inquiry

Tall and stout, or so it always seemed. Ecstatic about the treat in his front pocket, my eyes always gleamed. Blue denim, cowboy shirts and bolo ties, Across the county you could spot this guy. A honk from the van and clear blue skies, We took that silly van from pow wows, to fairs, and even elephant rides. Laughing, smiling and always joking is the game, My Grandfather is the best, Cleatus is his name.

<mental note to try writing as though a specific, self-consistent (for the duration of a piece) character>

<mental note to try reading that way too>

<realization it's unlikely either will ever happen>

<realization I'll likely have forgotten about it all forever by this afternoon>

We take our medicine, and we take it together. We conform and normalize the expectations imposed on us by faceless corporations who offer money in exchange for hours of our lives, and we do so willingly understanding that refusing treatment is to refuse better outcomes in this market. The myth of the market society that embraces all individuals is a naked lie: and we lay with it every night.

And then we die. Yep.

I don't really believe in the “we” part of that, though – or at least not if that implies we're acting in some sort of intentional concert. I think it's more like wave collisions/interference: something seemingly wound it up, the unraveling being what seems to be happening from endless points of views (i.e. nexuses of consciousness pretending to be separate, individual selves).

I participated in a somber yet fun memorial for a local musician recently passed, last night.

The aforementioned “collisions/interference” was alive and well, there. I'm thinking particularly of how the deceased's sister – whom I'd never met – came running over to me after I waved to someone next to her, and started talking to me as though we knew each other, how she was so glad to see me, etc., etc.

But we took turns performing, and all was well. Especially the Jameson...

Partner and I hit some unhealth food and more drink upon returning home, which went on later than it should have in the context of having to work the next day. But there was just this incredible crisp, blustery autumn thing going on that proved an irresistible to serious drink/smoke-assisted contemplation.

I kind of just want to eat and type today. But there's a bunch of unborn code awaiting my midwifery in the dark amorphous not-yet-thought-erized consciousness murk.

So let us begin:

#!/usr/bin/env lua