All the Trimmings of Treason

After 8 years, they decided to lie another 4 years, and managed to divide their time dividing into divisive and derisive flashes, letting all those that hate hate, letting all those that believe believe, they took the first shot despite having too many chances to get at least beside themselves first, and for that we watched the locals rally and the depressed discover anger, while emotion runs humanity, but only if it’s day or night. It was insulting to see so many backward walks from forward thinkers, but disappointing to see none of you have learned it yet, especially robbing Peter to pay Paul while cross-eyed Mary does all the work. 

While we watch the general republicans beg for new eyes, we see that their base has more power as a movement, populism of an educated party, discipline of a higher order, and as the left cling to republicans of party, in name only, or caught in the political-crossfire, promises for choices of theories, which don’t exist without the very specific types of people. In this, America has those British ideas, the conservatives (tories?) in many ways establishment media and comedic representatives that like stuffed toys go along with the other political parties as long as their charter isn’t broken, gradually forgetting to fight blindly in the darkness of this chaos - the labor party, which for all its worth at worst bites off more than it can chew, and at best serves a purpose without diversity, only complexity and layers of a hammer seeking a nail - and the liberal democrats, whom fight against oppression and somehow have all the time in the world to think capitalism is a cuss word in the culty, ‘but totally not a cult,’ house of political conformity and nihilistic determinism. 

As the media has managed to find, salvage, and recreate, the worst parts of this shit sandwich for 12 years, you can vote and move away from that with their better parts, as there’s no wrong way to get by, we’re all trying to get by, they’re all trying to get by, just to learn from your mistakes, and not bloody-well make mistakes on purpose. 

As soon as my thought pattern finishes a synaptic collation we will have to have words. 

“The journey itself is going to change you, so you don’t have to worry about memorizing the route we took to accomplish that change.” ― Daniel Quinn, Ishmael: An Adventure of the Mind and Spirit

Forborne

If the efficacy of the transmittable medium prerogative is thorough to've been almost complete, and the losses in actuality represent that statistic in completed in full, you should probably ignore the alarmification. In counter-intuitive counter-productivity developments, since the saturation of societal monumental has reached superfluous refuge from inane superficialities, the moderation as complicit relayed personification abjects and idealization rejects by inane results of insane reflections toward ironic bloom with impetuous room to hang the burden of proof on citrus, altho useful to the liver, keeps many more certain from truths of the curtain, promising a show unlike any the hosts could boast and maiterdee could toast sour dour glowering drink from their touch to their thinking sinking heavy cost of letting weeds grow to complain about snow announcing else much more the same, but unlike the melting rain letting it be far worse than wear without a care not careless and dareless and destroying the roads home, and we should all panic now more than ever in the weather, unless you were born to take your licks from river styx and still step in the water, build drawbridges for your moats, march your marks wearing your starkly stoats, shall it keep you dry while you walk among the rain, it shall never will, and has never was, again. 

Cernunnos

.Cernunnos. 

If they cover you in darkness, learn to live in the night. If you want to find your enemy, find out who won’t let you think. Each day we rise from the dead and in our daily journey forget that we will fall again each of the nights. The very deep interest and meaning in our history of that first and final day, driving us to rush to the end and challenge the lost beginnings, and to this there is only the answer to the question. The story preserves the soul and the teller defends it in words with songs, unrelated to relation and unbecoming to begin with one song for each note, but with a deeply rooted accuracy that experts who are singers couldn’t know every song because of cultures and tastes and abilities and audience. From this we see the elements of the forest of very real trees and very mysterious shadows with roots deep into the unknown. We, in delight and angers, go to the well of the beginning and see the growth beneath trees also seeking waters and finding the light of the shallow well shaded more by those that dig it and use it, the many celebrate its life and curse at its droughts and politicize the actions of the memory well. If we make upon the boots and the buckets and bring water to the cauldron, we feed and have these socially known and locally important recipes, and the cauldron just a big pot made of metal from local mines, filled with stuffs of nearby finds, or the travelers and traders and their stories that share with us a piece of their soul and their source however fantastical, and from our feeding of the cauldron we feed ourselves, and from our court of our state among other countries in world and realm and myths, and the well and the metals and the roots and the waters from the underworld, with news from afar could only brag or lie about escaping and finding another storyteller, which stands on the closest side of the smallest hill in all the yards of earth thereof. To the nourishment and news we escape the falling of the night before, to find the features and the futures before it falls again and makes us think and rest, the rest will think only of this world between the dawn and dusk, beyond the other detailed maps and moving men on roads counting between ten and ten million that trace in both two and three directions for the followers, our thoughts like feet our hearts in the best of able directions, where we exist beyond the boundaries of details and doubts unknown so great a void of ignorance the stars fall as tears of constellations on the wild and sleeping earth as humans sleep between their worth, in the unknown and disconnected from the time between our times unseen by the divine imaginations in our minds when eyes are closed, in the time that feeds dreams kept beneath our tongues as wild thoughts in the forest of time that grows and souls filled with conditions safe in the boundary of perception, in the presence of the oldest living thing to find us squandering at the well devoid of purpose like a serpent and a ring. 

