everybodyhurts@anarchy.com

he not a president.
he lacriminal.
he not a precedent.
he a spawn
of the poison loins
of li'l hitler.
it's just the lateness
of the hour 
that precedents him.
 
 

it was here i found the bony platelets and surmised an ancient fish and r. surmised a turtle
and i saw a puzzle that housed a turtle soul and ferried it beyond the lagoon and became a puzzle for us to articulate like continents drifting together and apart and together again.

we made a wilderness a city,
made a city wild.

 
what is more
i could only guess
and wonder.

           messages were relayed from stranger to stranger.

pink orb with two holes that r really one going through.

we have to make
a place together of no change
where change will occur
and we will move there.

 
yes it was not.
to me it was not little.
the change was allready 
disconcerting
before now this.

i got the new bio of hitler, the ascent, today not so i'd be all that i can be as a dogwalker, but because we're watching another ascent, and dudes, we have to study evil because evil is studying us. i think li'l hitler would have been amused by li'l trump with his tiny chaffed hands. i can see them in a li'l interrogation room, extraordinarily rendered, studying each other with gleaming eyes.

 
                                                     never-the-less 
more love makes
more love. 

i got a waterboot here.

i saw a lady crying in her paper this morning.
in the post-trump world the truth is
every body hurts.

 
almost paradise,
we're knocking on heaven's door.
almost paradise,
how could we ask for more.
paradise.

young old anarchic skittish curmudgeonly dear fen said fuck this, i am hence and bolted for home.

young beat copp eats to the beach can you 
dig it i know you 
can.

so pretty your flower this winter morning.

                                for the good times.

...those infinitely subdivisible increments of change, such that one cannot say when a day becomes dark, only that it is so.

                                                                           ~

                                                                                                             -robert macfarlane

so i'm between the death of the old and the shock of the new. 
but that's just the body politic and the technological fix.
beside that,
i'm in between love. in between i'm in love. i'm loving, that's the miracle of life.
the disaster that trump sadly represents is no miracle, it's the result of a world that operates for profit without love. it's no miracle, it's the politics of death.
so i'm in between, and in between a rock and a hard place
it's soft. it's a nest.
it's love.  

 

there's no choice really.  
hate or love? 
one is death, the other life.  
is that a choice.  
not in nature.  
nature chooses life, without a thought or creed, without capital or power.  
with love.  
what a stupid choice is hate.  
as a person, as a nation, to practice hate.  
how can we not choose life?  
what is wrong with us as a species that we choose death?
we are headed for extinction and it's not just this evil motherfucker trump.

 

in a time so frangible. frangible? in a time of such hate, change feels threatening. i tried to get a groove on the new apple pooter and felt thwarted by technology. i know i am stupid in technology, and this here blog owes it's existence to it-it undermines me too. when it's easy i'm easeful. i am uneasy now it's not easy. is it me or the new technology. and in the world of choice we are reduced to one apple bad or good. i would like to make good, but i keep getting the spinning color wheel of death in suspension. maybe i am just to simple for this new world. yet what would i do without my dear simple blog. would that i could put my hands on the ground and my mind in my senses and follow the path with heart of a dog.
but we live in a frangible place, a nowhere of hate. 
the most powerful man in the world is at war with us. he is at war with the world. he's a creature of hate. he's a childish bully now bullying the entire planet. he lives to destroy. he must be neutralized.
the only thing positive about this fuck trump is his hatred is inciting resistance, and love. and that's what hate does, it highlights love, it makes me more loving, it makes me turn to love like photosynthesis. 
so evil may, if we come together, deliver us from evil. stop hate. stop trump. love.

 

it seems like i am well on my way and i will rest now and watch a moody. i am embarked on my new journey, which is after all a continuation of the old old story and we are so grateful speaking for mister too.

i was laying on my back taking photos and mister was browsing windfall sticks and a black car came up and a head in the window said, you have a leash for that dog? and i said yeah, and kept taking photos and he waited and i ambled over pulling the broken leash i use for my camera hanger off, and he says, how old is that dog, and i say, he's nine. oh, he says, they're so loyal aren't they? and i said, oh yeah, they're the best, he's the best, he's moving a little slow now, a little arthritic. and i started to move like putting the leash to him, and the fellow said, don't put the leash on him, you know, some people, i just don't want to hit him. and i say, oh he knows about cars. he's a good old boy, you have a good time, he said. and my eyes got moist and i said, thank you, thank you. and i kept saying it as we walked on.

if at first you get the wheel of death, save, save again. save yourself.

if you get the spinning beach ball or as i say the spinning wheel of kaleidoscopic death, go to apple, force quit, rename yourself. start over, do not collect 200 dollars. get out of jail free.

i was getting quite buggy with it i'm afraid but i may be seeing the light through the trees now.

i know i'm not stupid but i feel stupid. at least i think i'm not stupid. at least i think i feel stupid. i don't feel so smart. i sigh some. some days i sigh the day. maybe there's different kinds of stupid and different kinds of smart. i'm not smart in money or school. i don't like those things in themselves or in how they are employed to consolidate and exploit resources like animals minerals and people. oh i'm just going to eat hummus and look out the window at the snow squall. i'm happy now let's close  for now.

