Non-Constant Contact

Friends, I have been collecting some thoughts and writing them out in an email newsletter. How often these go out, or for how long this continues is quite obviously unknown. But you can signup here:

https://askbryan.substack.com/

Of course I have heard that not ‘owning’ my own content is ‘bad’, and other reasons to not go to substack, or wherever else. But I feel strongly compelled to get some words out to those who opt-in. And so it is done. Sign-Up. Rejoice.

Return To Tradition

The not so prettiest picture ever taken inspired me to write some thoughts in my own Instagram comments section. A lousy snap shot, and I’m the entire comment thread- Insert smirking emoji here. I thought I’d copy what I wrote there and paste it here. Who knows, this could be my return to writing something, anything, here for people to see, instead of my tiny notes on my private social account. Hopefully this never turns into that thing over there, my dynamic diary for the world to see. Well, here’s a start:

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productivity

I typed out 2 incredibly short stories while home on lunch break. A long lunch break, but I had the time. I skip all the stuff and tell stories as quickly as I can. I don’t have the patience to write the way I want to. But I think it best to write in any way I can, rather than in no manner what so ever.

- Bryan

Clasp

A first friend. A dog all black. A dog we named for a coal town in W. Virginia. A black pup now named Logan, all Beauty and Love.

My first friend was (soon after pup-hood) tied to a ‘dog house’ on the dark north side of our house. A small patch of weak grass. A pup’s length of chain. You see: dog’s aren’t allowed indoors- but I never knew this, ‘till I found out.

A pretty pup, left then all all alone. A pretty pup, a lot of love, soon then: into chaos all of it all went.

Mud and a shortened/twisted/knotted chain, some snarls and growls, hunger and thirst, the whole goddam place was dread abandon waste, so much regret, fear, anger and rage. No kinda good place.

Must have been a year later my Dad untangled that dog, he let loose that clasped chain, he carried the black dog and delivered him into my arms, where I was told to wait in the back of the van. The van with 2 front seats, a bed in the back. A foam mattress pad- Seating for an entire family. Today it was just me and my dog and my dad.. Off we drove to pickup a friend. ‘Jimmy’ a friend from my dad’s motorcycle club.

We all four then went down the road that led to the highway. The road that led to the ‘on ramps’, or: towards freedom. The road was bordered by a factory on the East, low lying forest / wet lands the West. We drove south, parked on the right, the West, with the setting sun all orange glow lighting the side door windows of the van.

My Dad went around the front, then opened those doors, reached in and grabbed Logan. As Jimmy jumped out with one extra long seeming arm, that was all chromed out at the end. He spun a cylinder flicked his wrist to the right. Click. I Hit The Deck and buried my head into nothing but dread. No support there, a failed foam mattress some filthy fuzzy cover. Plug ears, close eyes, let mind go to red. Then Hell heard a blast from Jim’s chromed steel, 2 men returned, one dog did not. And one boy died there that day.

Hobbes

A football and I played in the side yard of the little green house. A corner lot, a fenced back and side yard. The side yard was extraordinarily narrow, we were pinned upon an open ditch next to the main road that bordered our evil desperate village. I believe it was the day after my birthday, my 8th, and likely the 2nd time anyone ever noticed or set aside a moment for such an event. A brand new football was now mine, and that felt wonderful. I threw the ball straight up, standing there on the narrow short patch of side lawn. A brilliant underhand spiral high into the air, straight up and straight down for myself to receive, perhaps one of my finest skills. Each perfect vertical spiral received then by me, over and over again. With some momentary games of play calling and pretend quarterbacking, team leading, huddled play calling, no one there.

A boy a few years older than I walked by (every boy was a few years older than I), on the other side of that low chain linked fence. He made the universal ‘toss me the ball’ gesture, and ran swiftly by for a pass, without hesitation I spiraled that ball perfectly into the outstretched arms of his running body, a perfect reception, and he kept going. Never to return. Nor did that ball.