Ry Variben

r'Variben 

I’ve been spending too much time conceptualizing fifth dimensionally, at no fault of my own, as a member like a rescued pet of the illuminati and the metacognition that comes with being human and the indirect relationship to being Caesar and spending time between two dimensions of lucidity and negligence while reckoning and recollecting the items of contribution as a careful colored sand art foundation for a house of cue cards while reading actual illuminati documentation, writing it, holding quorum without opposition, quotidian parliament of a new world order while convincing my inner demons to keep them busy or reinforce my markedly rare and myotropic parody of prose, this being the first, while contemplating the corners of wheels and liquid dimensional transmodal post objectivist collectarian hegemony, while absurdly honest self destructive manifestation of pious hypocrisy unique to my station and abject obliteration of just but tangential goals while marketing myself as the wandering monk of common sense so to make a blending shadow in front of the crowds of sterile and plastic puppets, and foremost sycophants of an illusory competition of crippled social skills parroting the endemic congenital disorders, which without my swinging at instrikable trees instead am swinging literally at the seats of a stadium like a rude gesture at the summer sun, increasingly aware that without a private detective somewhat clear that quotients in the largest arrays savvy would need goals and now esteemed, but we are not crazy, just a little lost in egregious spirits realizing how similar our fishbowls have become, perhaps like drinks of moods and motivations I’ve poured too much brainpower into one of the colored glasses from the private parts of the spectrum, and in this condition is best to point at the world, the psychological dimensions, and not the fluidic time of memory, nor the passive and paltry resistance of linear time, nor the early onset of dementia so long ago. And...there’s still no verb for telepathy

Panicked leaders without the eons of simulations in their momentary thoughts, fleeting choices between motives they’re burdened rarely in my favorite rarities like notion and nostalgia, emotional wars passively instinctual in machinations against this text, inexperienced for chaos of country and coronation let alone choices of simple nature when such trivial monopolies on infamy consume unable to bide their time any longer without true identity and feril indemnity toward individuals from other collectives that can’t exist from egoist stone tablets scripting instincts negating peerage, but somehow finding time to claim everyone completely unrelated are wholly ignorant without saving political face in the process. This ecology of economy is fine, they have no rally against the rhetorical, no rage against the republic, and their targets are at face value public record, whether the unhealthy deviants of vocal focal points are verifiable or not, as they pour from exploitation, it’s only fitting that we should so help them drink. It would be a vulture and true to nature, but the rebel who wins wars would surely never sleep well, perhaps in warning you’ll see the many strands of the bard’s web and the truth will out, toward the edges it holds, where you wouldn’t rest we call home. 

Thinker, maker, trader, warrior, and the occasional crazy person.

