Like zombies and golems with fluorescent tanned hides that hide from the sun in the process of the night’s vocation, all the men and women find their day before the sun rises, before the breakfast bell, before the first cup of coffee would naturally be drunk, before the serotonin actually kicks in. This is where I have found myself again, yes again.

For five years in my early to late twenties I worked over night in a grocery store. I started for the union perks and the benefits at a company named Stop and Shop which is located in the New England area and now the tri-state area of New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania as well. The theme I grew up to on the television was “It’s time to Stop and Shop” (a clever little jingle) accompanied by their little red and green circle stop light logo. My dad had been a grocery worker for a while after his reckless days as a repo-man teetering on the edge of insanity through too much booze, too many regrets, and too many wives.

I worked my way up from a part time employee making nothing to a full time employee making better money to a frozen food manager, a dairy manager, and was on my way up to a ‘night crew chief’ position just before I left. I was making great money, had guaranteed raises and amazing benefits. The draw back was the shift, the grind, the endless haul of the zombie ass - the defeat of modern man to a mere machine.

I am back at it and the characters are something of amazing quality and expression. Once you work at a grocery store (especially night crew) you are one of an endless set of brethren that will never forget you. You become almost like a Tolkien character in your endearing and endless perseverance via the realm of talk and legend sans the reality of what it may or may have not been.

“You remember So-and-So? He was the shit. The guy threw stock like an animal!”

It does not matter the zip code or the name on the store it is all the same. The sickly smell of walking through the double doors with rubber lip closed kisses of segregation from the shopping community. It always smells like something has died in the backroom, as if there are pallets of decaying wooden coffins of long forgotten jazz singers from some Mardi Gras parade that never happened; they just died with instruments in hand, got packed up in a pine rectangle and left for dead somewhere between the baking needs and the dairy - it always smells sickly, even when the receiving doors are open.

Banana boxes stacked high as can be with repacked product and out of codes and aisle resets and discontinued product collecting flies between their brown paper bottoms and the cellophane that no one ever removes because that would indicate having a clue. Wooden pallets, plastic skids - milk crates piled higher than an ivory tower waiting to be irresponsibly used as step stools that beg for workmen’s comp claims.

Every store has different aisle variations but they are mostly the same. The lingo is all interchangeable. From ‘disco’ (meaning discontinued) to ‘NIS’ (Not In Set), it is all the same. Over stock is stored and worked the same irresponsible way. There are always the overly nice and the disgustingly disgruntled; there is no middle ground. Everyone is either all attitude or completely lacking. I used to have a store manager that used to respond to my morning greeting of “Good morning Mr. Smith” with the ever pleasant “Yeah, Go fuck yourself”. He was a real stellar individual, but that is how the night crawlers are treated - it is an accepted part of the game. You grow thick skin and slick feathers - everything rolls off and falls onto the floor for the half English speaking immigrants to mop up and buff out. Maybe that is what you smell in each store.

Some have just pallet jacks (electric and manual pump style) and others have forklift style jacks as well. Some use U-Boats (six wheel dollies that have rail type sides that are about 6’4”, others just have six wheelers that have no arms. Some have tables to work off of, others have you work stock from the floor. Traditional box cutters in one and razor cutters with plastic handles in an other. Some price each item and others don’t. Vendor items and the responsibility of those products fall on different shoulders. Blocking and facing the store vary from each location (blocking and facing is the art of making the store look ‘nice’ or full regardless of product quantity). Every store breaks down a load of pallets differently. Each store runs schedules for the graveyard guys different. Knee pads are a necessity regardless of where and when you work.

I now am working for a division of Safeway which is called Vons. It is a much different beast than the one I used to slay nightly six days a week with mandatory Saturday into Sunday overtime shifts. Many of the variations that are obvious are a direct result of the union. The union is the second most powerful union in the United States. It is the UFCW (United Food and Commercial Workers Union). There were strikes and lock outs about three years ago out here that kept union employees out of work for five months - no pay. When I worked back east, I worked with guys who came back from Korea and Vietnam that never had strikes enter their minds the entire time. The contract out here is up in March and they are already worried about a strike again. It just proves my point that Unions and Communism are great things in theory but they suck when applied because there is always some prick who wants more than the bounds of reality will deem acceptable.

