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No ratings.
Nothing discourages. Everything gets counter-intuitive circumspect in introspect. |
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I’m not in the know. I just know. Not a crusader, taught by righteous hypocrisy of a pathetic narcissistic paternalistic society — the truth of power corrupts absolute…sometimes. People are basically good, but lack time or introspect to get comprehension, lack witness of the lay of a landscape, but invent and control whatever narrative they cling to. Either weak, naive or arrogant, subscribers of apathy are compliant absolute when a pout and shrug delivers an, ‘it is what it is’. The ultimate, ‘try not to think about’, so you can sleep…or be nocturnal like a clueless Batman. I observe. I’m not saying I’m any better. Finger pointers could feel shame for misdirection, false gossip that could slander ignorantly, never launching a question. All of it speaks to a mind that can complete the landscape (observing, testing, trials with components and time) by what withheld: truth absolute. Dangerous to play with, foolish to think you own it, let alone rent. You’re being played. No, it’s not a game. These…are not stories, but can be. 
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What blizzard is this where in a globe, safe, beautiful life inside found? I move at my pace as it rages — apparent but transparent contributes nothing to synergy. Inside grows a mass, outside cascades of shattered glass, continuous crash — only melodic echo in heart accord walking a white cave — insulated, awesome. No distress. What is this world on earth that only knows me, speaks nothing but whispers of white avalanches shaping a crown for my head, frost cooled for a happy fool? I trudge, in soft pale drifts from morn until moon-lit night. Echoes of whispers gap pulsations of harmonic warmth, a soul’s breath. I inhale safe in a globe of death. Why should anything live, if life supplies rhythmic storms dissonance? Any tempo I decide, skate-dancing ice — suck your stabbing icicles sent, returned disguised in warm blood. It means absolutely nothing and yet arrives as messages I can’t absorb, thick head of frozen matter. I’ll have mine shaken, since death-stirred. 45 in Mono suits nostalgic induction. It’s nothing. Nothing inside. No parts move. Zero and gravity-less. Graph plot start point smudged — blizzards slinky cylindrical columns inert. A door installs on the back side. I really work hard at nothing. Sates. Do you not move after life ends? 2.27.26 Yes, I’ll have what I’m having. Had it. Obtuse never goes out of fashion, tags as something else with a 40% mark-up.  |
| As yet to edit… "Inside, Outside, Upside Down Time" …meanwhile, in other non-news… The Insult To English an assault — Plugged in… got echoes of that word …simply said it’s a beautiful thing trapped… rolling around inside that marble-ruled head — golden-straw-stacked Ararat — whiter… cloud-9-cumulus stretches stratus but for a bird’s nest with scrambled eggs yolky, sticky… what state the state is in? don’t sell us, tell us that thing plain spoke beautiful might not seem such a lie. …don’t feel safe leaving the house without:  ? 2.24.26 Don’t everyone sigh at once Leave a little fresh air for the rest of us, choking on his fumes…  T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
https://www.artofthetitle.com/title/the-six-million-dollar-man/ rebuild? can you? do you want to? when I wash out, make it a sandy beach and tropical drinks. I'll start now. 🍺 (((ignition))) I have lift off. live autosave #freedom 🇺🇸 dumb liberty I left the internet in my other bionic boot cut sheet metal pants it's supposed to be in my head but you are guess what? |
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When throwing a basketball, I know it could travel down court at 60 mph. But, with a flick of the wrist, the ball spun nearly like a spiral, it comes out hot, breaks high and settles at a much slower rate when reaching target. The physics of it I won’t understand, but the feel of a ball in my hand speaks. Whether it’s repeated play, and/or desire for precision, and/or joy felt in that moment, just a split second, confidence accurately plays. A near lifelong love, a lot of time dedicated alone to it. Friendships were made. As with any target, trust God decides. He is why I need no eyes to recall, to envision again with an unshakable conviction. And Godless Google AI? Your brain is performing a high-level, subconscious maneuver known as procedural memory and subcortical motor control, a state athletes often call being "in the