Thursday, August 20, 2015

Little Big Miss

Hesitation is the rule of law for the weak minded. When it happens, near-accidents result, if not full-on ones. -And when it makes itself known, it only is capable of illustrating the lack of something, and never the antonym of this said concept. For, I did follow the short fat one into the bus this morning. She is one of those that must come to a full and complete stop while scanning the bus pass at the reader for payment. Then, because I am the opposite, had ended up tailgating her down the aisle. 
"Why would you do that JB?" you might ask.
Well, if you know me, you know that I am tall, and that most of my height originates from the legs. So, when the legs are responsible for above-average height, of course the gait's stride is much faster than your average fellow's. It's how I was made, the way I grew, predisposed by my genes and possibly childhood diet without a doubt. 
When walking in enclosed and crowded spaces, I must exert a directed mental a effort to shorten the distance between steps so as not to run into all the slow walkers out there, which I sense is great and powerful number. Said in another way, one could say that on the normal probability distribution for slow walkers, I am most likely in the bottom fifth percentile. The exact inverse is also true. 
Returning to the present state of affairs (having illustrated my condition to satisfactory comprehension), we have myself tailgating little-big Miss. -Who, at the very last moment, after veering right, comes to a halt, hovers for half a second, then swerves to the left to finally choose her seat. Seems like a pretty normal thing, right? 

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

blurred features across the curved surface of space

To lose interest like those raggedy remnants that flail in the wind, sloughed off under the countless treads upon the infernal drag of this place. Once seeming important appears now as seagull guano smeared across ocean invading jetties, fading as long-gone and blurred features across the curved surface of space. The void that they filled has now perished. A violent carving and chipping away at the soul renders it to its essence:

Attending movies and concerts, watching television shows, musing personal history, indulging once admired cousins, aunts or uncles, the quest to write that perfect story, trends, the endless pursuit for the latest electronics, gaming, liberal politics, jamming on the guitar, celebrity, reading fiction, parties, bands, cd's, cars, videos, sports...

These and more are gone. Lost into the annals of Unimportant Things. Their memories are but mere flirtations and infatuations of the miniscule. Losing them does not instill grief, sadness, joy, or hate. Where they existed, there is nothing. Where they were, they are no longer.

The world changes, grows more hostile, apathetic, corrupted, distracted and inane. Time passes and heralds ominous futures. Thoughts and efforts converge and focus anew.


Saturday, June 06, 2015

A Flock of Butterflies

To not envy the lives of our children is a sobering thought indeed. I admit, I do indulge all too freely in this philosophy, perhaps. I know that my own generation is already better off than the next (contrary to established intuition), having tasted a morsel of the life before all this...they will know pain and ruin and hardship like no other. I feel as if their lives will be cut all too short. I can only be thankful that I have lived this amount of time so far.

There will be war. It has already begun, in fact. The stage is set for the justification of our impending and full participation. This taking part also has already started. We were there even before, to push a button here and flip a lever there, to then set it all into motion. At a preconceived time, we will be sucked in at such a horrific rate, that blood will eventually stain the walls of our homes. This too, has already commenced, initiated by our modern-day psychohistorians*. Little by little, bit by bit we are divided into givers and takers. We are polarized so powerfully thus, that the potential literally tingles in the gut akin to a flock of butterflies, ready to energize at any moment. Invaded, attacked and our world on fire; ourselves irrevocably weakened, we shall become the literal slaves we currently emulate in a figurative sense. First, to a dictator, then to the unfathomable, appalling, and abominable. None will escape this consequence. Its coming is a smooth glassy swell. It appears friendly and comforting, and beckons us into its warm embrace. It promises to protect, include, and take care, whether we like it or not. However, it shall grow to a monstrous height, carrying us all with it, while it crashes against the rocky shore of reality.

In ever-increasing disposition, I find my response to the daily stimuli inversely proportional to time. Less and less is held with a sense of importance or interest. Most of what I see is diversion from Truth. Images, memes, lame attempts at humor, stories of fiction, innocuous celebrity, hollow electronic gadgetry, treasonous politicking, hedging bets, incredulous lawsuits, asinine economic analyses, duplicitous derivatives, senseless sports drama, inundation of vocative ideologues, and ineffectual chatter ad nauseum: pixelated bits of our extinction.

