Breadcrumbs
The nature of my small town rural youth,
Was filled with the perpetual stoic discipline of process.
A work ethic, that many in these our modern times, have been deprived.
Hours and hours of driving the tractor back and forth disking the orchard.
Hours and hours of grading peaches in the hot and dust and peach-fuzz.
Hours and hours of sitting at the drafting table drawing line after line.
Hours and hours of math problems working out each and every step.
Hours and hours of driving down every sort of road and motorway.
Hours and hours of trekking up and down knolls and mountains.
Hours and hours of getting through every variety of workday.
Existence is one step, one breath, one day, after another.
Process is all.
* * * *
Spent this life putting things behind me, that did not work, or no longer wooed.
Or, in the relatively unanticipated once in a while, was done with me.
Dying will only be the final curtain call before oblivion,
And when have I not been partial to oblivion?
* * * *
Regarding my tendency to wallow in dark repetitive thoughts,
Regarding the monkey-minded human paradigm,
I am always happy to be wrong.
* * * *
The one thing about which I am most pleased, most content, most adamant,
Is that fate did not have me bring any children into this absurdity.
I certainly would never choose to reincarnate into it,
So why would I do it to another innocent?
Thank the gods, this eye will not witness it much longer.
* * * *
These many straightforward, candid aphorisms,
Etch how I have come to see this indelible mystery.
And this long and winding soliloquy, has been set down,
To aid You, getting back to what You really are, and are not.
You are your own kingdom, your own house of worship,
Your own heaven and hell, and purgatory between.
It is up to You, and You alone, to figure it out.
It is a no-direction-known solitary journey.
And any realization, and any liberation,
Is for You, on your own, to harvest.
Where it begins, where it ends,
Will be forever unknown.
Rotsa ruck, Pilgrim.
* * * *
So many thoughts that none but me will likely ever read.
That will only be known if a rare few decide to preserve them.
Oh well, so it went, dealt with it, got over it, moved on.
* * * *
All this writing has been a pleasant distraction.
* * * *
What man would not envy the weaponry I have afforded myself?
* * * *
Another day on the rack of existence.
* * * *
This getting-old thing has sure gotten old.
* * * *
Count your Self lucky, I am not one of those charismatic leaders, trying to get into your mind or wallet.
* * * *
I quit.
* * * *
My gift to the unaligned.
* * * *
Always tweaking this little mein-kampf Gormenghast.
Sometimes, big tweaks, sometimes small.
And on and on, it goes, it flows.
Where it stops, ain’t nobody knows.
This is the fate, the destiny, that harvested me.
* * * *
Don’t need no readers.
Don’t need no disciples.
Don’t need no renown.
Don’t need no fortune.
Don’t need no dominion.
Don’t need no schemes.
Don’t need no nothing,
Except to be left alone.
* * * *
How fortunate my children are, that I did not bring them into this hellish paradigm.
* * * *
This life’s calling has been to discern and scribe the ultimate reality, that this mind has,
Through a relatively anonymous, relatively mindful, relatively stoical walkabout, fathomed.
What comes of these many thoughts, if anything, will be for the as yet-unborn storytellers to discern.
Impactful or not, how could it matter, to the Me, the Self, the awareness, the unborn-dying,
The mystery, that every moment, is witness, to whatever kaleidoscopes through it.
Whether conscious or not, we are but clouds, matrixing though the abyss.
* * * *
Have managed to get by without having to participate more than loosely with any groupthink.
Always just kept rambling on, leaving everything and everyone in the rearview mirror.
Nomad, gypsy, wanderer, traveler – are good labels for how it has worked out.
* * * *
A curious pastime.
* * * *
My intention is to wilt into oblivion, relatively, happily unknown.
* * * *
A life spent slipping through the nets,
Of one adventure, one intrigue after another.
Only the Reaper can catch me now.
* * * *
We thinkers are always trying to put into words, that which words cannot tell.
Staring into space is not something the mind easily allows,
In the snappity-snap of the neuron trail.
It may all be illusion,
But it is the only illusion we pretend to know.
* * * *
As honest a take as I can give whatever future is in store.
* * * *
Grubbin’ with the grubs.
* * * *
All my too many thoughts are out there if anyone wants to read them, and if not, so it goes, I had my fun.
Nothing I, or anyone else, has ever said or written, is going to change the human paradigm.
13.8 billion years of natural selection will have great difficulty being undone.
And, as I often conclude, in my rather misanthropic rambles: I will be glad to be wrong.
* * * *
I always try to get their money's worth.
* * * *
Fortunately, for the world and all the innocents, I do not allow my rage to go blind.
* * * *
Still a work in progress.
* * * *
Any difference between Me and You is an imaginary assertion.
* * * *
Interesting how sketches of thoughts bubble into mind,
And word processing, with the aid of spelling and grammar checking,
And finger-play access to dictionary and thesaurus support,
Fashion each into their own little sculpture.
* * * *
The only grubs that are not grubs (yet),
Are the few and far between that fall within the parameters,
Of my genetic predisposition for the female gender,
And still juicy and ripe enough for the taking.
