into like as usual.

Visions have come in dreams to me at various times.
They are not often. I compare them across my current situation,
and attitudes I habituate. Some things I have seen are difficult to associate with,
but can be saturated with a hold-over emotion that is heavily charged and
is not easily dismissed. Rage and contempt survive the threshold of physical death.
A career in eternity does not hold significant historical analogy.
It is therefore heavily discounted as of recent centuries.

General Morgan led some battles in the Revolutionary War.
He had success with directing sharp shooters in insurgency operations.
Emphasizing the skirmish line and individual marksmanship.
His efforts in leading the 11th Virginia Regiment were well coordinated and gave decisive
outcome in enemy engagments. I carry a vague and nagging impression of being a part of
this regiment. Sharpshooters carried actual rifles as opposed to muskets.
To harass and hound the enemy formations through skilled flanking or pursuits of confusion
served this light infantry who were designed to travel quickly, attack, and weigh immediate
outcome for possible further ingress.

I directly resonate with the sharp instincts involved in this type of warfare.
It is still a part of me, and holds some value when faced with danger.
I also remember a vivid scene of an ambush. As I lay in wait prone in the brush with rifle
aimed. The order was given. I shot. I saw a man fall. He was at one moment serene and
peaceful on his march. I destroyed his peace, his dreams, his life in an instant.
It all occurred with such inner disgust and regret because it was as if I had killed myself.
I wanted to help this soul and reach out my hand to him and convey the sorrow and remorse
for my act. But, I could not break rank. I was forced to witness the passing of a man in the
prime of life, not yet prepared for such a fate. I could read the disbelief in his face as he lay
dying. It was so hard and so sad. I never forgave myself.

Inner Strength

O Sensei, Morihei Ueshiba shook buildings with it.
Inner strength is quiet. It is the slight touch of the infinite which
always exposes the finite. It is patience. The patience which has no
fixation within time. Inner strength is the sound current.
It can overcome all adversity. It is not contingent on any conditions,
but requires practice.

Automatic Utopia Catastrophy Radar

Automat briefing note transmission DAY-3856289330
Intercept 271, frequency 63 POZ unmodulated.

Concerns:
EMA, (early mission abort)

Star pilot JURDAG-6
Automated recon survey.
Hyperion non-relativistic medium cruiser, NCC Daystrom

Survey destination:
NGC-5163S Norette Globular Star Cluster
Unexplored half of Milky Way Galaxy on opposite side
of core. (see telemetry report for precise location)

Mean density cluster 7000 A.U.
Extreme population density of Lithium and Carbon arc pulsar dwarfs.
12,471 main sequence bachelor suns. 5682 main sequence planetary suns.
8884 blue giants.
3 magnetar remnants.
Aprox. 80,000 stars total.

Summary:
Small minor galactic type cluster laying 18 degrees below galactic plane. 534 lt. years from galactic
core. Illuminated incandescent gas arm intercepts cluster as it extends from hub of galaxy core giving
appearance of what explorer Norette described as the river of light.
Norette was not equipped to penetrate the high field radiation.
Present survey entered the aft quadrant using pulsar induction fields to navigate internal realm.
Approach to main sequence planetary star system was successful.
Each planet was surrounded by a metallic microphage torus.
The planets hosted exceptionally strong magnetic fields which held radiation eating bacteriophites equal
to the host planets entire mass. 9GGH KalpaJoule Pulsar beacons were easily absorbed by the
protective organic shields.

Mission foreclosure:
Six solar days were spent in intensive study of system 0901 against survey prerogatives.
Mission commander Sheets became unreasonable and fought to override the automated
elective components of the NCC Daystrom. Day seven found Sheets and 51 other human crew
secreting aboard a terrestrial evac ship and debarking from NCC Daystrom.
Their ship was tracked until it entered the torroidal field of planet 2 of system 0901.
Notations of evac'ed personnel showed marked aberrant behavior. Many describing apparitions
and hearing celestial voices they maintained were coming from planet 2.
No method of communication can hence penetrate the immense torus of radiation feasting micro-organisms.
Behavior exhibited indicated a possible neutrino ghost wave poisoning, also labeled as
Fringo's Pulsar Fever. The few cases were known to lead to irrational action.
NCC Daystrom departed Norette cluster, automated components arriving at Doradus Minor for
download of mission data. Planet 2 to be officially referred to as Sheets Utopia.