“It is reported that King Alexander the Great, hearing Anaxarchus the philosopher discoursing and maintaining this position: That there were worlds innumerable: fell a-weeping: and when his friends and ​familiars about him asked what he ailed. Have I not (quoth he) good cause to weep, that being as there are an infinite number of worlds, I am not yet the lord of one?” ~ Plutarch, Moralia 

Tem Que Ganhar

 _20201201 Tem Que Ganhar

So it’s that time again, to write about fantasy according to the laws of nature uncontrolled by reality and limited by the personal limitations of convention, while the air is breathable and the words of others so much in erasure of estimation that this far along the third outing or storyline if one were to say it’s anything less than a pattern rolled in road with anything but intentions, with just enuf emotion to write about a destiny confined to the context of exploration and the subtext of contemplation and the reflex of self aggrandizement, and lo shall there have been, but it’d be nice to remember the theme of it, had the hero been discovering a pattern counterintuitive to the villain and countermanding the progressivist symbolisms of the foil against the moral foundations on display, or at least understood by the auspicious terrain of writing or ironically the very suspicious but plausible underpinnings albeit societal yet supercilious discovery as a metacognition in vicarious glow. 

Yet somehow unable to remember what was worth to write in the rebellious, and often pervasive revenging, plots that epitomized complex habits and criticized the prime and utmost essential choices, which I myself put the hero Merlin, into having no choice but to find the plot armor and beat the hell out of it until smashing the supernatural exit in front of him, if in projection would be somewhat self-defeatism and the rest would yet be wrote, and still making his prophetic and afore-written escapes to find the widowmaker webbed plot to catch-up to the woven elements drug from all the chapters prior, and now, what would be the archetypal remedy, the parochial adage laden in steep consequence, the legendary trite morals of tropes and steep slopes with obvious evil castles on uninviting mountains, how then and when does the song with familiar words let me echo its chorus and plagiarize its message that the villain would be true foe and hero would in uncertainty know. 

So, what a terrible point of these words being anything, certainly not the storyline come to me by recollection does the story forget to mention and the voices in my head that none do have but for consciousness and the frequency of space as a single note, or at least this solar system or some obvious local field, here to yield that the problems are vastly apparent and in distraction might soon overthrow, again you, yes you, can’t be knowing what it means to learn this or let it go, because my fingers keep-on typing without intent to slow, makers much of mystery, takers touch the history, and the readers are the afterglow. 

It seems that evils are inner troubles but to have the positive quote of the day in my head saving clarity for the peace between this journey with a bent or crooked wheel, and the truth so soon reveals which devils that we know, if the villain is now evil or my madness was for show. 

This would place the chief of madmen wisest most amongst the voices of reason in his mind without safety whispers asking at a loss the answer tasking, suited directly between his target and allied with the multiple unknowns, still unable to ask his ideas for their errors or his worries to slow, leaving little else but evil far ahead the only road. 

/ @swehttamxam 

Boyhowdy

It would seem that in a darker time again the manied options for the wind to blow have changed direction in the past iteration and the manied things there to do and don’ts make pious and won’ts make riots in the lossy glare of the sunlight toward the outer planets. 

Many times of this a lasting feeling lastly leastly less than more of moors in darkest waters of emotional clouds and motivated crowds instead of fighting for the light unseen the war between the brief moments of clarity after hangovers made of untold aggression and warlords with screaming voices in their heads for none are there and none aware and much are both aligned like moons of different worlds where the reflections come at night to the leaves on the winding wind and winter great lakes. 

To my surprise the rest of clocks twice wrong and unwound in witless sleep of happenstance and circus dance betrayed by intervention and speechless sake of mention the heavy size of lake like ocean pressing shores farther from all time before has deepest shallow shorelines and so distant from the north the greying scathing entombing and consuming tide brings undertow to abandoned darkness where my misery sleeps with me. 

As this breaking sunlight that somehow can’t cut the deep breaks thru the silver lining of sulphur clouds and breaks against the waves for waters as millions of broken windows between the glittered stars and the unreachable deep and for all the sounds to keep beneath the current and its darkness reflecting never think about beneath the many waves that grind against the moonlight like a holy dragon’s teeth by the countless mists of diamonds too many to count or reach. 

If I were a bear, this hibernation could be a surprising end to a season without reason to bother waking, and for this I wonder how they keep talking in their sleepwalking for all the sense they think they make. 

@swehttamxam