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I do not offer it freely per se (though I would it’s just that I don’t see allot of ‘Will Work For Narrative’ signs out there standing on street corners so :shrug:) but rather after a host of professional considerations i.e. referrals, compliance to profiles & protocols, signed contracts & work orders, promises to pay, and the like. Etc: too. I would offer it freely, but many may feel the product of a lesser quality…so as a rule I do not.
“too immediate” as well in that it’s not merely narrative; but a product of the above as well as: observation, compilation & collation…unless of course that is what ‘narrative’ is. If so, then I guess it’s all: good.
Still & however, in that process I am able to lend loft & flight to the flightless DoDo, the broken wing. Gravity to the insufferably random, or: light-headed. Kudos to they who’ve heard them too: seldom. And/or a new plan of action for they that may feel that: their shit doesn’t fucking stink. Like mine, or maybe: yours. (hubby says his shit smells like kitten whiskers, and that mine smells like rancid buffalo meat…I still love him though)
But after the ‘all of it’ I sometimes come here to freewheel, coast, have fun…or maybe do nothing at all after all this sort of endeavor works it’s way through ‘the machine’. Or maybe be an ass if that seems what is called for. This oft times fun & societal little pink poodle snake pit I know of where their hounds they do not bay at “ships with tattooed sails” as one might think, but too oft times lately snip & snark as do carrion they caw & chirp as bones are picked cyber-sonic clean with tones instead alternating various between: persecution, plaintiff & prosecutor. And the occasional: “eeee!”
Who would find quarrelsome…a flop eared silicon puppy licking the rolly wheel on the chiny chin chin of a plastic mouse? Who indeed: (it is said a rhetorical question requires no question mark but the jury seems random & willful out of spite). Were they ever my cyber gf’s, my friends to any degree? Oh but to be discovered the subject of a portrait painted by an expatriate’s hand nestled in the snow dusted regions of a world waft of Nag Champa beside a gentle pool lit from within by the ascended; yet another ascended son of a rich man espousing ‘nothing’ as the core of all that can be seen. It’s good to have a home. In my further opinion, it’s better to be able to recognize if & when in fact you do.
92,703 user registrations and 24,307,027 posts since January 2001 – Sat Jul 29th, 06:24PM (USA/Pacific)
But it is less an image at times, of breezy blue skies with puffy white clouds drifting past as 92,703 men, women & children all smiling with happy, milky white teeth, and clear, soulful, dope-less eyes sing glad songs of labor & completion, planning & resolve whilst tethered to a great & dragging solid gold tipped, exquisite, hand chipped & polished with glorious & mystical glyphs; the groovy black onyx obelisk to be sooner tipped before the temple of a benevolent philosopher king during an even grander harvest festival in the moon, and bon fire lit night skies strewn with handfuls of star cast sapphire, diamonds & twinkle…
As it is too often a gymnasium floor wall to wall set and still smelling of weeks old gym socks like stale Taco Bell cheese; yet set all the same with spring loaded mousetraps packed edge to edge atop which sit little white ping pong balls filled with tons upon tons of feather light nothing poised, and just waiting they wait unaware of just what they wait for uh, uh…not Godot…but for him/her/them/they, with their dog and you now the one I mean. Yes. That dog. That dog with the face that only a bitch could love.
Beyond snaggle toothed, hair if that is what it could be sprung into tufts like the hairs from the crack of a bore’s ass then held tight with hot pink Dollar Tree scrunchies, 10 for a $1 soaking with dog snot & dribble.
There is no bull’s eye, no wrong way to do it, no hat trick involved cause it’s dirt simple. You just squeeze that ugly-ass dog till a turd plops out then you kick it. One need not kick it anywhere near to the center. An edge will produce the desired effect. At first, if you’re watching, you can see it ‘the steaming dog’ go flying through the air with the greatest of ease and you may think cause some actually do,
“Wow, look at that. Steaming dog, hm.”
That’s when the plan takes shape hitting the first little white ping pong ball and BOING! It takes off. Hitting another. And another, then by two’s and three’s magnitude’ & factors and they are soon energetic. But you are on a curve now and the curve is rising.
Again, at first, it all may seem a form of beauty. Little arcs affecting other little white ping pong balls evermore…quite nearly the image of good industry, of a society sorts they react.
But soon there is chaos & random activity filling the mind’s eye to every corner of the screen, leaving an observer with the sense of things gone terminal oddly evermore chaotic & frenzied while it is sooner still spent with residual ping pong balls still arcing, snapping, bouncing all about themselves and off and onto the walls of the gymnasium and back onto the collection of mouse traps themselves their frenzied dance as they SNAP & release, spent to a stop clacking as they do so, and all but for naught but for the will of him/her/them/they instead…and a piece of steaming dog.
I wonder, when you pop a bag of popcorn in the microwave. And those few little pops at the very end pop-pop, pop, pop…pop/pop………pop. Are they saying somehow, “Don’t leave us please. We are popcorn too.” Eh, fuck them anyhow bastids…they got no dog in this fight.
You are, hopefully, on the backside of the curve by now. At least that is my hope for you for me. But whether you’re here for the spring loaded mousetraps, the little white ping pong balls, the tons upon tons of feather lights nothing, the chaotic, spent/energetic release, the steaming dog…someone will need to come into this cheese laden, Taco Bell environ and reset all these freaking mousetraps. Won’t they? Would a gymnasium floor filled with dominos be easier to reset? Or a three story house of pinochle cards? Cause I am just a protocol droid, and no one has a need for a protocol droid,
And I’ll give you a clue as to why…you see…
This is the world wherein is has been suggested routinely and with great fervor that God Himself was nailed to a piece of wood (I personally believe that it is not possible to nail God to anything, but that is a matter I will take to another forum perhaps) and that to follow, from the likes of, if while beautiful, little chipped agate snuff boxes are pulled religions with 15-year-old elders.
What are your thoughts about 15-year-old elders? Do you revere them? Do you swalklow what they say ‘sight unseen’? Do you shower them with unending adoration when they are themselves seeking the adoration of some magi somewhere? Or should be?
Though he hasn’t in some time cause they don’t come round anymore, hubby would invite them in. He doesn’t tell them that his uncle is a bishop in the church but in they come, and down they sit their eyes and hearts filled with joy & mission they talk all three. Soon they pray for our home and our eternal souls and they are gone upon waves and smiles they away on their bikes, “Bye!”
But they return with tales about lost tribes, and mythological deserts. And that is when hubby asks them to provide a map. On the next visit they do. A map to: nowhere. With little dotted lines delineating, presumably, footsteps. The discussion becomes more contentious. But these 15 years young-elders they do not falter here. They persevere somehow. At least until the next visit when they do indeed arrive with an: Elder Proper. A vintage and white haired old man bathed in the blood of the lamb with pioneer eyes that peer as though straight out from the inside of a sepia toned survivor of The Donner Party. And they talk some more though now with no more pretensions. No more airs.
This Elder Proper does not care for pretension, for self-adulation. It is this Elder Proper, his task, his: mission, to convince this world that all is doomed without faith in his religion. Yet they still part upon firm handshakes even if this new found Elder Proper looks as would a chicken onto two: June Bugs, jumping round a barnyard full of chicken scratch. The two young-elders hang their heads. God Bless the child that has it’s own.
I knew a 15-year-old elder that peddled away at the first thunderclap. But I come here anyway. Now where’s my goddamn apple-tini x(
Welcome to DU, (fill in the blank) :hi: :patriot: :kick:
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