zone." You learned this through thousands of repetitions that transferred the skill from conscious thought to automatic, reflexive action. USA Basketball Here is how your brain keeps this secret from you: 1. The Cerebellum: Your Internal "Auto-Pilot" When you first learned to pass, your cerebral cortex (conscious brain) was heavily involved, thinking about grip, arc, and velocity. Through practice, this control shifted to the cerebellum. USA Basketball The Secret: The cerebellum is responsible for fine-tuning movements, coordinating complex muscle sequences, and, crucially, predicting where the ball (and teammate) will be. The Action: It acts on its own, allowing you to react in a split moment without conscious thought. USA Basketball 2. Predictive Modeling & "The Matrix" Your brain creates an internal "movie" of the pass about half a second before your body actually performs it. Quora The Process: The brain’s motor cortex and basal ganglia work together to predict the trajectory and speed required based on previous experiences. The Result: It simulates the path and calculates the necessary spin (finger snap) instantly. Paris Brain Institute 3. Sensory Feedback Loop Even though you are not consciously thinking about the pass, your brain is processing massive amounts of data: Proprioceptors: Sensors in your muscles and joints send data to the cerebellum regarding your limb positions. Visual Cues: Your brain assesses the distance, speed of the receiver, and defensive pressure instantly. Smithsonian Magazine 4. "In the Zone" = No Thinking When you snap the ball and it arcs perfectly, it is because your prefrontal cortex (executive, thinking brain) is silent, allowing the subcortical, automatic systems to take over. If you did start thinking about the mechanics in that split second, you would likely ruin the pass. UHealth Collective In summary: You learned this skill by building a vast library of motor memories in your cerebellum, which now automates the arc, speed, and spin, leaving your conscious mind free to just see the open teammate. USA Basketball Thanks! Now I really feel special for all the 8-hour days. I can do “no thinking?” Yup, that’s God. *visualizes another ‘movie’* |
| A Time To Pray To God And Physics Freeze gravity? When does it go back on? Please, I do not want to float in a descending elevator 40 stories up, should power be interrupted, when the gravity effect return, a human unfastened floor sent — free-falling appendages from vault will not stick that landing… flightless bird in a cage, in a vomit comet, speeding to 113 miles per hour? Whatever the rate, if power-less, pray that park brake auto-engaged… I trust gravity more than a vertical cable car. From a writing prompt, original 8 lines forced for prompt 'if gravity stopped’ before gravitational space expansion of relevant time for a brain to confer and loosened the belt a bit. 2.17.26 2.23.26 - another significant edit speaking for gravity, it does not have an on/off switch, but let's go with it anyway Superman defeats gravitational pull to save Lois Lane in an inferior parallel universe where inkwell story artists can do whatever they want -- but Hollywood...that's visual evidence of yet another false realm in which we coincide. Enjoy whatever ride and I'll have another helping, too. Better than what's outside my door? "Things don't work out for me." Hint: it heads north and tells you to 'believe'. And if it seems the news cycle has grown a bit quiet -- likely, it’s because I haven’t turned on the tv. 'Earth below us, lifting, falling, floating weightless...' |
| Soundless Theater He gesticulated to himself in the mindful quiet so loud, I thought I could hear his mind work. Reminded of the heavy machinery I’ve heard, I recall operated, it felt I could go on a spin, jolted between the clutches of propane-compelled, hydraulic function — when a daydream broke, alerted time to eat in the daze of young. His thoughts animated so loud, I heard the bedside, word-plodding nights, a voice sent story into shadows I could witness — hid behind sheer curtains, danced inside my window, when a thunderstorm alert so loud woke up the night in cold, distant flashes. Memories display warm colors where I had played. Fingertip sprays of water droplets, thick, sideways rattled a pane, in continuous motion sent along rigid siding in a spectrum blast, reminded of a sprinkler in heat. Repeated now, like a murderer’s first slashing kill shot, before each weakened until the last. But, reverie will not last. He’s found the remote, all charades dissipated. He could only play with the sound off. Better images formed