The Left Column
autumn nowSept 23, 2017
dunt dun dunttt
blah blah blah blah Onward into the storied evening!
these can get you banned from school?!: 🔫 🚀 🚙🚤🚣c🍀⚜⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣🚣 🚣🚣🚣 🚀 🚀🔨🔨🔨⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣 🔨 🚙 🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣 ⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣
spinfont unicode-isms 🍀 Praise God! 🍀 🍀⏲⏱⏰⏲⏱🔫⏰⏰⏲⏱🔫⏰⏰🍀 🎠 🎠 🎠 🔫 🔨🔨 🍀 Praise God! 🍀
🚀 🚙🚤🚣c🍀⚜⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣🚣 🚣🚣🚣 🚀 🚀🔨🔨🔨⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣 🔨 🚙 🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣 ⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣 🖐🖐🖑 🖑🖐
Here is today's pretty poem:
forest river fountain park hillside walkway two weeks of gloom and rain . . .
🖐 🌙 🖑 🖑🌛 🌜🖐 🖐🖑
♥♥? Blathertational 🖐🖑 🖑🖐
glossary of what's next♥♥? :
Be nice to yourself and others. What other choice?
What we have done What we have failed to do.
♥♥ Praise ♥♥ the ♥♥ Lord ♥♥ !! end of column
The Message Column
The statues represent the children lead to fight for a failing cause Violence in the name of politics is political failure
Know-it-all-will-tell ya goes on about how in a healthy forest the low parts are always boggy and swampish in the wet season . . .
What is the purpose of finding? everyone ought to have an answer to this when they are looking. looking? looking for an answer? looking for an answer? what is the purpose of your answer? looking? just to find? if you don't know what you are looking for . . . then how do you know it when you find it? Obvously people know. Such confusion is merely a polemic. It's a bit. Some people fall into it. They get confused. They follow a 'cause'. Later on, those who promote such a cause dump them for rich foreigners who they bring in with great dreams of happy future and call you a racist for noticing. When there is enough for everyone why do some people still try to take it all for themselves?
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Oh tiny font nonsense, just because your letters are smaller doesn't mean you have some alternative importance.
Praise Praise Praise the the the Lord Lord Lord! for because Easter He's so awesome! welcome to The Message Column!
Is it obvious parody or News or both?
Vote Once One Vote here is a fresh link, a new path to some older content:
Kafka was a dillhole, Orwell was a submissive? depends on who you ask. . .
Tear down the ugly statues of your own delusions, stop the obcession with the dead past.
Sept. 1, 2017
delight in the delete.
Remember the Sultana!
April 27, 1865© 2016 © 2017 ©
Praise Praise Praise the the the Lord Lord Lord for his for his for his unfailing unfailing unfailing love! love! love! well, little else now.
The Right Column
Weather snowy, wet, and awful.
blah blah blah. Winter blues. At least we understand why we don't want to deal with the whining of wheels of progress.
You need some new bearings to deal with that constant whine. Please, see an emotional mechnanic and have your bearings removed.
That's me being a little bit on edge. There are rumors. These come from dark rooms. They got a whole collection of Hunter Thompson in there, the full set, Hells Angels to it was a good gig (did he write htat one?) but they don't have any lights in dare (there, in there) in dare to read em. Besides, they are all in their virtidome cubicicle extenders with their minds deep inside the hive vission plotting . . . for dubious purpose. How can they now acquire a collection of the complete works of Michael Hastings? If you could know al lthe blogs he had maybe ever posted as he ran forward, being chased by a plane in a Jimmy Stewart pose (Jesus Christ pose? AinC circa 1990).
No one cares. They've all got their heads up into what you might describe as . . . giant fat guys arsess, like it's a strophom thing, and they got umbillicles on them and there are giant harnasses above, and straps below, and everyone gets in the grove of their 'pow. pow. Pow pow.' inside the butt-gogs (that is whta they were, butt-gogs, their heads were deep inside their VR butt-gogs.
"We can plot from down in here, deep state of slumber, how to undo what is needing to be urged. . . "
"Wait a moment. Just a moment." asserts a dissenting conjecture. "You know nothing of the dialog between imaginary deep-butt spies inside their VR-Butt-gogs (TM)."
Someone else asks (an alternative conjecture?). and strangely in a Brit accent, like some famous actor. Or someone doing a bit like from Spinal Tap, which would make it somehow, but he isn't sure how (who he? the author?), that somehow makes it all more authentic. He thinks of just who he'd want to do the bit. Ah, but no. "If I read this line, like if I were, like if I were . . . reading a line from a play, do I say 'TM' at the end of it like it's written here?"