-transmission ended-

Scrapheapula



(I had invented a character back in my late teens that was an amalgam of Italian
Son of Hercules movies, and a more futuristic hero.
His name; Scrapheapula)

From the land of caustic ethereal mist, regions of clamor, and ceaseless pounding, emerged a noble son of the rising mountains of refuse. Scrapheapula.
Raised as a humble plastic herder in the peasant village of Loki-sad,
life proved difficult as a youthful boy. His parents, who lived in a discarded coal cart,
wished great things for their lithe and bright eyed son. So poor was his family that his
mother wove his first clothing from strands of cobwebs and nasal mucus.
His father, a janitor inside nuclear reactor cores, would arrive home late
and warm the dank, cold coal car with his residual glow.
We called him Neutron Furnace. NF for short.
NF earned .05 rubles per month, and therefore frugal, would also put food on the table in the
form of dregs he had scraped from inside the aging reactor rods and spent casings.

Scrapheapula grew as steadily as a ground zero perennial at Hiroshima. His endurance seemed inexhaustible, and he was certain he would soon be ready to go out into the world and
earn a dying. The mountains in the distance groaned, creaked and belched in ferment and
fevers of oxidation. The valley was adrift in music. His mother, a former Olympic
gymnast, had at one time won the gold medal in 3 events. It was later that the IOC
stripped her medals away citing she had not had the required levels of noxious, toxic hydrocarbons in her blood. We called her Ruined. It was certainly her favorite
adjective.

Scrapheapula realized the weight of growing up amid harsh conditions. It was forced upon
him continuously. He was nudged out of the coal cart at 18 months due to room limitations.
He slept underneath the cart with venomous spiders, rats, and pools of blind tadpoles.
Pygmy albino baboons would frequently attack at night at the mouth of the cave where
the rusting coal cart stood. They were after human toe jam and would press furiously
in large numbers until they had acquired their quota. It was in these nightly battles
in preserving his own dignity, that Scrapheapula stood as a warrior to be respected.

One day Scrapheapula left his home. He posted a note on the lid of the coal cart.
It read,

"Dear Ruined and NF,

I am leaving. I am glad you are my parents.
I will always remember you. And, if I make good in
my life, I will send compensation to you.
I know life has been harder than a dura-steel bulkhead for
you, and me as well. I have a couple knives, a spear, and a few
plastic bottles full of algae spongiform gack.
So, don't worry about me.

your eternal son,
Scrapheapula"

Scrapheapula walked out of the valley and did not stop.
He followed the moon, which he had always called, Bowl of Stupid since
he was able to mouth the native language.
He hiked for hours under Bowl of Stupid light, sipping the
blue-black gunk that had been trapped inside liter bottles for eons.
Also, he had secreted away a small cloth bag that nobody knew of outside
a couple pygmy baboons whom he domesticated. It was a delicacy known in
few quarters. A quantity of munchy android eyeball retinas.

He slept for a time under a crashed ore processing ship, at least a section of one.
It was one of the ancient Bowl of Stupid mining operatives that was blasted
down by rival ore companies. At first light he searched ship compartments for
valuables. He found a few broken android heads long devoid of retina.

As Scrapheapula exited the fragmented hulk he saw that the perimeter was filled, shoulder to
hoof by a freakish mutant band of loathsome drooling, snarling, rasping, ugly,
blood-flecked, gut-greased, cadre of teeth gnashing, breathing insecticide.

For a child who's lullabies were torturous collisions of metallic hulls cracking open in the troposphere, the sight of these morbid creatures brought forth a warming glow. Scrapheapula gestured
hypnotically at their dark eye socket holes hoping to reach some intact quadrant of
their worm eaten brains. Ineffective responses were indicated by increased quantity of
mouth froth, lip smacking, and head ooze. It was time to construct a new plan prior to
complete frontal assault.