within him, like where I sat, on century old floor boards, mildew and dust added to the museum-like wonder — beside warmth of a cleaning woman, lap-picture-book propped and angled so I could see, and realizing now, she had memorized all the old stories, lending more animation for a silenced-age voice. Some books she knew since a kid, opened like a warm matinee theater, with the smell of her lotion, safety, ease for any worry. Normalcy. I could reminisce any time I wanted, every time I felt an ache too loud — as when I looked upon her, that mouth frozen and unfrozen, moon-shadowed. Dizzied words yet linger, want to dance off my tongue int continuous nights. Still playing,her light gesticulations in harmonic wonder, easier moved inside a small space, widening a cabin, comported. But, the world’s gone white and only I witness one sad clown with my own kind of mirror that picks up a thick, rapid pulse, coarsing as greasy machinery I’ve bounced upon, jerked, without an issued hard hat. I worked in those same storms, dreamed the storyteller awake. I could actually be alive because of her. But, I had grown, as my own have, and no one to tell an imaginative story. I’m searching for the right kind of construct, devised to say to them, I’m still here — before he snoozes again, and misses the musical sections of life. In columns of time, many memories scrawl, notations as unwitnessed reminders, unrecognizable but for the handwriting — spraying like fluid across his glue face that I don’t identify, or if a leak when operating at wrong speeds. No tempo, I don’t live in cages of that heavy equipment — but lie, recline even, in some soft machination of dreamless story. A ratchet-arm gear shift angles him to witness: a white, antique, 2-dimensional block of cloud hover over an empty space. The tv flashed and sprayed its own lightning in a soundless theatre. Still awake, yet he’s probably dead, when not snoring. 2.17.26 80 lines of free verse prose-like story within story, outside himself It can be made to fit two pages, where you request an offering to fill just one. Sorry, I won’t accommodate you. I’ll put the quill away, if you pick me up. I can retire now that I’ve woken up Another Berlin wall? Was that what he was asking for? How many times must I V-8 my head? It takes me a while, but I get there. Please direct to the barn door mentioned. Welcome to the reading library. There is no micro fish. Anything else? Not that I can think of at the moment. Why? I saw that. |
| Br’er, Indeed Be brave, hopefully have your convictions and corroborate gossip. I seem to recall we all hate that one guy at work. I think there’s a gossip whisperer floating about. I certainly get information I never asked for. Hard hitting stories strike tar rabbits. Ever try to talk to one? Me neither. |
I’m too tired…from this…
Yes, I do spend a lot of time day dreaming. What? A think tank? If they put my brain in a jar? Yes, this is me talking to me with another thought’s hat on. What is a metaphor? Yes, that is from Community when Britta explains metaphor to Jeff. I swear I can catch that tail that keeps chasing me. Just give me…another 30…years. I might be tired by then. Where will you be? Not in a lab experiment? Okay, then you’ll know where to find me. Yes, I’ll see ya when I’ll see ya. Yes, from Community. But, I don’t think they get… Right, but that wasn’t the first time I heard the…heyyyy! Oh, you’re tired? See ya. That wasn’t so diff….rude. Now, back to what I was saying to myself. Oh, I’m still writ-ting?  Yes, I do know the difference between talking and writing, but I think if I were a bit lazier, I could  it in. It’s just these pesky emoticons that inspire memes in my dreams…are you writing that down?Uh-huh. Go on… 2.15.26 It’s freaky, but my mind came up with another song for this portion of the soundtrack of my life. Does any of this sound ‘discouraged’ to you? You really don’t know me. Have you ever thought about caring for humanity? Killing it won’t save you. Unless, how much money you worth? Is your hair yellow cotton candy? I’m not going to edit this for a while. Maybe, the typos wil amuse you. (Although, I can point this index finger at Apple for most of that…and another finger.) I would flex on you…but, I’ve played with your kind before.  