* * * *
It is all distraction.
* * * *
I will be glad to be wrong.
* * * *
What a madhouse!
* * * *
I will be so glad to be done with this world and our kind.
My first and last hope, is that all the heaven-hell-reincarnation malarky,
Is as beyond-doubt unreal, as beyond-doubt unlikely, as it seems obvious to this mind.
Never need to see anyone, or be anyone, or anything, ever again.
* * * *
Odds are little or none of all I have written will survive my demise.
And do I give a rat's ass, whether-or-not the human paradigm survives itself?
Why would I? Hey, I'm just a scribe, man, and all this babble is what came to mind.
Would have been far easier to take more strolls, stare at more walls, and watch more movies.
But no, this inanity is what called, to such a degree, that carpal tunnel and stenosis are daily reminders.
And still, the thoughts keep bubbling up in the gray matter of this mind’s frame of reference.
As the idiom goes, there is no rest for the wicked; yes, one of my many demerits.
* * * *
My Self-appointed function in this relatively anonymous walkabout soliloquy.
Is to put into perspective all that humankind has created and destroyed,
And perhaps aid in setting a course for that which will follow,
Assuming there even is something that follows.
And if it never aids the unfolding debacle, so it goes.
* * * *
How sweet it is to not care ever again.
* * * *
Is there even one day that Donald Trump,
Does not enter our thoughts more than a few times?
Jesus Christ Superstar and the Beatles may well be less known,
And no doubt Buddha feels a pinch of envy.
* * * *
Do not for a second believe that imagination does not often have me in its clutches.
* * * *
Convince me otherwise, if You can.
* * * *
What will happen to all my stuff would be an interesting watch, but I doubt oblivion will allow it.
* * * *
An aging Scorpio with a broken stinger.
* * * *
From town crier to quantum crier.
* * * *
You call this a plan!?
* * * *
Hard to look back and see what an asshole I have so often been.
* * * *
My kingdom for another hour.
* * * *
If You have read much of this dissertation,
You fathom that I do not believe there is a separate God.
To me, it is all one; we are all God from the non-dualistic point of view,
And no religion our kind has ever conjured, in any geography, in any time, is necessary.
But, if there is a divinity that created us, to judge us, probably the only thing He/She/It is going to ask, is:
Why did You not just say no, why did You not just stop, take a deep breath,
And look candidly at the life You were living?
And discern how easily,
With just a few altered decisions,
It could have been so very, very different.
* * * *
This long and winding aphoristic soliloquy, and the ways and means it has been Johnny-Appleseed flung,
Has been a relatively non-invasive contribution, to see whether or not a grass roots stimulation,
Whether or not some sort of rational realignment with the natural order, is possible,
In whatever future past is on the horizon for the human paradigm.
Am pretty sure I will depart existence, with the absurdity,
Still brazenly ramping up its accelerating exponential.
Racing toward the Petri dish precipices, both seen and unseen,
And in all our folly, our madness, the barest squeal of brakes to be heard.
* * * *
What would it take for me to take down this digital tent,
And throw everything I have authored into some nearby landfill?
How attached am I to all the many thoughts this mind-body has rendered?
How attached am I to the delusion that it might in some imminent moment be known?
How attached am I to the delusion that it might make some difference to that dystopian dreamtime?
What would it take for me to sweep it back into the oblivion from which it emerged?
The ponder is oh so tempting, but one this vanity can easily transcend.
For good, for ill, the wretched impending is stuck with it.
Assuming, of course, that both somehow arrive.
* * * *
How many thousands of hours,
Have I spent putting all this together,
Is an inanely large and unknowable number.
I could have probably been relatively prosperous,
Perhaps somewhat powerful, even renowned,
Had I put all this acuteness and energy,
Into something a little more worldly.
Alas, that that attribute, ambition,
Did not call more tenaciously.
* * * *
Sometimes in awareness, sometimes in imagination, I wander through my dreamtime.
* * * *
Of what use was a business major without ambition?
* * * *
There will perhaps be time enough for these writings to be known,
After I contentedly merge back into the unborn-undying indivisible.
* * * *
My limitations are many and not far between.
Yes, I too, am just another earthly primate mind-body,
Trying to survive, to endure, yet another day.
Are all these writings anything more,
Than therapeutic yammer?
* * * *
Who-what-where-when-why-how am I,
But an apologist-defender-supporter-ally-protector-champion-advocator,
For the ineffable mystery of eternity.
For which it never asked.
Only allowed.
* * * *
Would that I, were as silent, as serene,
As these too many words suggest.
Indeed, I am just another lie.
* * * *
The one thing You can say about these many philosophical-mystical ponderings
– Agree with them, comprehend them, embrace them, or no –
Is that it is an entirely original work.
* * * *
Do I sound undeniably, irrevocably, indelibly, indifferently, ineffably, contentedly
– stoical, fatalistic, resigned, doubtful, accepting, skeptical, cynical, pessimistic, philosophical –
Well, duh, yeah, I be a joyful curmudgeon, a soliloquizing witness to the great mystery.