His father NF, had bestowed upon his genetic upbringing, a significant element by the
regular consumption of reactor dregs, Scrapheapula pulsed a brief, blinding, blue spark that emitted from his navel and showered his adversaries. His belly was ripe with a supra-cosmic lethal dose of Chernikov radiation.

He respectfully proceeded past puddling mounds of hissing flesh. Cell walls obliterated by a thick blanket of neutrons. A putrid stream of waste wove through
the perforated gray dust where the deceased miscreants lay.

Onward to destinies unknown. A man someday to be renown, a giant among the
simian minions. An uncommon hero in an amok epoch in time.
Scrapheapula the bold.

Marc

Mennonite and Amish Surfing Classic

Welcome to Big Sur, California.
Home of surf, sand, and bikini's.
I'm your host Dave Draper.
Not so long ago surfing was a hedonist sport, now
like everything else in the modern world there's a twist.
This week at least you can see solemn bearded men wearing
hats and long pants riding the waves.

It all started with a vision of one Ely Timer. Spending most of his childhood
on a buckboard plow, he began to innovate creative plowing styles to augment
long torturous days under the hot Pennsylvania sun. By age 13 he was having visions
of surfing in the ocean. Elders advised him to stop his nightly visitations on the
Astral realms, but he couldn't find any scripture that forbade his explorations.

As a young man he kept with his church and upbringing, but on annual pilgrimages
to California religious conferences, he would try and surf in his free time.
And, guess what, he was outrageously successful.
Big surfing names were stunned when they first saw him hit the waves.

Scott (Snogler-Dog) Avis had this to say,
"One Saturday I kept seeing this black hat....man, that was a day that
changed my life. Here's a wiry farm kid hanging in with me and the guys on some
shirt ripping pipe. Nobody comes from nowhere and does what he does."

Comments from the Snogler taped earlier today.
Now to live coverage of todays surfing event.
Three finalists have been selected to compete this afternoon.

First off,
Garret Hershberger, Home; Rossville, Indiana.
They call him the Box Lunch. Big hefty, a bit hot tempered. He can get hotter than a box
lunch at sundown. He hopes to see a Christopher Walken movie some day.

Second on the board is, McDoo Collins, Home; Sedalia, Ohio
Likes to balance a strawberry pie on his head while surfing.
Known as the silent-showoff, he's fond of muscle beach and
dedicated to getting rid of his farmers tan.

Finally, the favorite, Ely Timer. Pennsylvania native.
A real natural. His techniques are solid. A quiet retiring gentleman,
who reminds me of Gary Cooper. He credits his drive to his grandfather.

I am joined now by surf champ Lawrence Kahuna-Camp Nelson.
That's right Dave, ah no one knows where these guys practice, they're here
once a year. Get on their own home-made boards and ride like repo'd demons.
I have a theory Dave, unsupported, but I feel like most of the surfing crowns have
spent too much time on hallucinogens and a salad bar of other substances.
These guys, did none of that. Clear headed focus, and they can practice 1000 miles
away from the ocean in their mind's eye.

Interesting theory KC, nobody knows how they do what they do.
They are fun to watch. We spoke with Ely yesterday after practice.

"Ely. We are glad we could join you today for a few words."

"Hey Snog, hey KC."

"What do you think of the first televised coverage of this event?"

"Well, not much. My community certainly won't support any of this."

"What about the rest of your fans that have turned out for you here this week?"

"Oh, I don't know, I suppose curiosity."

"Well, we all wish you good luck."

"Goodbye"

A Tale of Tulips Malloy

(not fitting into any assignment theme, I had an itch I
had to scratch, hope you don't mind)


I was born on a hunter's moon.
Mother was an emotional Irish immigrant.
We lived in Carbondale Illinois. Father dug coal.
He worked scared, and lived scared.
Irish were a mean sort. Folks sometimes called us
land-pirates. Irish meant that you worked. You were born a given day,
and that was your only day of grace, cause two day old infants were given
a bucket and mop and told to clean up.