Historical FailSplain

I’ve been writing onhere some few stories from my past, they are from my youth- when I was 8 to 10 years of age. I thought maybe this needed explaining. Some people think I jumped in a shit filled ditch last week for fear of a fight (not that I wouldn’t), but we’re talking about a different era written onhere.

I am going to write out some more memories for fun and exercise.

Thank you for reading.

- Bryan

Always With Me

I read an article and find I am once again filled with dread (it never went away). Everything is shit. Everything in this piece is everything wrong with everything.

Teachers Are Moonlighting As Instagram Influencers To Make Ends Meet https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/juliareinstein/teachers-instagram-influencers-school-tpt-pinterest

Off With His Head

"The reason for sexual cannibalism has been debated; experiments show that females on low quality diets have a higher chance to engage in sexual cannibalism compared to females on high quality diets."

*Note to self: Feed a woman well. Very well indeed.  

  *Although referring to Mantis, I believe the statement relevant to my interests, and general well being.  

 

 

Silent Reflection

On weekends I cleaned an old dance floor at a private club. I swept up soft powder, dance gliding powder. There was a mirrored ball above the center of the floor, which I would turn on, watch it slowly spin, and I could hear it's electric motor's low uneven hum. I pondered all the little mirrors in the morning's light. Lesser seen quiet side of all the common things. I played out many imaginary scenes up stairs there in that dance hall. Mostly I washed cigarette ashtrays, vacuumed carpets, cleaned toilets, and mopped.

Join The Club

The clubhouse was shuttered and boarded and dead. The old lawn now a dirt patch field, the lot for the cars was yielding to hard early wild nature, decay of the concrete and blacktop, cracks for the seeds to land in and grow, the wild things bring all the 'fine' things back within gnarl. The North face of the clubhouse feet from a cliff. Some concrete stairs led down to the shore, a round rock pebble beach. An iron pipe handrail guided one down the off kilter slab stairs. Climate's weather and time had transformed the iron, smooth surface stability no more. No safe way down which made for great appeal- but of no appeal to me of course, I was not permitted to be on that site, those grounds. I wasn't really to be at that end of the block. I was already too far from allowed.

We might be tempted to think on this place with some fondness- Walking along a Great Lake, some idyllic state, or at least some peek at wave motion tranquility and lake side beauty. Not in this spot, and not at that time.

I had heard, back then, that my cousin was murdered at the bottom of those stairs, down the bent weathered handrailed trouble stepped trail on the shore of the lake on the North dark side of that clubhouse. It cannot be said I felt anything about that crime. I was a child, and no child ever knows someone that dies, some distant cousin, well sure, but no one of matter to me and my life- something I learned from Edna St. Vincent Millay.

I was a strange child, like some old man that had lost all memory. I knew I was not young, and not strong, not brave, no courage, nor reason. I drifted silently, season through season.

A Reply & Re-post

A friend commented on my paragraph about a microphone (which I appreciate). And so I made some changes to the piece based on his comments. I am wholly detached from the piece now, the broken bits of it I cannot mend, and I am done with it. So we have some modifications, and then there's the rest (of the pages) which remain un-typed (for now). 

5 pages about a microphone cord -paragraph 1 (revision 1)

Wooden folded chairs.
now darkened, hand-worn
above the hole
in the backrest.
Well rounded leg bottoms
each chair
with evidence there
of the wet mops
that had slopped against,
and a high water mark
that each of them shared,
some low flood that
they had all withstood.
The four legged chairs
atop vinyl squares.
Gray, white, black specked tiles
vinyl or some other,
layed long ago
with expert precision.
A checkerboard pattern,
edges now curled, corners broken.
All sheen and luster
long lost with time.
Etched dull flat surface now attraction for all manner of dirt and distraction.
Weddings, dances, wakes, all the parties
some seating for mothers
who're now (mostly) Grand
and long passed their 40's.
The aunts, all the elders
with skin spots, and hair nets, the waddle necked bosses.
Proper old blouses been hanging 'side trousers,
for one of those deaths, or events yet to come.
In scurrying flats on in from the car,
clear vinyl bonnets protecting their hair-
their white, and their gray, and their straw colored hair.
Broaches and pins and stories within..
A 1 million things, but for only old women.