What to do?

Pick a side, and pray.

And if I am opposite you, I will not hesitate.

Nor shall I expect any different from you.

*Isaac Asimov The Foundation Trilogy

Sunday, May 31, 2015

Insomnia Magna

All too often, with more and more frequency, its period of occurrence increases. The momentum has already reached its escape vector. Of course, I find myself going upstream. I'm beginning to think that perhaps I like it this way, but one never can tell the truth about themselves. It's almost as if we are all both Schrödinger's Cat and Schrödinger. We can only gaze at what we think we see, but our essence does something else entirely, right under our very noses. 
Can't you feel it? It's a wave of a wave. A tsunami that will sweep us all away. I mean, it has only been reported more than a dozen times, and only then a dozen times more. So loud it is, it blanks out all hearing. Well, for those that have not picked a side anyway. -But that's no excuse, don't you think? By all accounts, I will be against you, you, and you, in all probability. I gather that you don't feel it. If you don't, you most likely won't, or ever will. It's never a question of can't. It's all a decision, all of it. You can beg some exterior distraction, but that again is a decision. You do not decide, ever, and there is nothing more hated than indecision. Indecision is cowardice, and cowardice is fear, and for which fear cannot be mastered through hesitation.  So, it's out of the question. 
There will be that moment in time that I am truly sorry, and it will be a single moment in the present-eternal. This too will pass along so that the next moment can begin. So goes conflict, so that another can take its place. 
"Sorry no more," I'll say.
And you'll say nothing, because nothing isn't, nor might as well have never been.

Thursday, May 28, 2015

The Incredulity of It All

Beset by memories of yesterday, I might as well be blind to the present. Inundated  by answers not answers, to simple questions. The exchange one-sided, and more a projection of the answerer than the "answeree." 
The incredulity of it all, my own perceived notion, which lambastes my thoughts. The recollection of unalterated self-imposed handicap, with irony mixed in. For example, can someone claim they were "poor," when they, in the end acquired a masters degree and at least was able to attend high school,  didn't sleep on dirt floors, or had more than one pair of underwear, or had more than one meal per day, or, or, or...?
All interrupted by smell. Instead of odor derived from glands, portrays itself as heavily doused cologne with a thread of sodium sulfide. The bus is like this. The hammer against introspection.
The "offender?" Male, pale green polo, jeans, carefully styled hair, stares insipidly down at his electronics; all the while erupting SBD's. [If you're unaware of the acronym, then think back to elementary/junior high. If still unaware, then I've already wasted too many words on this parenthetical.] He shifts over, creating a sort of makeshift sardine can arrangement. The comfort level increases to abundant levels. When I look ahead, I am witness to many empty seats. It's time to sigh, grit my teeth, and count to ten.

Friday, May 15, 2015

Where the Wind Blows Gnats in the Face

"Wow! That's a nice screen saver you have there," I said, pointing at his desktop monitor.
There was a photo of the latest Mars rover gathering samples on the brick red surface of the planet.
"Yeah, that's from my brother-in-law. I like space stuff."
"Did you hear about that ion propulsion where you could shorten the trip to Mars to forty days?"
"Why would you ever want to do that?" he asked in superior tones, adding, "-such a waste of resources..."

Thursday, May 14, 2015

Every Morning Is the Same

Every morning is the same. 
I approach the bus shelter, breathing in the moist air. There is a chill biting at the ends of my fingers. Grumpy Old Man (GOM) hobbles across the street in mock haste from the opposite direction. The canopy is how it usually is: trash strewn in all directions with the refuse container in the middle of it all. It's a picture. At first, that's all it is. Then it registers yet again, likened to a waterfall whose pour is mysteriously not heard until that proper moment. It is a portrait of replete irony. Perhaps I delve all too deeply into these things. They appear as simple implements during the path of life. However, I cannot help myself to think there is a certain asymmetrical symbolism to it; synonymous to the culture of what we've become. 
"C'mon!" GOM yells at the oncoming bus. Its slow acceleration thorough the stoplight not to his liking. When the coach finally arrives, he shuffles over in front of the bus doors and peers inside through the reflective glass.
"Another different driver," comes the per diem declaration. 
Every morning is exactly the same.

