Blog #15: Picking Nits

Blog #15:  Picking Nits

 

Something stinks…

Oh, wait—that’s just me.  Must be starting to rot.

What a hassle in the assle…

9I’m only kidding, of course; I began rotting looong ago!0

            [You see what I did?  Did you get that?  I didn’t shift for the parentheses, so it was a 9 and a 0.  And then I left it.  Because I enjoyed the… esoteric magnanimity of it all…  Just nevermind.]

Buttanyhoo.

I don’t think so……

 

Forsoothly.

 

Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch…

“I suppose you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here…”

(Nope!)

Ah-ha!… bitches… supple calves… (lithe colts?!)

Just nevermind.

 

Have I said anything yet?

Good, good…

 

            HELLFIRE AND BLOODY DAMNATION!!!

And then some…

 

I finished reading Dan Simmons’ dystopian novel ‘Flashback’ yesterday.  It was nice.  I recommend it—if you like that sort of thing… dystopian novels, I mean.  Though it is not my favorite of Simmons’ books.  My very most favorite would be the duology of ‘Ilium’ and ‘Olympos’… a futuristic sci-fi epic depicting an Earth with human society not unlike that in Huxley’s ‘Brave New World’ (only perhaps not quite so much so, and not at all explicitly), but with brilliantly added elements from Homer’s ‘Iliad’ and Shakespeare’s ‘The Tempest’…

And I’ve also enjoyed Simmons’ novels ‘The Terror’ (an 18th Century, Arctic, trapped in the ice—but there’s something out there!—kind of a deal), ‘Summer of Night’ (a bunch of 12-year-olds on summer vacation in about 1960—and people keep dying and disappearing… and, oh, yeah, the school might be haunted!), and ‘Children of the Night’ (a modern-day take on Dracula and vampirism).  My dad also vouches for ‘Black Hills’.

So there’s all that…

 

Two things:

#1)  Should it be “Simmons’ dystopian novel”—or “Simmons’s dystopian novel”?…  And/or does it really matter.  I find I switch between the two, depending on circumstances.  Or mood.

and #2)  As an author, writing a blog to post on my website, should I be promoting a best selling author (who needs no help from me) and his works, thus luring people away from perhaps giving my own books a shot?…  No.

So there you have it.

 

Which I suppose leads us to—the crux of the whole thing… (except for those of you who were actually paying attention, because you’ll realize I really wasn’t leading anything anywhere…)

Why aren’t I working on my novel today?

Well… I did do some proofing…

 

(Is this the part where I bitch about how disgruntled I am with my life and America and Western Civilization and human society and corporeal existence and—

            No?…

            Phew!  Expurgated—and how!…)

 

Just don’t feel like it, I guess.  Hob nob.

(Hob nob, hell!  That really blows!)

            WHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOSSHHH!!!~~~

(Metaphorically…)

Too late.

 

            ROTTERDAMN!!

 

            (mice!)

 

I got that 9mice0 from Piers Anthony.  It’s a good swear word.  Of course, ‘Hellfire (etc.)’ is from Stephen R. Donaldson.  ‘Musk Oxen’ is mine—as is the hardly ever used ‘Rotterdamn’… ‘Mammoth leper-licking chunk of frozen bovine urine’, mine… um… (er—)  ‘Pantyhose’—no, that’s something else…

 

The esoteric treacle of unbeing—oozes from out mine ear, there to dribble all down the side of my head… my neck… congealing in chesthair… (is that where the name “Chester” comes from? a contraction of (or concoction from) “chesthair”?… just nevermind.)

The esoteric treacle of unbeing (yadda, yadda~)—oozes and dribbles and congeals… and my soul cries out!  Enmeshed—imprisoned—in corporeity and its convolution of needs and wants… the demons within, forever at battle against the myriad outward demons surrounding… bloody, goddamned assholes everywhere…  Why can’t you just leave me in peace!?!

Ah, but what might be learned from that…  From darkness, we know light… from pain, we know pleasure… from cold, we know heat… from skinning our knees in the gravel as we fly from the bicycle, we know the titillation of having our asses tickled with a feather in the alley behind the bar with the thing and the stuff and mickeyfinn and his hermaphoditeorchestra and hey that’s butterscotch but I specifically said pistachio you godless heathen whorish lovely supple lithe young—

…just nevermind.  (I sense it was leading back to livestock…)

The esoteric treacle—blah, blah, blah, blah…

I’m tired.

What does it all mean?

Who says anything has to mean anything?

Killing time ‘til time kills me.

Is that any way to live?

Seems to be all I’ve got.

The meaning of life: to find meaning in life.

Well… that’s a hell of a way to be, now isn’t it?  Really doesn’t help at all…

Where does it all end?

Going back to my previous blog… it’s already ended.  (In a grand and epistemologically cosmological and/or temporal kind of a way!)  The flash of the Big Bang—a moment, here and then gone…  (Ah-ha!  Which ties in nicely with my overly generous plug for Mr. Simmons’s’s’s book… smarmy, smarmy bodkins, me… boom.)  A 13.7 billion year—and still going—flashback… lingering on… waiting to wake up to our unpromised yet longly sought after oblivion…

Or not.

 

“Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated.” —Confucius

 

“Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.” —Buddha

 

“This life, which had been the tomb of his virtue and of his honour, is but a walking shadow; a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more: it is a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”  —Shakespeare

 

“Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans.” —John Lennon

 

“Our planet is poorly equipped for delight.  One must snatch gladness from the days that are.  In this life it’s not difficult to die.  To make life is more difficult by far.” —Vladimir Mayakovsky

 

“The secret of life is honesty and fair dealing.  If you can fake that, you’ve got it made.” —Groucho Marx

 

“What if we all yet were monkeys?… though, certainly, to some degree, we are… but, if more so, methinks, this poem would be shorter.

            “But—no, no, no—that’s not what I meant… (what did I mean?!…)  oh, that’s right… what if we lived in the trees, swung on vines, flung our shit, picking nits from our fur? we, as we are—yet as we were—and all together!?…

            “I don’t know.” —Mishka Zakharin

 

 

#  #  #  #

 

—Mishka Zakharin  © 2015

 

 

1 Comment

  1. I am always amazed at how profound you can be in not saying anything at all. But it certainly makes one think… (and/or hemorrhage cerebrally).

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