Mom said. Oh, the song. *Looks it up* Did you feel it? Love going out of Valentine’s Day like helium from a balloon, a corner ceiling float descending behind the recliner, where we play after all humanity…fill in the rest… T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚  Come at me, bro! You’d never get a word in, edgewise. Hmm, origin of that word. I’ll never stop learning, craving information. I bet you know the type. You hate that person. Leave some time for yourself … To love yourself, silly. I got two cans of nonsense here. Which one do you want me to spray on you first? And the worst blog post award goes to…a 90-way tie…all about…sorry, the handwriting is not legible. Legible? Hmm, AI? I said, ALL DAY, son! Why wouldn’t he just play one sport?  He’s better off than me. I’m that guy — to everyone. Just give it enough time. Mom did NOT have me tested. And, it wouldn’t have made a difference. Look at all of you. Right. Introspection. But, it doesn’t have to come with a can of guilt. What have you been spraying yourself with? Yes, that did end on a preposition. No, you’re the pedantic one…the party of the first part. Did I not just say…you know…about me. It’s like talking to my brother at bed time from the upper bunk, but it’s just me writing. I think, I now know why we switched beds when we got older. I sprayed him with the good can. What do you think? What could I? Right. Go to sleep. This could have ended…shhhh, my mom’s coming… Everybody could have been my best friend, buttttt… I’m me. Too much. I’ve lived with it for…counts on hands, feet, looks around for about 40 more digits. Sorry, mom. She became a Cub Scout den mother, and figured out (rather recently), to bring friend prospects to me. It worked for part of a summer when I was 12. Gordon watched me collect 33 bees in one jar, one day. It broke. I now know how cyclones start, in slow motion, further proving — that insect is not the avenging type. And, a friend. So, now you know. Yeah, he’s not making any sound up there. Sometimes, I think he fakes…er, faked. Flash light just died. So much for comics. This is what promoted lifelong insomnia. Yup, I just got that. Good thing I also was physically active 12-16 hours every day, when not reading graphic novels in whatever dark. I quietly competed, kept games close, so I kept friends…but had to satisfy a need to win. Losers don’t come back,so I became “loser”. What kinds of friends did they stock in my neighborhood? People who needed something to reject, feel better about themselves. My instinct was to do for others, or…nothing for me. But, learned to sit back and enjoy my kind of charity. Never felt empty, just frequently alone. How can you be alone in nature, especially if you’re with you. I stayed up all night to write her two Valentine’s poems with picture post on Facebook. (Insert crickets) I woke at 9:20 pm yesterday. She went to bed shortly after. I might be sleeping…now. When I stay up, one of the three cats sleeps in the chair across from me. He follows me to the bathroom. Visits at the sink when I brush. He meows like ‘where’d everybody go?’ when I meow back. He wants to lay in my lap. Can’t get comfortable. My wife is softer. He practically will wrap around her neck like a fur collar, when not mimicking her as body pillow. My mom died in 1999. My dad died nearly a year later. My brother died two years ago…hmmm…tomorrow. Maybe, I’m a pest and annoying like a cat that just doesn’t know what to do with himself, but has us as parents who got him other cats to play with. I think he’d rather be a human. What does that make me? Goodnight. (Pretend hears sirens outside, too lazy to type asterisks…hmm, word origin?) Like I said…edits…later…oh, song. Right. Yup, still in my head. I’ll put it below, instead… “I won’t take the easy road,” on a lyrical loop. I could have written the song in the lyricist’s dream Too much? If I shortcut life, I will regret. But regret pales as time moves forward. My buckets have been full half a life ago. Doubled and flowing over because I’m with family…the true dream. And a good reality to wake to, and say, I did that. You do you. Whatever that is. You won’t know me, if none of this reaches. If some inane bias makes you indignant, I’d say I’d worry for you. But, I think you think you got it covered. Just know, I was here. You can’t just edit out parts/gifts that mattered. Regret is selling anything short. Give people more credit, starting with yourself. Vrooom! I just don’t quit. I’m old enough, seasoned enough from experience to lecture. But, ears and selectivity are a part of our shared relativity, going in reverse. You think some false outside influence manipulates our unbound unity, trying to get the ‘right thing’, disconnect from what we deep within know is right? But, someone indignantly rubbed something all over a bully’s face, as it walks around like there isn’t anything nthere. It’s not brave to intimidate, to make silent. It’s only more foolish. One