Friday, November 21, 2014

The Ill Use of a Chefs Knife

The light is dim. Yet, as always there's someone here in sunglasses. At this present time, I sense that the eyes behind them are observing me. My intuition is confirmed, since I am able to discern two dark orbs staring in my direction. I get the feeling that he thinks I don't know, or couldn't penetrate this "impenetrable" shield. Yet, the reality has won out. Then, the original question returns. If it is dim, why wear sunglasses. Is it like Bono? Bono, who claims eye issues. His reason may be legitimate, but this guy, I don't think so. I might as well accept that root cause will dwell in the realm of mystery and speculation.

My observation moves onto the now-present. The bus is now pulling into Westlake Station. The confines are filled to the brim. 
The driver gets on the com and asks, "If folks could get down and get a little tighter!"
There is minimum resulting movement. A mere trickle works their way into the bus. Standing room only, body heat, steam on the windows, the smell of papers, the sound of ventilation fans with an accompaniment of electronic devices. Rain splatters against the blacktop against a gray backdrop. At least, this is what the window tells me. Then I am reminded of the micro-cut on my left cheek left by a jaggedly torn fingernail. It's jagged from the ill-use of a chef's knife, and torn from God knows what. 
At least it's Friday.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

An Encounter with a Singularity

A long-haired dude with "Manson" eyes, an old bespeckled woman in a blood-red long coat, a man with frosted ponytail and a fedora, and finally an apprehensive yuppie sitting in the handicap seat: all are riders never before seen. Perhaps I am too much of a newbie myself, the gray coated lanky one folded behind the articulation. What is new anyway? If one is old, but they're suddenly in a different place, do they become new? It is would seem so, in this day and age, and most likely for all ages. This is a quirk of human nature, no doubt.
Perception again becomes reality. Consider the converse, which in every person, there are the years and experience embedded within them from the time they entered this scene we call, Earth. Each has been at life, day by day, until such the time as the present. The present time, at which you or I intersect he or she. Us, each with our own unique story, also living each of the planet's rotations, but by bit. These intersections can be found to be extraordinary if we allow ourselves a moment to reflect upon them. What are the chances, given all the aggregate of moments that these random people came together in this one place at this singular point in time? 

Image courtesy of

Thursday, November 13, 2014

Thoughts of Wonder

A dark evening with a backdrop of pinpricks through walls is the scene that greets. I miss the sought-after route by mere steps. It might as well be the Grand Canyon now. I hop on another that requires a transfer later. In frustrating fashion, forward progress is delayed by coaches ahead. It is not apparent as to the why, only the what. Moving ahead then stopping almost immediately is what follows. A huge load enters, as if none of this route has come for eons and eons. Arabic seems to be the language of choice tonight, ladies and gentleman. Ahead of me, behind me, and to the side, it fills the innards. All others are quiet, for they read words on their devices of electronic means. Some are books, and others the news, no doubt about those happenings in the Middle East, which never ends it seems. Just yesterday it was said that the leader of ISIS called on all Muslims to wage war worldwide against "Jews, Crusaders, and the Devils." 
"Erupt volcanoes of jihad," he says.
When one reads an instruction like this, aboard a bus, where Arabic is spoken almost exclusively by those who speak, that one cannot help but have thoughts of wonder. Thoughts of wonder which turn to the said instruction, and if in fact any of that sunk into these speakers' hearts. -And if indeed if those words did sink into their hearts, would those words perhaps manifest into obedient action? Many in this country would call such "thoughts of wonder" preposterous, paranoid, or even prejudiced. The establishment might even, with vindication, consider this particular thinker bigoted and racist. The thinker realizes this and buries these thoughts deep, and the guilt settles in, embued by the societal altar of political correctness.