i think about what i could a did. if i wasn't so skinny and inward in school. what i could be
doing now, you know in the world- but who'd a ever thought the world would be like this?
be it as it may the way it must be the way i am i think in my head not like in my heart i suppose what i could have been in the world as i saw it and i don't see it anymore that was i feel reduced.
oh well. be it as it may be. i don't think anything applies to this. we're in a time of unprecedented evil, not because evil is news, but because the world is reduced. 

i think it may be garbled, i mean like i felt reduced then, as a kid, by standardized teaching tools that contained and controlled the class and diminished the individual. i was bored to daydreaming and punished. i felt coerced and unseen alike. i stopped reciting the anthem by rote. i said my little kid fuck you to the system of reductive control. i said it again later and later still to the end of my academic sentence. i still feel reduced. as a human in a human world that reduces nature and animals, and human nature. the world is reduced by humans and i'm a human reduced. but i'm reduced and reducing myself on the grid, i'm going through the cracks. i'll be more humanimal and less human maybe, i'll be a human animal in line of extinction. ok it's just garbled. it has to be garbled for now is so impacted, now is so overwrought, so fraught with fear and war and hate. the human system i resist.

mister roy's yumwelt.

i'm going to live in the umwelt of mister, 
though we both be condemned by our evil master democracy 
to live in trumpworld.

actually, it's kind of nice being wistful. it's a receptive way to feel. we set our sights for the wistful wooded island, and, except for one glum man who gave nor nod nor wink nor howdy-d0, urging his dog glumly on, we were blissfully alone. and i thought to myself and to mister, it is a small world, me and you alone on a man-made island in a violent city in the bird-calm of late winter, but it's ours, and it's magical.

absolute fucking insanity. can  you imagine if another country banned americans, or christians, or even muslim americans? we'd fucking bomb them. and does donnie-john not care about the christian syrians? or the atheists? banning anyone based on religion in america? profoundly un-american, profoundly, insanely, destructively, evil.

and donnie john's his real life name. i thought that was just a nom de guerre affectionately attached after the porta-potties on the inaugural way, but it's the bastard's name in reality. as far from reality as the mf gets, he'll always be a porta-potty mouth to me.

 

richard skelton seems really cool. and robert macfarlane, and nan shepherd and all the artists in landmarks and i get turned on by what they do, but also wistful as i'm not doing suchlike things. i'm reduced by circumstance and maybe design as well, i feel the passion at a remove, i feel my own passion writ small in the flat city, circumscribed by nature in the cracks of man, by the dailiness of my daily walk. but the language, oh, that opens my little world.

to nuddle, is to walk in a dreamy manner with head down, as if preoccupied. to scimaunder is to wander about, take a devious or winding course.
whilst doing both, and furtively skirting the po-po, i thought, if we have no species shame about all the animals we've "lost", what about donnie-john trump? we must at least feel shame about something/that thing.

after babyish fustratin' initial attempts greasin' the new pooter i is back with ole faithless with her screws a-poppin'. oh technologee.

that was preview, this is fodo. it can't handle your piddly tittles.

fen in fenland.

oi to the vey, my new pooter hewts. 

addendum, i feels like a dummy in da new technologia.

i wish i could do a series like this with donnie-john-trump. wish i could nestle a nice gourd in that sinthetic bristle-nest. he may lack the balance of my mister but he got stiff hair. do you think it's real? if it is, i still, even moreso, imagine it, after being held hostage of state all day on that whacked cranium, desperately defecting en masse when the golem nods into narcosis, going awol under the sideboard.

imagine his crinkly hair finally relaxing, chanting, we are free! let's party!
 

what a disaster. i lay awake and the repulsive visage of trump 
popped in my head like an evil cartoon clown. 
i pictured him laying there too, in deathlike sleep, 
his golem sleep, his hair skulking off on it's own like a sad confused lost animal. picture donnie-john- trump's red rictus face barking orders to his wincing minion,  
find my fucking hair! 

i was walking with fen and i saw two squirrels in have-a-heart traps with bloody noses and feet and i asked the guy what happens now and he said state law, we gotta put 'em down, any wildlife, we gotta put 'em down. usually we gas 'em and they just go to sleep. but i need these traps right now, so i gotta shoot 'em. bummer, i said. yeah, it's a bummer, state law, you know, we gotta kill 'em. wildlife. i hope no coyote seeks sanctuary in somebody's shed. fen didn't even recognize them as squirrels in their little death-row cages.

we just reached fifty-thousand-oh-three pageviews.

glory be to dog.

i still have nothing intelligent about oh fuck trump.

what is the feeling of place
in a place made by humans.
there was a place before
and something elemental
about that place remains. 

i was reading about words from fenland, in landmarks, and i want to go to fenland, but i don't know where it is exactly, or if it only exists in the old language. and fen is silent.

later i looked and there is a fenland, uk.  
so, i'll see you later.

 
i woke last night with the feeling, the words forming in my sleepy head, we're not going to save it. 
we can do this or that.
but we're not gonna save it.
that's one of the saddest things
i heard myself think.

we move beyond influence into symbiosis.

now everything is the same.  

the same distance. the same intimacy. the same temptation.

the same silence.

 

we must do away with all explanation and description alone must take its place.
                                                                                                                      -ludwig wittgenstein