day, someone will snap out of it and ask ‘what was that all about’? Chalk it up to ‘it is what it is’, not because you can’t explain it, but futility to admit modern civilization enslaves minds, dictates actions and words, by getting idiot neighbors to be arrogant, ego-serving, PC police, like I’m the counter-intuitive one acting a fool/criminal? Nuh-uh. Between us, who’s really ignorant and admitting it, claiming virtue is vulnerability over the unnecessary humility the mindless and arrogant apply, because they’re ’trying to watch the game’…and try to keep up in their Stockholm. You’ve been conned. I can’t get my priorities straight in the asymmetry of fucked up humanity, dying on the vine because more of our time, money and gifts are being manipulated and accessed without respect, because leaders say obligation, or act like they need our charity. Again, save some sunshine for yourself. You’re absolutely not selfish to be the center of your universe. We praise people we don’t even know, who false-humbly relish themselves champions, building their brand. If you’re Drew Brees, I like you fine. If your Alex Ridriguez, how the hell? Brett Favre. You’re just an idiot who they pumped up, built up and stood up, so championships could restore a once great franchise. A tome would follow here. The innocence is gone. Virtue is lacking and a madman is caricature of everything that symbolizes the end of a free world. I’m not dreaming electric sheep, or being Elon Musk’s cyborg, because technology has gotta keep goin’ faster than comprehension. I smell a car salesman trying to close a deal. No one can slap sense into someone who’s got a thirst for power and money at this late hour. So, drink the kool-aid, or be anarchist? Again, I will regret shortcuts. What flavor you got? Not enough sugar for that. I need bed and to stop throwing my words away into a cesspool. I just don’t have time to value them, preferring to like myself. And value something that is bleeding me as a sucker. P.T. Barnum was the leech. Big Top Capitalism, walls, humanity genocide…take your pick, apathy-influenced, will-be compliant, finger-pointing assailant of whatever destroys what bonds of whatever unity, like the mitochondria building up inside all, in a global greenhouse, full of its own methane. Now, I won’t sleep. I’ll likely take this down, after that edit. I used to be a journalist. Sidelined, I’m not itching to get back in, because I can get myself fired up and then fired in five minutes. Read me, know me. Ask questions. But most of all, be more than fair for reciprocity’s sake. This is your ‘village idiot’ speaking. |
| In the works…a preview without ML. Got enough headaches… Offering No Excuses: My Mind And I My mind wanted to make itself up today but then saw reality lurking before deciding it wasn’t sure and went back it to hiding despite encouragement, always the positive one trying to point out this and that to everyone, offering a podium and mic without consult as I checked the math again with my mind and found a lack of confidence had wiped off half the chalkboard equation. that saboteur now asks for a snack, some booze and pop a squat on the fence — with life binoculars, we observe what looks like ever-changing slides under a hazy, monocle-microscope before dizzy and falling again, but my mind is happy to have an excuse to run off with distraction. I really do need an edit there… 2.11.26 |
| …and over. Tomorrow…repost. |
| How to know if I’m a true character in the story depends on how many lines dispensed for purpose of plot, to explain this thing right now, what happened back there, or say, “look, it’s starting to snow.” If moving the story along or acting the weatherman, or giving a summarized perspective, you just might be a narrator. And so on and so forth. There’s trope for that. Uh-huh In the future, everything we say or do will be pre-scripted by narrative-driven dominators who can’t see the end of humanity they contribute to. Polled: 83% of Americans deem our inflation driven economy is “critical.” I para-phra-embellished. It’s much worse. I’ve been reporting for about a year, people will be forced to live within means. Bye-bye subscription services. Hello oatmeal. Adios Starbucks. Where’d I store that coffee maker. *reads manual* (plug, fill, push and wait for Heaven rearriving.) 80k for the SUV hatchback? Bus, ride share, or quit and stay home, save 10-15k depreciation for year. Not buying a car to quit a job pays for itself. Imagine if a million people default tomorrow. I advocate this type of organized mayhem to get away from this dependency to have status with 12-year loans on family SUVs, cheapest you’ll find, because they dumped all car manufacturing. Wall Street will piss itself. When do the rich fight with the rich to the death? I’d get the popcorn ready. Any islands left that Epstein didn’t buy? Or, in foreclosure? 8 million for an island by Barbados? Late 90s? I missed out. I always wanted to…fish? Maybe…putting it out there…customer can be king again. Wear heavy boots when kicking tires and shiftless salesmen. Pay the no-haggle price? Laugh and walk away. I’d stick a tongue on the glass wall showroom and make a face. May I suggest, blowfish? Bigger the puff the better. I’m half asleep. Okay. Done. Carry me to bed? |