I remember ruthless songs, and ruthless stories.
My happiest memories are days that I didn't suffer
lacerations. Me mother, for her burden I, I did pay a price.
I was granted life, fed and clothed. Aye, a lad I was.
But, branded with a namesake.
Irish live with a cloud of
vengeance hovering, looking for the distant day wherein their
soured grapes of wrath can be wrung out like a tired God,
disgusted over its creation.

Tulips Malloy. It was enough to kill me many times over.
Save for the providence of fallen angels sent to protect me.
I would have gladly be burdened with a hundred-weight stone,
chain and shackle, and exiled to the South Pole.

The stark cold school houses we as children were obligated to attend were enough
to deaden everyone to the bone. Yet, for my luck. My first name broadened the
bleak picture to a roaring bonfire. Laughter is good for the soul it is said.
And, I know there are some very healthy souls I grew up with.
Fate is the real fist you are handed, not the one you imagine, or want.
Father, expected me to stand up like Ramses the Great and
defeat entire armies. If I dared limp or show despair at the end of a day,
Father would entertain lashings which would kill an oak tree.

Sullen, I grew sideways, instead up upward.
My inside world was one of constant vigilance calibrated
in micro-seconds, and that was on easy days.
I could shift from this into pico-seconds in a femto-second.
We learned about Darwin's theory, and survival of the fittest in
6th grade. The class realized, as I should have succumbed years earlier,
that I was a contender in this race for survival.
I was fast in running contests, the fastest, if you don't mind me bragging.
You see, fleeing for ones life bolsters a gusto for genuine motivation.
Tulips became a gift when the awful period of transmutation finally came to a fruition.
I became the shrewdest, most outrageous clever lad in all of Carbondale.

There were outsiders who would travel a few miles just to see what a Tulips might
look like. Most of them had ill intentions. Most of them, when looking me dead in the eye
would see clear warning signals. A few dared to stand up and start a verbal match. Then
a shoving match. I would always allow the courtesy of first contact right on my jaw.
My solidity would often distract the aggressor and diffuse the violence.

Life didn't stop becoming a challenge, it was assumed that I would quickly move into
employment to work coal. My father, in a span of 2 years, had fallen off so badly that
I knew his death was coming before next winter.

I was leaving. If I had to crawl out blindfolded through woods and swamps, I would.
I was leaving everything I had grown up knowing. No endearing memories to
surrender anyway. I had mustered the gumption to make bold moves without saying
anything about my intentions. They said that Tulips was brash and legendary as
any Irish hero, but mysterious as blinding fog. I shall move along in life, but will hold onto
Tulips as my given name. Both curse and charm in it.

Marc

Days

Monday: Carrier of haze. The general reinstatement of efforts toward mortal industry.
The ethers hold sway as a weight against renewed vigor and rest.
Dogmatic is a word I will describe this day.

Tuesday: My spirit has risen up and decided to become a contender to enter the
arena for the remaining work week. I will stifle my ambitions a couple notches
to conserve for the long haul of the next 72 hours.
Stoic is a word for Tuesday.

Wednesday: The mid-life of the mundane terrestrial existence. Woes can be fought and
negotiated here. Treaties signed and wounds wrapped.
Tumult is my word for Wednesday.

Thursday: A day to look long. Scan the horizon. Point out the clustered band of
barbarians to your generals and pursue them. Look up, stare at the
solar disk for a moment. Glance mercury if you are lucky.
Assurance is the word for Thursday.

Friday: Flatulence and rest.
Comatose.

Saturday: Saturn's glory. Vigor. Release. Expression.
Creation-Recreation is Saturdays lifeblood.

Sunday: Passive? I just have not figured this one out.
Gods day of rest? Why do I feel Amish on this day?
Repentant is the undertone of Sunday. Quiet is also dominant.
A good re-centering day.

Pharonic Linage

I am Oba Omo. Frail son of King Orsuku, the Scorpion.
My great King has parted and crossed the void.
It is I, in his stead that must proceed forward.