There are many characters to write about and I am quite sure that that essay will become part of this collection of prose that I scribble out and down here.

I know that there are many stories, past and present, to pass on regarding the day before dawn.

As much as it changes it remains the same.

Here I am left with being me and having lost track of how to write or what to write.

J.D. Salinger opted for a certain quoted introduction for his short story compilation ‘Nine Stories’:

“We know the sound of two hands clapping.
But what is the sound of one hand clapping?"
~ A Zen Koan.

That is the night crew.

Each night, while you sleep, I am clapping with one hand …

There is no more modern stage. The World is now the event of the millennia. We all have become the homeless freaks that you went to see from miles around the globe. You would drive and walk miles upon miles to see the man at Mann’s Chinese Theater wearing an empty television for a helmet. Just for the few minutes of the day things made sense because someone had a big enough pair of balls to stand out there out of insanity, desperation, or attitude perseverance.

Now we have YouTube and MySpace and video and music are all things that we create for ourselves along with the big stars. Blogging offers writers many forums to express themselves in. You need not leave the house to be part of a writing group these days and you get global attention and criticism. Will we forget the superstars? Nope, our wallets and all that green, cheese, dough, dinero won’t let us. We will still go purchase but not only does our dollar give us a wee little slice of history and entertainment but it also offers us a greater inspiration for us to express ourselves on our own.

At one point in time it was a juvenile avocation to run around acting mad. Only teenagers and the mentally deranged were participants. We could all laugh it off with reasons and rationales that lent our minds to accept the acts at hand. The Mad Hatter's friend was a doormouse afterall.

What does this do to the quality of what will come to our ocular vortexes as real entertainment? Does such a broad searching spectrum actually dilute and delude the pool to the point that there is no more chlorine and we are all swimming in piss? I only swim in ‘ools’ as I do not like ‘p’ in my water time recreation.

Are we degrading the presence of closed stage or are we broadening what we can all take in by opening the casting call? Are we giving chances to the unknowns at the sake of their own integrity or dignity? Giving them hope even though there is not a shot in the dark bright enough to get them to where they dream to be? We all know that the best part of American Idol is: the people that don’t get on. Are we attracted to the creative end result of talent that strives in the corridor of wider opportunity or are we just staring at the failures and atrocities that are left in the wake, much the way we stare at car crashes or train wrecks?

I like and can appreciate entertainment of all levels of over all social acceptability. This grown man listened to Dion, Ice-T, Circle Jerks, Iron Maiden, The Dave Clark Five, and NWA all in the same morning while getting ready for school. I understand diversity and the need to express ourselves. I even understand mundane entertainment, especially when you are the one creating it.

I was in three different bands while I was in High School. I have all of the recordings to prove it. They progressively get better in sound quality, writing ability and performance as the tapes and time go on. The first band was called ‘Gandhi’s Loud Hairy Fish’. There were two songs that we actually wrote and the ‘big one’ was me making fun of Extreme’s ‘Only Words’ and making up lyrics about smoking pot. The song was called ‘Day on the Green’. I thought it was clever. It was 1990. It is all recorded to an audio tape via a boom box. The 90 minute tape has only two songs. The rest is goofing off and making jokes. I could listen to that tape day in and day out. Do I want the whole world to hear it? Nope. If I had done it now, would I have it plastered all over MySpace or YouTube? Probably.

The next group was called Nodrah - which is ‘Hard On’ backwards. Again through a boom box, but this time with a full four person band, we recorded our one live performance at a friends 15^th birthday party. We were a good band and performed many songs - about 35 (all original except for our Troggs/Hendrix/Nirvana cover called ‘Smells Like Wild Thing’ which ended up being more like the Sam Kinison version of the song more than anything). The crowd of 15-20 kids liked it a lot as we switched singing duties and traded instruments during the show. I miss the blisters that I had on my fingers after playing my bass for that gig. Public shout out? - I could see it but I would not have as it was enough to play and sing live never mind broadcast.