* * * *
Mad? You call me mad? Well, my fine friend, that is no great distinction in an insane asylum.
* * * *
The imagination born of mystery,
Enticed me to scribe this, kept me in the game,
That all my tilling would never be known enough to be forgotten.
There is no depth to which irony and paradox, with utmost dexterity, will not sink.
* * * *
My brief existence managed to land in a zone, in a time, in an abundance of entitlement,
The masses have never experienced in all human history, and obviously never will again.
* * * *
Another timeless day of tap-tap-tapping out,
Paradoxical ironies and ironical paradoxes,
For a readership who will never read them.
* * * *
Were they ever to be known, there would be many who would quarrel with these myriad thoughts.
Some would probably be inclined to kill or torture me for my blasphemy against their imaginary deity.
And to all, I can only say, as can they to me: prove me wrong; a task the mystery does not allow.
And so, we wallow in our illusory minds, ever alone, imagining every variety of delusion.
And if they are right, we will all be cast into whatever it is they so ardently believe.
And if I am right, we will all disappear back into the unborn-undying abyss.
So, will I awaken in some heaven or some hell, or return to oblivion?
Hopefully, the latter, as one existence was one more than I ever asked for.
Didn’t ask to be here; ain’t prayin’ to be stayin’ … is in my list of standard ripostes.
* * * *
Because it is not being sold or bartered, or fashioned into any sort of cultish following,
This philosophical commentary is free to be however it plays out in this mind,
And will wander out into the dreamtime world of its own merit, or not.
The fate of the human paradigm is already written in the sands,
And it is not for anyone to change even one moment.
* * * *
In showing it the Way,
In articulating its weaknesses and failings,
I am perhaps proving to be one of imagination’s greatest friends.
* * * *
Regarding Jesus.
I get the story; I get the mythology.
I just do not see it the way the popular rendering reads.
It is not ‘the greatest story ever told,’ in this ineffable eternal mystery.
Phenomena that defy natural law, and scientific method and principles, are ludicrous.
There have been many seers, many sages, many thinkers, throughout the world, throughout all histories.
And all are first and last, in their own right; all have a mythology about their awakening.
And none are more real, more true, than any other, despite all assertions.
The meaning is in the awakening, not how it came about.
And none can be followed; none need be followed,
But through the earnest seeker’s own solitary walkabout.
* * * *
I, imagination.
* * * *
Oh joy and dang, another project to while away this mind.
* * * *
Some Leftovers and Soundbites find dual purpose,
Or even triple or four-ple or five-ple, as Breadcrumbs, Epitaphs, Ripostes, and/or Titles.
Milk 'em for all they're worth, I say, I say.
* * * *
Writing and editing all this has been very Sisyphean, indeed.
* * * *
Like Tarzan through the jungle; swinging from one sidebar to another.
* * * *
The eight ball mind languidly issues another witty from the abyss of imagination.
* * * *
Still trying to find my face.
* * * *
The truth will out.
* * * *
A well of lucidity.
* * * *
As this male grub-body has aged, the hunger for female grubs has greatly waned.
* * * *
So many books and movies I could have read and watched,
And mountains climbed, and trails and beaches walked,
Were I not destined to scribe this endless blather.
Many are called, but only jesters volunteer.
* * * *
Zen-ing away.
* * * *
All this is given to You as much as possible, without the burden of me or some cult following.
A very Johnny Appleseed undertaking, with seeds scattered willy-nilly serendipitous.
Will it work? Will it make a difference? Will it help steer the next epoch?
Or will it end up being never known enough to be forgotten?
I will never know.
* * * *
I see the Me in You and the You in Me; how is it You are so blind?
* * * *
I am – apologist, defender, supporter, ally, protector, champion, advocator – for the eternal mystery.
* * * *
A channel for babble.
* * * *
My smattering of bilge will have to do.
* * * *
Empty at last.
* * * *
Death will be like greeting an old friend.
* * * *
If there was anything that had ever hit the bottom of the bucket left to do, it was long ago done.
* * * *
Nicely done, Holshouser. Nicely done.
* * * *
One egg, millions of sperm vying to be the one, and it had to me.
Something wrong with those odds, when I can barely win a door prize.
* * * *
Would that I, were as silent, as serene, as these too many words suggest; indeed, I am just another lie.
* * * *
Peter Pan is dead! Long live Peter Pan!
* * * *
This opus has been created,
One thought at a time,
One breath at a time,
One drop at a time,
One ounce at a time,
One note at a time,
One fragment at a time,
One crumb at a time,
One dot at a time,
One degree at a time,
One iota at a time,
One fleck at a time,
One jot at a time,
One grain at a time,
One bit at a time,
One brick at a time,
One step at a time,
One splash at a time,
One dash at a time,
One speck at a time,
One dab at a time,
One scrap at a time,
One itty at a time,
One bitty at a time,
One particle at a time,
One point at a time,
One smidgeon at a time,
As the eternal moment dictated.