I hold a court full of personal retainers.
All my wishes are tended.
What I inherated is a suffocating burden.
It is a weight of empty wisdom that folds over me.
Father was a powerful King. I am emulating his
stature. I have much to attain regarding my physical
strength alone. If I can stand to the toe of the Gods,
I too will fight the Apis Bull, bare to a loin cloth at the
abbey of Sakkara.

I sleep restlessly, for there is urgency in my charge.
I know I will have little time for love in my reign as King.
My mother was Akiris, courier from the night sky, and
birthed my by the river, amid the reeds. The crickets and
frogs sang a cascade of sound as I arrived in this land.
Naked, from a zodiacal transit. The priests knew.

I am sprung from Sirius. I will offer corridors of
mystic pursuit into the faculties of man. The black land
of Egypt, a way station for galactic influences and culture.
Far am I, in truth, a ruler over this center of power.
There are factions invisible who are as giants.
Take caution here, a begger who's eyes lit with flame
may entice you to fits of ecstasy with one glance.

I have come to teach the Earth children something.
Even I yet do not realize what it will be.
The uncomfortable life I have chosen will
lead me on a endless quest.

Gene Mix Up

Genetic engineers working at a high security lab in Geneva today admitted a
mix up of DNA between two donor cultures.
Dr. Herman Xerbothe, noted Nobel prize winner in 1996, admitted that
two distinctly separate vials of DNA from deceased donor, became inexplicably merged under bizarre circumstances.

"I didn't recognize it at first, but the donors samples were from the same Nationality.
Diametrically opposed philosophies at their base level, left alone, it presented a strange
attraction. The vials were in cryogenic suspension in separate buildings, but one one fateful
day, each vial was pulled and a small sample was taken to be rendered at just above the
freezing point of water."

Neither team of researchers knew of the others sampling proceedure.
The lab booths were some 300 meters apart from one another.

Xerbothe continues., "There was some decorum for the sample study on this date
pertaining to certain possible spectral characteristics of the DNA. Light analysis is becoming
more stylish at the cellular level as of late. Records illustrate that both samples were pulsed
by wide spectrum light at around noon of that day."

The question of how both samples appeared on the same lunch cart a half an hour later is
left unanswerable by both lab chiefs and food service.

"It's like the Manhattan Project losing a pound of Plutonium in a salad bar somewhere in
Los Angeles.", Commented Dept. of Death specialist for the NSA, Steven Bag.

Regardless, the event occurred and the vials, one lettered (E), the other (H), didn't simply
continue forward in isolated proximity.

Xerbothe., "At some point the vials were mistaken for salad dressings and added to the
salad of Kurt Russell, actor, who was visiting his daughter, an employee of this
laboratory. It went unoticed for weeks. The lab techs simply reaquired more samples
and went forward with a new set of analysis."

It wasn't until Kurt began experiencing incredible night visions of appocolyptic magnitude,
that an effort was made to trace the source of the problem.

"Look, we simply brought him in here and sat him down. It was very awful, the most awful
day I can remember. But, you try to explain that you have been made host to the raw
genetic matter of Albert Einstein and Adolf Hitler. Kurt just had a complete shit-fit.
So aloof from the Semitic and Anti-Semitic issues from the past, he was simply floored."

"God-damn, I've always prided myself on my detachment of politics and philosophy,
how in creation did I get cooked up together with these two extreme polarities?',"
Kurt explained.

His daughter, who has since resigned in disgust, claims that mankind has become the
penultimate tool.

Kurt, who has moved forward, reflects that this has become a useful asset to his
eccelectic acting career.

The Geneva Genetics Lab has been as of late, partying hot spots for
the likes of David Hasselhoff and Paris Hilton.

This is the BBC, London.

SNORTFACE TOUR

Something I wrote 35 years ago.
I never took drugs.


Snortface Tour

as told to awe strickened audiences.......

