Dog

“The dog is a gentleman; I hope to go to his heaven, not man’s.”
-Mark Twain
Letter to W.D. Howells, 2 April 1899

H.P. Lovecraft

If you are as fucked up as I am, then you might indeed appreciate the work of the late H.P. Lovecraft. His genre is difficult to explain simply, so I suggest you wikipedia the man. Here is a fun video taht will make no sense to many. Enjoy: (PS--note the "Best Dad Ever" coffee mug).



HBM Out
"In his house at R'lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming"

Indeed

Education... has produced a vast population able to read but unable to distinguish what is worth reading.

G. M. Trevelyan, English Social History (1942)
British historian (1876 - 1962)

Perhaps...

You, Sir, think too highly of originality. Besides--for one is so dour--they really ought check out how happy Jesus has made these people:


HBM Out
i have a friend in jesus

A Gentle Response to a Thought for the Day...

"Manuscripts do not burn..."

Let me tell you about being a writer, sir. Being a writer is nonsensical and absurd. I am a writer, but I cannot be published.

And as for a cure, or being loved, I can tell you that neither are possible. Indeed, I am the Master, but I am silenced before the world. 

Yes, love is a convenience that some allow themselves - at times - to justify otherwise ridiculous behaviour. Love of writing is no cure, as it drives one mad. Besides, people have seen me burn my own writing... and I can tell you that they burn quite nicely.

I have discussed this before, but, to repeat my conviction, I will tell you that education - the worst of all sins - has led us to believe that what one puts to pen and paper is of consequence or relevance. There are no more writers, there is no more creative passion other than destruction, and there is no cure.

All for which one should hope is not life, nor death - but merely peace. Even that is not my idea.

Kitaev

lonely, cold, and isolated.

Thought for th Day

The real writer is one
who really writes. Talent
is an invention like phlogiston
after the fact of fire.
Work is it's own cure. You have to
like it better than being loved.
-- Marge Piercy, For the young who want to
in The Moon Is Always Female.

Waves

The sounds of waves, rolling, alongside of this balcony remind me that there is no water where I find myself these days. I tell myself that this is in fact what I yearn for, yet the sound makes me afraid. I worry about the nature of such things, but not for too long. There is a feeling I get, every so often, that reminds me that I have yet to truly chart any kind of course. Not that all I've done so far has been ill conceived or reckless. It's as if I have been waiting. I find the analogy of longing to "wake up" tiresome; it supposes that I have not truly be at the helm for the majority of the trip, the navigation ordered in file and directive. Nonsense. If man has any sense of control, it is only control of the moment. Nothing else.

A decision, nevertheless, is now place squarely center-stage. It could not concern matters of the Dow Jones Industrial Average, the Obama Administration or the advent of the forthcoming decade less, that is not to say such things are inconsequential. Instead, it seems that a newer, fresher moment of opportunity is emerging--rooting it's way forth with vim and viger. I must not hesitate to seize such the very moment I am able to. We will not know, necessarily, it's shape or form, it's character or conscience. It matters not. All we need to do is fight that fear--the one that come when we see the moment for what she is--and press on because we simply cannot regress; that would be too depressing.

HBM Out
i'm not sleepy and there is no place i'm going to