 

Post-It

I write notes, I later find them, and trash them. I'm attempting to write the notes here. I always think I'll later improve on a note, think on it, tune it, make betterment edits. I never do. I Trash them.

I'm attempting to place them onHere (this website) and leave them be. 

5 pages about a microphone cord -paragraph 1

Folding wooden chairs with darkened hand worn backs, rounded leg bottoms, these chairs, each with evidence of wet mops that had slopped up against, and a high water mark that each of them shared, some low flood that they all had withstood. The four legged chairs atop vinyl squares. Gray, white, black all specked tiles, vinyl or other, all layed long ago with expert precision. A checkerboard pattern, edges now curled, corners broken, all sheen and the luster lost with long time. Etched to dull flat the surface now attraction- to dirt and distraction. How many weddings, the dances, the wakes, romances, all those chairs still held. Fat fattened mothers now Grand, Aunts and all Elders, skin spots, and hair hair nets, and waddle necked Nances, big skins that hung from their raised arms. Jewelry all costume, pearl, ivory, turquoise, silver and gold, fake true treasures adorned. Proper old blouses for each of those group gathering events, and all those yet to come. The dresses and blouses all were held waiting, then worn, and continued awaiting to see one another. Flat shoes low heals, and clear vinyl pieces cover their hair- upon entry, that rain would have well flattened their gray, and their white, and their straw colored hair. Broaches and pins and stories within.. A 1 million things, but for only old women.

hellsboro

Walking with my best buddy on the wrong end of the wrong street and everything went as bad as seemingly possible.

That miserable North/South arranged street was foul at the top (South end) and deadly at the bottom (North end). The city had recently undertaken some type of remediation of the sewage and filth at the street's edges. The men in machines had scooped out the soft soiled, muck filled, 3 inch deep dirt gutters- and made 3 foot deep trenches, and the muck and the pain went and filled it in seemingly from hell bottom up, There was a stench down there, and all manner of horrors of poor existence, all seeped in, toilet shit run off, overflowing grossness of slow demise the trash and wrappers were filling it in and topping it off down there about a foot from the top just below street's edge. Barely hell more than a gravel road, some tar and stone chip travel way, for folks to drive upon by dawn to their dull day, and back home again by dim light to that filth rage that did endlessly await.

As my friend and I walked up towards the better of the street from the dark hell of the North bottom the creatures emerged. 4 brutal beasts all misshapen with pain and rage and forgotten born selves, nothing to give but their history of pain. The leader's last name was indeed: Payne. The middle and lesser of his band followed him to break anyone that walked on that street at night's first dawn. The boy man in front, young Payne- suggested my mate and I jump into the ditch to avoid being thrashed. I jumped straight in, my mate raised his fists and into brutal fury he charged. My mate was pummeled and beaten with fists and kicks and then down on the ground no stopping now, they kicked him and smashed him and hollered aloud, humiliation their goal unto my mate with their all. I cried and I prayed with shit filled fists pressed tight to the bridge of my nose.

The beasts went away, all gnarly and better for their purpose was served.

My mate reached out and down to me there in that ditch, he reached out his hand, he hoisted me out.

And we then had learned lessons, and new tales to tell.

 

There Is, No.

I have nothing to say or add to any food/health/lifestyle conversation anymore, at all, I am out. I would like to point anyone interested in such to a written piece I like, and I am pleased to find this is still available for your consideration.

Paleo Diet vs. Permaculture Diet vs. Feralculture Diet written by Andrew from The Feralculture Project

And my favorite bit:

All things we may masticate and ingest exist on a spectrum from healthy to toxic along multivariate axes. There is no such thing as food.

 

Best part- you can comment over there, no such thing happening over (on)here.

While there, as you find your interest growing, continue read on- and give, gifting is goodness:

Feralculture is creating wilder human community