The third band I was in was for a senior project and had three of the four members of Nodrah. The band was called ‘Chee Toe and the Cheese Puffs’. Needless to say, we are not on MTV. Good stuff and fun times but it never went anywhere for numerous reasons, but I love to listen to that tape. Two sets of varied material at the lyceum at our high school. We even wrote a song over the intermission so we had another new piece for the people attending the second set during fifth period after lunch. We were regular entertainers.

Something else to mention at this point would be a tape that was made for me by a man named Scott Litwak. He went to Las Vegas to kick a bad meth habit and stay with some family back in 1995. Shortly after he left here for Vegas, I went back to Boston. He then mailed me a tape. It is ninety minutes of him driving around Las Vegas on his beach cruiser bicycle and playing reggae and punk tapes out of a boom box in the bike basket. At one point he almost gets run over by a bus. He goes to hotels and down the strip and to friends houses and the whole time he is recording. I love that tape and do so because it was made for me and it is from someone I know. If those two criteria were not met would I still love it just as much?

I guess I mention this all for numerous different reasons. I am approaching my one year anniversary here on BlogStream and have written over two hundred pieces. I have written numerous pieces on my poetry blog as well. I am no further along than I was at the lyceum or after having joined a club. I am still writing and still wondering why I do beyond my own needs to write and clear the head. I mean, it is not like I am writing a friggin’ diary here! I write some good stuff, or so I think. Sometimes all things must be put into perspective.

Ever watch someones home video vacation? You know, back when we all had to haul around those big ass VHS jobbies that required lots of recharging and lots of shoulder strength. Remember imposing the videos on friends and family because your shoulder muscles were now bigger than a PBS film crew? It wasn’t because they were shot well or that 59 minutes of your kid drooling were entertaining; it was revenge for your exhaustion for having had to do it for some innate reason to be able to watch the tapes even though they were dusty as fuck last time you thought of them, never mind looked at them.

I like searching YouTube and actually think I can find more there than at any music search site or even on Google when it comes to entertainment. Fortunately or unfortunately, I find myself watching hours of these train wrecks and must wonder to myself why it is up on there. If it was meant for intimate viewing would these odd home videos just be mailed or e-mailed to the family members? I just stare and wonder what is going to happen next. They don’t even need to be in English. I just want to see what is going to happen next. I listen to the gibberish and wonder.

There is also that weird home video version of something popular and I like plenty of them. The girls in front of the mirror or the two frat guys who are drunk trying to lip sync - they aren’t so good but every now and then you find something worth taking a gander at.

This video is an example of a 'combo' video that I enjoyed. I actually LOVE this song. It is my new favourite. I also find this video to be awesome for some weird reason that is not clear - kind of like Jerry Lewis.

Keep in mind that I do not know one single fucking person in this clip, not a single fucking one!

So where does this leave me and my scribbles?

I just read that a high school librarian is taking ‘For Whom The Bell Tolls’ and ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’ off the shelves because no one has checked them out in over two years. 1,000’s of books - *poof*!

Does anyone really read anymore? I mean read real books not just ‘beach’ books.

Where is my future? In the future of course!

In the future I find the past and an appreciation for all things crafted with intention and skill and not just boredom and a cell phone camera lens.

Damn those cell phones to all Hell!

Maybe damn me as well …

There are three pieces of biblical text that seem to me to be entwined. Wrapped tight together like fishnets ‘round a thigh, or cod as the case may be. They are three passages that I have not read in full, or together, in a long time.

Some of you may recognize them and others may not. They do apply full force and whole heartedly to some of the eye changes that have occurred on BlogStream, and the World, over the last year or so.

I know some may not dig some of this religious scripture stuff and may kick up some dust and raise a real stink about me writing it. Well, that is for some, and any who know me, or know the word, will be able to (or should be able to) cast it all aside and see what I am saying as it may apply to each and all of us.

Especially this one.

I will take first from the book of Esther and “Haman’s Rage Against Mordecai”.

From Esther 5:9 - 5:14:

“Haman went out that day happy and in high spirits. But when he saw Mordecai at the king’s gate and observed that he neither rose not showed fear in his presence, he was filled with rage against Mordecai. Nevertheless, Haman restrained himself and went home.

