Ascension Copied During Downtime OS

A man arrives on time and logically senses he will not double his existence, his time on God's green tundra.

Quiet desperation. A funny thing happened on the road to utopia. He realized that all he could do is make people happy for awhile. Eclectically he opens a book 'Picturing Indians', and on page four there is an 1873 May photograph of Wah-con-ja-zz-gah(Yellow Thunder) Warrior Chief 120 years old comma seated before a thatch dome. Fast forward 140 years, he knows his words will be automatically recorded, time embossed, and slows his typing, off topic, unfocused though making himself happy. It was easy for him to say. He realizes he cannot translate his own words and is half asleep, remembering that bubbles were the inspiration for the geodesic dome. He also remembers that Eric Hoffer who worked hard all his life time, sensed that, something to the effect or [sic], the American amalgamate would persevere and that Herbert Marcuse in 'One Dimensional Man' proffered that it is only the lunatic fringe that can be observed without regimented predictability. If one 'goes beyond' the logic of what we know. He has 99 points to make but does not feel exceptional. In fact, he is unexceptional, everybody tells him so. He again suspects there is a mean oversoul-oversell-oversold-overspill that exasperates & aggravates & alienates & simply destroys all that is good and holy. Mean animal comes round and is known right away rightward getaway rightly via digital magic, meanness is on the prowl and the man crosses two # 2 sharpened lead pencils outdoorsy on his knees toward the dark morning, the trees invisible, the cold tundra inches deep with ice water saturating dead grass.

He realizes he is naked and begins to howl.

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Comment by J.P. Hart on March 30, 2019 at 7:18pm

Dr. E, mira, there's 1452 gittar pickers in Nashville, and any one of them riff circles where the half of us also ran. I've had the 'white coat'
syndrome of late due to your somewhat intrusive Hegel reference several days off--briefly beyond my grasp--not preferenced to so-called salad days when you seemed readily conversant and 'at ease' with learned Jungian dynamic. I usually disdain roundabout replies. But the wind now, as though adrift all the way from the Cape of Good Hope, is as thick as those concrete pins which sentinel the strip malls, CeCe has a makeshift ice pack (half-naked, arms extended at the bow) dripping dank ice water into her eyes, I keep misplacing my Stella A, and we're already too deep to heave anchor. It all started that afternoon when, with anticipation, they turned the corner to confront A. Warhol's Last Supper. Their mule-like skepticism flipped to parade rest, over-the-hill Namerahippies these two. Cece gasped, "...mira mira! He stenciled
Dove Soap on it...."
Hello hello JMAC: looks like you should be at the helm of Forbes'
Howdy-Hi: Captain Anderson, I trust retirement somedays finds you barefoot--often tranquil, never alone. Nothing's perfect. Just sailing. Nothing leaks; Calico, the cat, purrs hotly, a dreamers frolic no doubt, as warm as the shirt on my back.

Hola C~22 appreciate the poetical 'twas preoccupied dropping an everso delicate drop or two of Seagrams' Calypso-Colada in Calico's
chickenpotpie tin...and CeCe disappeared...
She'd been swimming beneath DALIA. Anda tethered her to a breakwater boulder (calm sea but rippled west wind) and it's humider than a fly on a goat...westward sky darker than black velvet on a Halloween costume. By the Grace of God Calico saw her before I did...not really close enuff to throw the lifesaver, what with the imminent chop....Challenge now is to dock, and re-plan the golden hour. I don't see that the abadonza of tilapia thawed well.
Cece and Calico are glaring and rocking half asleep...both a little bit over the line, down safe in the cabin...andas you know, no problemo amiga...

Cece and me moored next to the Firewall, another sloop, and scored tickets from a lupine fella (young dude, antiquated wheelchair, blue-headed bandanna) as he assured me the tickets, "they're close man."

Just hope to all things holy they're not counterfeit. 200 bucks! Ten twenties!

We'd caged Calico. Cece clammy but fresher than me. And we need to shake shake a tail and cab back to the room. Holy buckets, for a doc of---of---you can sure be a Drill Master. If I wanted to drill that much I'd go back to Midland. Hey, thanks for the philosophical throw down. What of the suggestion that all of it doesn't matter post Hiroshima & Nagasaki?


I am @ the corner of Estes and Superior in Bayview, WI...headed to the Hoan Bridge...played volley ball for a few hours
@the White House. Soon to be gone 500 miles.
Your cyber ass pats? Much appreciated!

CeCe passed out...that girl!
Sometimes I bet you can hear her laugh

Comment by J.P. Hart on March 30, 2019 at 9:28pm

More Rain

show me a contest
without numbers
tell me a mountain
draw me a dismay,
excite me with an ap
peace on earth
my vital knap
do me a version
of your latest smile
allow the fastest
flight with no target
no boxes of foxes
nor canvass
of drivers at the wall
get me that frozen
of gin,sin,tax
that old fashioned
I'll catch that line, that bar
like Errol Flynn
once again
now build me
a billboard
with your tragic sword
+ exceptional
to hospital fiesta
and rather
than lather
a soft letting
a mile's escape
for that-
while the ice
lumbers heavy
with rains
for the mad
and sane
on time

Comment by Robert B. James on March 30, 2019 at 10:19pm


Comment by J.P. Hart on March 30, 2019 at 11:48pm

RBJ! Hey-hey what'd say! Thought you'd be hunkered down alright-already in the crummy hotel. Sometimes I get the inclination-thinkin' one guy reads, say Pat Conroy and the next Studs Terkel. Holy smoke I've squinted through more than forty (40) years from those Time in the Bottle years (lightly touch down, LO). I do need to learn something synonymous for BUCKET LIST. Last hot summer I'd set midday at one of my favorite shifter corners (always New Year's Eve) and caught one for NASCAR dude as the backbar TV apparently sifted through pre-dawn tweet interpretations. Why so glum chum? Just got back from a funeral. Little neighbor girl who grew up down the way...I worked with her dad...little neighbor girl OD'd. OMGI'MSORRY! The sad men muted the news and the jutebox played vintage CSNY: What if you knew her? Then the songbox did (pool balls clacking Lo) that Stevie Wonder, I Just Calledand he who-just-got-paid bought us good 'ol boys whiskey. Oddly I tuned an etymology website:
serenity (n.)
1530s, of weather, 1590s, of persons, from Middle French sérénité, from Latin serenitatem (nominative serenitas) "clearness, serenity," from serenus (see serene). Earliest use (mid-15c.) was as a title of honor for kings, probably from the similar use of Latin serenitas, applied to Roman emperors, later popes.

Comment by Robert B. James on April 1, 2019 at 9:26pm

Dr. Hart, I’m reading Freedom’s Laboratory: The Cold War Struggle for the Soul of Science , the book I received not remembering what I had ordered in my trancelike state. 

I’ve been remorseful about giving up literature. We had many years together. I hike to the bay for pleasure and read professionally, not that I can remember shite anymore, anyway. I have a hard time remembering my own pecking projects titles, let alone what I am reading. 10 concussions and 62 the math, I am toast, and burnt...leaking is the best I can do, while I still can remember anything at all. 

My bucket list has one item: a round the world cruise. I always hope my next work will be picked up by a cruise line in exchange for a forward berth. I never wanted to live ashore after  wanting to be a park ranger. I think a 120 days at sea might be enough to get me over it. Raytheon5 ? I will finishit. Publishit? Who cares. The doublewide is paid for. And hot dogs are cheap. I can survive if I cut the cable, and stop driving all together....for ten years. Then I might have to publish something, or carve little turtles out of wood and sell them to tourists. I could paint them too! 


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