Paid Blather Well

I like the messages major websites pop-up with upon arrival. 

Click some any old random link with captivating headline meant just for you,, and you read 2 sentences and think, this stinks, and then the pop-up says  

-you have come here 3 times, the next time you will pay, or read no more-

they don't word it quite like that, but that's how the words play out in my head. 

 

and you know you never read thoroughly through, or enjoyed quite highly anything there, you simply land and glance and go, and now you're blocked out from re-entry less some pay to read ransom is auto-debited eternal. Oh go on then please, block me out, sabotage your own baited line. 

Your site is shit. 

Non-Communicative

Writing makes my mind fall (asleep), my muscles weaken to uselessness, my bones dissolve. I am suddenly no more. 

Speaking has its limitations as well. I cannot monologue. I've attempted to talk into a microphone and say words to the recording machine- it is unknown to me how anyone can do that. Monologueing into a recording device is super-ego-reality, mirrored self chamber, maddeningly discomforting.

Typing this now and my mind starts to drift off, my mind plays a trick, decides I must now sleep. That unwanted program protecting against self-discovery. As if I were to type too far, if I put it down, sort it out, the layers shed, the masks fall away, a tape runs its course, programmed mind-body mechanisms revealed. I am an outdated useless machine. 

If I were to force myself to reconcile my mind and body as the singleness of which they are, that would be grand. I admire those that do- I see amazing people- strong, fit, capable, work, think, write, craft, thrive. Wow. How Un-Me. 

 

AxFell

The lead up front (see title).

My son and I were in the backyard and we heard a ruckus up in the trees, and then tumbling, and branch noise, and then- Thud.  

My son asked: What was that? 

Me: Something dead. Maybe a branch.

We walked towards that recent sound memory, & we found a squirrel lying on the ground, twitching. I said to leave it be, and we'll check back, maybe he just got his bell rung falling from up high and will bounce back and go his squirrelled way.

We checked back- He had eyes lit, lying there with occasional twitch, but soon then- it was the flies, the flies drew in, they were upon squirrel's eyes, the blood trickling out of the non-blinking eyes. And so, I went and got my ax, and lopped off the squirrels head there upon the lawn. and that ended that. or so I thought

For my *wife had just then walked out the back door to see me swinging an ax to behead a poor helpless squirell.  

and that's pretty much the story of me  

 *I've never been married, I called my gal my wife, she called me 'My Bryan' (I think that was her phrasing). 

(I wrote this sitting alone in a Roadhouse bar, within a dull moment.)  

 

 

 

 

 

What is Propoganda

...Astore says. "I’m like all the other fans: a big plane goes overhead — ‘Wow!’ That's kind of awe inspiring. But at the same time, to me, it’s not something that I see should be flying over a sports stadium before a baseball game or a football game. You know, these are weapons of death. They may be required, but they certainly shouldn't be celebrated and applauded."

"They referred to them as 'license holders.' The families. And I'm, like, 'I think you mean parent of dead Marine or soldier.' Patently offensive. And there was no way I was going to have them sign that and refused to do so.

I don't think there will be any turning back from this anytime soon, if anything it will ratchet-up. - Bryan

NonPointed Past

I deleted FB, Instagram, and Twitter. I don't know what will become of my @Askbryan twitter handle, likely some scoundrel will take and ruin my impeccable image OnThere, I may login again to preserve the handle. But I fear if I do login, I will fall, lost then within the obscuring foul mists of that dread pit.

While I was at it I deleted a decades worth of gmail too, inbox zero, literally. Soon there may be no proof I exist(ed).