‘Calling together his friends and Zeresh, his wife, Haman boasted to them about his vast wealth, his many sons, and all the ways the king had honored him and how he had elevated him above the other nobles and officials. ‘And that’s not all’, Haman added, ‘I’m the only person Queen Esther invited to accompany the king to the banquet she gave. And she has invited me along with the king tomorrow. But all this gives me no satisfaction as long as I see that Jew Mordecai sitting at the king’s gate.’

‘His wife Zaresh and all his friends said to him, ‘Have a gallows built, seventy five feet high, and ask the king in the morning to have Mordecai hanged on it. Then go with the king to dinner and be happy.’ This suggestion delighted Haman, and he had the gallows built”

To this next set of words am I driven and my parallel continues, "Judges".

Deuteronomy 16:18 - 16:20:

“Appoint judges and officials for each of your tribes in every town the Lord your God is giving you, and they shall judge the people fairly. Do not pervert justice or show partiality. Do not accept a bribe, for a bribe blinds the eyes of the wise and twists the words of the righteous. Follow justice and justice alone, so that you may live and posses the land the Lord your God is giving you.”

I know, I know, an instant parallel, right? Mmmmmm … Well, it may be but here is the third of the four parts. Reflecting this onto ourselves with a smidgen of intelligence and a tad bit of logic is how we get it all to make some damned sense. It must apply and apply it shall.

We now move onward to the story of "Gideon’s Death".

Judges 8:28 - 8:35:

“Thus Midian was subdued before the Israelites and did not raise it’s head again. During Gideon’s lifetime, the land enjoyed peace forty years.

‘Jerub-Baal son of Joash went back home to live. He had seventy sons of his own, for he had many wives. His concubine, who lived in Shechem, also bore him a son, whom he named Abimelech. Gideon son of Joash died at a good old age and was buried in the tomb of his father Joash in Ophrah of the Abiezrites.

‘No sooner had Gideon died than the Israelites again prostituted themselves to the Baals. They set up Baal-Berith as their god and did not remember the Lord their God, who had rescued them from the hands of all their enemies on every side. They also failed to show kindness to the family of Jerub-Baal (that is, Gideon) for all the good things he had done for them.”

So what is it that ties these three stories together beyond faith? What is the moral to each and then onto all three as a bizarrely stitched together trilogy; a thrice fold lesson to be learnt?

We all want to blame our lack of literal and intelligent translation, as a reason not to read ancient texts that revolve around faith. If it is not the out of touch literally, it is the over the top spiritual aspects of televangelist lead ins to some nasty ass show at 4 a.m. on a Sunday, that only old women with too many cats and doilies are watching that prevent us from taking it to heart. But when we just read them all for what they are (and are not), and just read - over a bit of inflection and self attention do we maybe begin to see their timeless glow, their glory.

You can take from all books and go on this rocket ride of superimposed transparencies that we flip over and over ourselves like a bad biology text book that never shows the dirty pictures we all really want to see when we are forced to read the texts. That is the wonder of any religious text. It should not be showing you the dirty parts. Those are each of our parts - my parts, your parts, our parts. They are not everyone else’s. A million dates, but intimacies are one to a kind - one of itself to remember and hold onto forever.

We make any religious scripture seem too out dated or not modern enough and that occurs solely when we are not applied to the word at hand; we have too many hang ups to accept the words for what they are and look at ourselves through them. We are scared, embarrassed, distracted.

No religious text has been TiVo’d and served with Fritos and cheese dip. All must be read and taken through ourselves in order to become one with ourselves.

Those who do not read any religious text and deny any spiritual existence are called Atheists, which is commonly confused with being Agnostic, a searcher of what they temporarily deny to be truth or significant. I can understand the confusion of being an Agnostic. I can only sum up being an Atheist as an attempt to procure the survival of individualism at all costs regardless of rationale or logic.

Why is it so damned hard for us all to admit that we are all one of the same;each from a big bag of peas falling from one big pod?

Would it really hurt to embrace a bit of the same in order to find out how profound our own individualism is?

The death of fashion in the early to mid eighties was enough for all living at the time to bear.

On that note you had two split factions: Those who refused to buy the designer chic and those who were the designer chic. There was no more ‘make up your look in the morning and prepare it for a good wash that night‘. Now you bought big or dressed a bit less big. Either way you made a statement but it was much more black and white going into the hodgepodge of acceptance in the late eighties and early nineties. Fashion is still blurred because of wanting to be a Lego so you fit, but wanting your Lego to be a different colour so you stand out.