Meeting with my muse again. Now and then, They (the others) will hear from me Singing gleefully, peacefully, Spry as yet. As Spring, sprung. But, I do not know why, except Today is just another day. To me, for you/who? (apparently) High stakes consorting with a guy Willing to give whatever a try. Usually, not easy to override. But then, the likes of you Seems untrue — and lighter are wings, Amply willing to fly. 2.7.26 3.7.26 edit, plus… I’m not going for it, bro…what else? I apologize? For speaking my truth? From pre-poem-write, now located here: I wrote…some-thing to-day…it’s around here some…Ah! Oh, nope. Well…here, the obligatory snippet until what’s to come… T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ {/center} |
| If I Had A Title… If I had eyes I’d look around this shared space, see your easy smiles. If I had ears I’d tune into melodious notes of laughter. Fit me for a nose it would ascend nostrils, drink in waves of crush-bean coffee-splendor — baking bread expectant, in expansion. All intoxicates a heart yearning existence, when… a drunk fly haphazardly buzzes through our room, braced by the 100-year, two by four walls, floor by floor intersected — material-dependent pipes weaving, unseen through vacuums, void of memory, divining sharp-turn-passages in perforate. From fittings to furnace, of life water chill to steaming, haunched metal creatures prison-bolt to the drained concrete foundation — delivering in dank, in dark, making all more temperate. Careful to fine tune the soulless implements and pay mind to a Goliath construct with black-layered pate as canopy, dispelling spillage from miles above — dispensed cloud offerings unfurl finger-tip nails of chlorophyll-filling, coif-photosynthesized hair returning, as does a greening yard rug. Specked eggs warm in nests, lend to verdant arrival in variant of octaves chirping, in and out of the perpetual — perceptible, given a brain encouraged. Divinity is nature, is a good gas burner, is a family spending time together in any weather where I consume all with nary a whisper. 2.7.25 40 lines Just ‘cause I enjoy everything about us, but would rather watch the gathering with appreciation of all that contributes. T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚   |
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I’m reminded of shows with minds that detect something, using senses like smell that others don’t pick up on. I’m not clever. Yet, In my chair lately, I’ve smelled eminences that aren’t apparent: weed, beer stench, sulfur. I’m still trying to remember others; but, it might be about my location in the corner of the living room, facing the window, next to the china cabinet. The cat poo detector is always on by default. What’s surprising is I will pick up on a smell my wife doesn’t detect. Her very sensitive ears and nose can work her OCD button to eliminate. Is it my location, cabinet, new home heating (I smelled boiled water more with the old), or something else? Further, am I unwittingly puzzling a mystery? I’m certain the weed smell is below. My wife properly would not want to admit knowing our youngest is culprit. But, investigation says otherwise. This is a process that reminds how you can build these moments into a mystery story with other elements to entertain. I’ve quashed the notion. Nothing currently encourages but the same insane belief: they will come, they will read. Not: you’re bored, you’re entertaining yourself. I figured a blog post appropriate, filling obligation foremost. I don’t like shortcutting or mailing things in over thinking myself a bit clever. Then, it’s cut bait and go after the next thing. It’s an ongoing story. I can resume wonderment any time I care. So, is it tied to ADHD? I can have an overactive imagination. Yeah…no. Can’t say but wait for the next olfactory impulse. So, when the end comes, and I wash up on the other shore, I’ll see ya. |
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