Old men trudged down the burnt cracked sidewalk. Piles of wounded sneezersnouts lay
beside a fresh crater and yelps of some pained creature fan out in the air. The hollow tubes
that plunge underground belch some acrid organic stench. We think that the gorillas have been dumping cadavers into them. Nearby we have an old crusty man sitting on a pile of rusting
engines who is licking stained sheets of paper that he has been dipping in slimy oil. I approach
him and he stops most suddenly to warn me of protruding snortfaces. He slobber some
black druil and accidently papercuts his sneezersnout. Then a horrible tantrum is set forth and
he bites some rotting rubber hose and begins to rub grits on his bristling sneezeersnout. Quickly
we leave and pass by a pack of hunchies, it was funny, they were all just bumping into each other
falling down and digging their lips out with tree trunks.

Finally we come the the village of Sneer, sneezersnouts are very wrinkled here. Sniffing us
through wheezy barrels of a snout with long hisses of breath, the village sneer seer inspected
our arrival. He thumped his sneezersnout with a hollow empty bonk, pulled up some long
hanging skin from his grey snout and showed us his beak-like teeth. Such an honor to please us
was his actions. Sneezersnout children were playing behind rocks pushing their sneezersnouts
through the dirt with sad eyes. Mother sneezersnout, anxious to call in the children, starts to
sandpaper her sneezersnout so she can call them in.

Some youngster comes running down the granite dusty road and he has a locust trapped
in his sneezersnout, which makes it look like a venturi opening. He just passes us staring at
the grass like he is starving to death. My gosh! Another bomb hit us and we can see that it
landed by a poor lazy snoozing man. We heard the blast adn looked over to see the poor guy
chucking his sneezersnout in the crater. It just went, -yelp-yelp-yelp, and hopped over
bleeding and blackened.

We headed for the mountains early in the morning not aware of what we might find. Miles
and days of travels we came on some strange nature. We were just passing over some bridge
by muddy banks and as soon as we looked over the railing we glimpsed some horrible snortface.
He just peeked at us for a moment with his bulging saucer eyes and hammered up
sneezersnout before he sank back into the mud. We shivered and recoiled as we saw him. We
crossed the bridge and stepped into the deep forest of skinny trees, then strange echoes began issuing around the forest. It had to be the nut-plungers far off in the distance. Sharp 'oohs' and
'aahs' could be heard as we progressed on. Then finally the sounds were very intense and as
we peered through the brush we could see furry baboon goons dipping their nuts into an ice
cold stream of water.

Out of the forest, we climbed a wall of crevices. Only something was a little wrong. The air
smelled funny and we sensed somebody else around. Then in a terrible manner, a prime
snortface peeked out from behind a crevice knawing on roots to scare us. More sniffing
snortfaces ducked from behind rocks banging their sneezersnouts with logs and stones. One
snortface began tearing the nostrils from his sneezersnout and threw chunks of whiskery meat
at our heads. Then a snortface came at us with astroturf sewed to his chin and bit us with his
cowiring breath. We ran away and watched a snortface fall out of a tree. He just came down
hitting limbs and parts of his blubbery snout were breaking off. He hit the ground making a slow
splosh sound landing on its snortface, then it got up like a pancake with a humpy expression
and hopped away from us with a coarse humming sound trapped in its mashed sneezersnout.

We agreed to chase down the snortface. Later we captured it and threw it into some
sticker bushes. It made a gaging sound and got caught right in the middle of a big patch of
stickers. It fluttered like a dieing fish while its eyes were fixed on staring at us with an
expression of an old man fluttering like a mashed toad. Well, it finally got all of it's sneezersnout
ripped off from struggling around so much in the stickers, then it just flopped over like loose skin
and hissed out groans. We picked up his sneezersnout by a loose lip and chucked it into the
weeds.

My Challenge

This assignment kept turning over in me.
Little voices spoke up and said, "pick me."

I guess I don't have any daunting challenges that stand out.
I can recall how I gave myself the resolution at the start of 2008 to
stop complaining and lying. This has turned to become a real challenge.