To conform or make a mark?

To read or not to read?

Most are wondering why they just did!

Whether it be just me or fashion or religion, I do know how to survive and have faith in doing so.

I take all so lightly that most think I am the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of empathy. I have even looked into a possible Asperger’s diagnosis.

I know what stinks. Feet, cheese, and shit. All three are around us most of the time.

Not the words of Gloria Gaynor, but rather Moses from the book of Exodus.

Exodus 32:18:

“Moses replied,
‘It is not the sound of victory,
It is not the sound of defeat;
It is the sound of singing that I hear.’”

Sing Nightingale, sing.

For songs are those moments that remind us of when we are …

Soft and easy across the back; slow that would make slow look fast. Light the wrong way in everyway. Words that jitterbug backwards across the screen into sentences. Nothing could look anymore grey, plasticine, placid, flaccid. Movies never made but filmed and left as makeshift ashtrays under their feet in the cutting room booth. Slow.

With nothing left to breathe in or out or side to side or any other which way that may meander by or past in such a fashion as any other on a good day. Days dragged by like a lynching in breach. Slow motion fiascos full of adrenaline and questions, only fueled on by any other avocation set about in the night’s earlier actions when it still could be called ‘evening’.

Let out of the gate with a staggered gait that would make any ticket holder wince and wonder and whine and wipe the sweat from a furled brow posting far too much emotion for the obscenities being shouted during that first doubtful ticket wringing struggle to achieve the run. Beer spills a little more violent then than it would with a little more spunk, hoorah, moxie, muster and much, so much more.

Tickets read and ripped and re-rode upon for races in the latter parts of the sun’s indiscretions - the one’s that make the moon shine and the air chilly. So much ill-fated confetti strewn upon the fog exhale cold November night. The tarmac up to the track fence was white instead of black and spilt beer foam white. Tossed cold ones and lost wagers roll beneath rubber soled shoes and make spit wads in the grooves and teeth of the asphalt below the pulp.

Stagger this way and that until a window opens up and the nice old man hands you back over a ten spot on your half-fin bet. 4:1; 2.50 into 10 bucks - a double fin. What a catch. Enough for a risky fun one, a few survival and another beer this time with a pretzel on the side (lots of sharp yellow mustard - that neon yellow kind that has that red flag banner across the top and it vinegar tarted out to all hell). One minute red belly, yellow eyed, fury in a catch up, a hang up. The next minute dinner is served and a night of it you will make, I will make, he will make.

Stand up tall and straight and make that three dollar suit worth twice that and a four spot. Five dollar straighten up and then the jacket drops like a dime, simply sings. You know that strut that move of pounce and paw where the whole world doesn’t need to know any better and for that they are better off. Tall. Strong. Throw down tumblefuck rodeo show that whole damn side kick into the end of the conversation before it even started. One right on cocky strut.

Somehow home will come. Beds will de-sheet themselves for you and then gently glide back over your squared off hunched over blades that pinch and cramp from the pencil stub clutch you have pressing this number into that number all bounced through a few equations here and there so statistically you have proven luck out and it will show or place just like the next stead to hang himself right on down the glue line with my last lucky dollar. Erasers rub lead smudge with their pink pepto fury and fire. Pink. Drag the lead across the page. Stain a palm, one unsuspecting palm, real good - silver flecked gray rainbows.

Dinner was paid. Buzz was busy. Horses ran like you never once thought you could ever. The horns blared out the need for one last minute lay down and a shot of tequila past the nacho stand and next to the candy coated homeless lawn chair seats inside near the concessions and teller windows. Bed found you before you found it. Pillow plump and push on and out. Nite - nite.

To be off on even keel.

To know before the storm.

Meteorological hindsight of the twenty-twenty variety.

To pass out with a fin left that you hid in a sock stocking.

To awake before they run again and be there to watch them snort out the day’s early light.

The early light of bloody mary’s and olive buffets.

Run horses, run!

It’s not like you have to chase a rabbit.

You’re getting kicked by a midget …

I found something today that led me away from what I may have laid down to ink with. I found something easy and simple that might make posting tonight or tomorrow easier. It sure made sense to me right now.

This is what I read:

Corinthians 4:

“Therefore, since through God’s mercy we have this ministry, we do not lose heart. Rather, we have renounced secret and shameful ways; we do not use deception, nor do we distort the word of God. On the contrary, by setting forth the truth plainly we commend ourselves to every man’s conscience in the sight of God. And even if our gospel is veiled, it is veiled to those who are perishing. The God of this age has blinded the minds of unbelievers, so that they cannot see the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God. For we do not preach ourselves, but Jesus Christ as Lord, and ourselves as your servants for Jesus’ sake. For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ.

‘But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life may be revealed in our mortal body. So then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you.

‘It is written: ‘I believed; therefore I have spoken.’ With that same spirit of faith we also believe and therefore speak, because we know that the one who raised the Lord Jesus from the dead will also raise us with Jesus and present us with you in his presence. All this is for your benefit, so that the grace that is reaching more and more people may cause thanksgiving to overflow to the glory of God.

‘Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”

 

This immediately made my thumb do a double down and over back flip and drew my attention to this series of text from:

Ezekiel (20:30 - 20:44):

“Therefore say to the house of Israel: ‘This is what the Sovereign Lord says: Will you defile yourselves the way your fathers did and lust after their vile images? When you offer your gifts - the sacrifice of your sons in the fire - you continue to defile yourselves with all your idols to this day. Am I to let you inquire of me, O house of Israel? As surely as I live, declares the Sovereign Lord, I will not let you inquire of me.’

‘You say, ’We want to be like the nations, like the peoples of the world, who serve wood and stone.’ But what you have in mind will never happen. A surely as I live, declares the Sovereign Lord, I will rule over you with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm and with outpoured wrath. I will bring you from the nations and gather you from the countries where you have been scattered - with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm and with outpoured wrath. I will bring you into the desert of the nations and there, face to face, I will execute judgment upon you. As I judged your fathers in the desert of the land of Egypt, so I will judge you, declares the Sovereign Lord. I will take note of you as you pass under my rod, and I will bring you into the bond of covenant. I will purge you of those who revolt and rebel against me. Although I will bring them out of the land where they are living, yet they will not enter the land of Israel. Then you will know that I am the Lord.

‘As for you, O house of Israel, this what the Sovereign Lord says: Go and serve your idols, every one of you! But afterward you will surely listen to me and no longer profane my holy name with your gifts and idols. For on my holy mountain, the high mountain of Israel, declares the Sovereign Lord, there in the land the entire house of Israel will serve me, and there I will accept them. There I will require your offerings and your choice gifts, along with all your holy sacrifices. I will accept you as fragrant incenses when I bring you out from the nations and gather you from the other countries where you have been scattered, and I will show myself holy among you in the sight of the nations. Then you will know that I am the Lord, when I bring you into the land of Israel, the land I had sworn with uplifted hand to give to your fathers. There you will remember your conduct and all the actions by which you have defiled yourselves, and you will loathe yourselves for all the evil you have done. You will know that I am the Lord, when I deal with you for my name’s sake and not according to your evil ways and your corrupt practices, O the house of Israel, declares the Sovereign Lord.’”

 

This is where the morning has left me. In the middle of the afternoon, ordering a pizza.

Listening to the jazz that is far more organ church than it is Jengo Rheinhardt.

Wondering where that puts the morals and ethics of those we stand in front of daily - from blogging to work to family to shopping and around and back again.

Where are we?

Are we there: falsity brimming? Are we sitting and setting in deep to the course to the depths of deceit?

Have we fallen short of the mark?

Do others, that think themselves so much better than all know that they have a fathom to fathom, and then again?

I am no where near the mark. I am seeing it finally but am miles away from it.

I still go about the open honest path and now have even tried to acquire being humble via humility and shame of consciousnesses of ill intent of malicious malevolence.

So where do I stand, we stand?

In the flood of Milgram; of beneath the sights of sound - or for that matter not understanding anyway or where that I have become or touched base on?

It all works out.

You read enough.

You live long enough.

You finally get it or it gets you.

My friend from Taunton knows. She knows full well.

May you all know what jazz is without having to serve Jengo first.

No one likes a jingoist …