I intended to tell a wild bike racing story and my heroic efforts in this
physical trial. How I was handed a reversal of the glory I was seeking.
Challenges are as big as we want them to be.

Becoming unconditional love might be a challenge, but then again, this suggests
an opposition of some sort. I have been undergoing some tense and serious family
difficulties lately, but I have learned to realize that there are greater objectives
than what is visible out on the horizon. Being able to relax is a challenge, and a
worthy one. Trusting the divine plan without further apprehension remains
a stinger of a challenge. I occasionally find myself cursing the heavens
in mistrust. Self honesty is another huge challenge I find for myself.

I am facing the challenges I have before me and am not concerned about what
is coming next. Regardless of win or lose, wisdom and experience is gained.

Marc

New Assigment for October

Assigment due on Oct. 14, (full moon)

Topic:

Describe or illustrate, elaborate or portray the greatest challenge you have ever faced in
your life at this point in your existence.

This can be physical, mental or psychological, spiritual. In any realm of your choosing.
How did you deal with it? or, otherwise?

thanks.
Marc Anderson

Reasons

Thoth had spake that all truth was in reality a half-truth.
I can fathom that reason also abides toward the same parameter.
In the relativity of existence, the way of finding absolute measure is not possible.
Einstein's general relativity theory.

If reason is generalized, then it is within the context of a given space within time.
Reason is a taught reflex. The inner core of idealism is reason itself.
It is both linear and frozen in dimensional space.

Thomas Aquinas, in his quest for mapping a perfected universe adopted reason.
This was the death of God itself, for it was but a quest for a mental construct of
the reason for God's behavior in the material realm.

Spiral is a derivative of the word Spirit. There is nothing predominantly lineal within
the natural worlds. Reason is angular and it does conflict with natures process.
Reason has driven vast agendas of the high priests who imbibe this mental
spew and bribe all they can with the grandeur of the proposal.

In closing, reason is rife with conflict. It is separated from love by an almost
impassible gulf. It is wholly left brained in nature and has been a contributor
toward holding open the seeping wound of duality.

Reason itself is helpful in managing the priority of living outside of its context and
influence. Reason. to me, is a mechanical programming apparatus.

I am in reality, myself, of no mean importance. There is no reason behind, or before me.
The moment I establish reason in my cyclic existence, I enter a conflicting hell.
Dreams are ignored because they are counter to reason.
The psyche is counter to this construct.

I have seen reason in my life experience, but only as if viewing from the rear of a
caboose as the country side recedes away. It creates more anticipation because
reason or rationale can have no lasting effect.

I take a harsh view of reason.
There is not anything infinite about it.
A few mathematicians have driven themselves insane by attempting to
apply reason toward the apprehension of infinity equations.

In all of creation, God, being outside of time or space, is also beyond reason.
The joy of existence and love knows no reason.
The politic of reason is dead.
Light is freedom.

Marc

Life in Time

Anxious iconoclast clock winder, both ways.

Home Life

Tribal Cosmopolitan that is.
Gene pools, movies stars.
Have a heaping helping of our hospitality
in this etheric frameup of time/space non-locality.

Don't I know how to manage my domestic affair!
I can now Google my daydreams and random thoughts that
enter my mental gateway.

I have set work hours during the weekdays.
Limited range of work with in 3 parsecs of homonid planetary base.
I find work disagreeable and agreeable on a binary switch that flip-flops in
a range of femto seconds. Governed by an internal non-reality clock that mimics
the external sensory field in close proximity.

Strange Games. Homelife is a submarine who's hatches are painted and open for FedX
and UPS. These are the prime movers. Mostly, I bellow within the bowels of my sturdy
ship, knowing at best she can withstand a sudden 3 psi overpressure.
Still, I fret and stew about Japanese dive bombers coming in. Although not involved personally
with any of the world wars, the very crust of this Earth hide is magnetically imprinted with
the hostile aggressions carried forth in yon younger day.

My conscious perceptions of my surroundings likened to a thermodynamic inversion.
Whereby I am intricately interwoven into the immediate circumstances.
There remains some small part of me that has merged with Timbuk3 somehow back
in the 1980's.

I struggle to extract my essence from most of the unwarranted ingress of my early
deluvian existence. I have tried cloistering myself in a small room that was packed densely
with fresh hops blossoms as I listened to chanting monks on an Ipod for 16 hours.
I found no resolve, albeit a raw ravenous hunger abetted by depravity turned upon my own soul. Running naked down abandon railroad tracks, I fled my home.

Again, why is natural carbonation non detrimental?
Why is carbonated commercial beverages damaging to the cells?
There is no love in the giant cold CO2 tanks that traverse long asphalt highways.
Dock into mass bottling plants and recharge depleted vessels with carbon dioxide.

My 'honey-do' list reads:

You will be father to all the children
Get everything that you don't want.
Paint and touch up large tribe of unknown Africans
Replace brain filters

I don't quit or stop along the wayside to chit-chat.
My dustpan is always full and my lower back is a hinge for an enormous door.
I am a dutiful creature. I revel in my insipid universe of stadium capacity loneliness.
Have you ever seen a picture of the Sombrero Galaxy?
The whole thing has reached enlightenment, no dark spiral arms.
It demonstrates the static harmonic wave resonance within the universe.
The idea of a linear event, 'big bang' is a mental trap for the wage slaves who
dwell as denizens on dim orbiting globs in makeshift habitats throughout creation.

My heart, a field of battle where all have been hurt and killed ad infinitum.
Looking for a wave of fresh love from the great heart of God while the dead and dying
transform their shape and compositions.
I feel as if I must design an interface device whereby I may communicate with the
ocean stingray. These alien creatures must be keeping tabs on quite a few events
of this planetary saga.

There is no home life. This deception is a medicated travesty of senile banking interests
and shareholding pressure cookers.
Managed compliance optimized by hopeless reflex response of the working class generations.
Moreover, it's become a life behind a dashboard. The construct is based in a distorted mythos
and dependence of members to become compliant or face ridicule and scorn.
There can be no home here if a fellow man is expending milliwatts of his cellular
engine on toil and anguish. The draw of misery quickens all men unto a demise unimagined
across all oceans and space.

Otherwise, I open my home to spiders. Some of which may have shrunken due to lack of
nourishment. I adore a nice tight juicy spider butt. They are wise and creative.
Know who, when and how to bite, if the need arises.
My home, it's a crawl space with eight foot ceilings.

Marc

Carbon Dating & other late stammering

I guess when 2 singles get together in the new global community of the
21st century. One must refer to it as 'Carbon Dating' due to the potential
of carbon footprint propagation.

Active couples who rely heavily on a cell phone to keep in touch of course
are denoted further as 'Radio Carbon Dating'.

Essentially, plants thrive on Carbon Dioxide. If we are supposed to be creating
so much of it, then, what a boon to our lush blue planetoid, and we would be soon
suffocating in forests of overgrowth and new formations of lignitic coal beds.
Forest frogs would overcapture the comensulatory co-existence of insect and
arachnid, due to the moist dampness. The harbinger of change would be the overburden
of a C02 spike from tense insomnia ridden humans who, through, increased respiration
would emit more carbon from listening to incessant frog chirp at all hours.

Cricketts, being effectively eliminated, the carbonic acid albedo would continue to
shift the global equilibrium toward swamp-bog settlements across continental
plains. Personally, I don't see this happening in many millenial epochs.

Let us, permit us to continue to make our sauerkraut, ferment our beverages and
quaffe large carbon laden ales, as we belch happily to life and to the stem, pistils and stamens
of our plant buds. They think we are great illusidators of perfunctory excremental expiration.
Let them think not otherwise. See you in the carbon arc-furnace of the afterlife my gentilly
laddybucks!

Hey Writers

Thanks for creating this blog.
I think we can have some fun.

I have been making aquaintence with a black
cat lately. He has thumbs on this front paws.
I call him blackie. He is unusually polite for a cat.
I greet him in the morning. He rolls over on the sidewalk
like he's thrilled to be alive.

Marc