No alternative conjecture answers this phony question from the fake accented Hollywood comedic bit actor. They realize that it's a non starter. Crickets are almost heard except some learned MC shouts out "Moving on."
What was this scene? a new movie bit for some 'next major release?' No one has an answer.
He awakens from his bout of bad-play writing and wonders when the blues will break. They always do. It suddenly unimportant. He catches himself whistling. He cleans out a cluttered corner.
Winter blues. They aren't easy to shake. You catch yourself being angry in traffic. Stop yourself. Calm down. Take an unexpected nap. Rest instead of fretting with the messes in the corner of the room.
After you have rested then, having cleared your mind of all concerns, the solution to that mess in the corner, that part that needs to be improved, it will all make sense, just then. and without toomuch thought, and while you don't realize you are whistling, you solve the mess by some keen and quick rearraingment of material and of agenda. And thus the vexing problem no longer vexes.
Winter blues aren't always so easy to fix. Sometimes the snows of life bury us deep in our dispairing messy corner (that we should have cleaned up, perhaps, if we have had time before.)
After a long nap you don't remember the mess in the corner. You worry about something you'd left in the garage before the cold snap and next thing you know you're changing your brake rotors.
Next dayyou are too sore to do anything. But snow covers the walk and has to be removed. So you make yourself do it.
Winter blues aren't always so easy to cure. Got to clear the walk. Don't want the mailman slipping. Got to clear the snow. Don't want to get caught needing to go out and I'm still buryied in.
Gotta go out, it's 3:30 AM, and blow snow with the snow blower. He was crazed then. the days of blizzard had finally made him snap. He's raising up his snow shovel at the plow driver at 4:00A.M. and screaming curses, babies are now crying up and down the street and this is the sadest nervous morning howling fool moments he's seen out his window, woken up by a riled neighbor cursing a plow.
Winter blues are not easy to shake. But at least I understand what they are now, so I know how to live through it. Worst is to let anyone know you have it. Or to give up on the chores that need to get done, as tedious as it gets day to day.
Ya, Winter blues. It's got to be the weather, right? It's not the chilly way that some partisans won't stop with their internacine fueds.
Winter blues. get over it. Its the same thing every season. We all know how these things play out. The warmth and the light, the right and the just, they are our odds on favorites. And even if it seems that all is lost, we know who is on our side. Whatever comes we shall endore.
OK, ya, I tried it. Political grandstanding. We shall over come. Ya. That does not solve the Winter Blues.
We can try and be playful, as if I'm talking about the various shades of blue. But we all know that I mean our general moods. So we can't solve the blues through clever turns of words.
It is quite possible that some people don't ever get to that place of the great sadness. They don't have the blues. Or, if they do, they don't share them with me. Or I'm blind to their sadness. I assume that later. My blindness is to their sadness. I don't see how they could be blue because I don't know them and thus have little chance of understanding them.
As soon as the sun breaks through the clouds, and the wind is warm and the smell of the melt is upon the fields, we all break out of our little boy blues and we go on our Springtime romping. Can we expect that some time soon? Well, it's February now. April is only two months from now. And crocus's are sometimes here first week of March (in a warm year).6:28 PM February 15, 2017
Blender is awesome, Open Source, and well supported. Check it out!
In an age of exceptional propaganda it's best to fall back on the tried and true.
🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛
Buddy doesn't know what the song means anyway He kinda hopes it's something really cool He learned to sing it just from the sound of phrase it's not something that they taught him in school.
🌛 Wind Rain Mist Snow
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Live your life in constant resurrection! ⏲⏱⏰⏲⏱⏰⏰⏲⏱⏰⏰ ~ ; )
Praise the Lord!
I got nothing more
Poem Shards Eulogy I met him in the fog of war after he was already dead his visage in videos speaking dread and how the public is mislead. If only I could have known you before you gave up the ghost to haunt the crossing ferry off to places unknown, an undiscovered . . . virtue. A new country! A new type of people who respect the things that work that ferry churning through the fogs and mists and dank smelling out-gassings of these many foul rethorics spewed plausible no one knows who is sure? Which shore does your ferry pull up to to let out the ghost, so the story goes, the one that gets told . . . better be one that people can hear when their kids are there outside the house at the top of the stair. She can't hear that story if he is but a ghost now she knew him he was her friend and told her how he had been destroyed, remorsed, fallowed, wasted, lost abandoned on the battlefield of soul blow up your fallacies, this war needs to be taken way down inside those dark-thought places where hate channels freely destroy the hate by sending it off to unthought rhyme unspoken words unkind unthought hate. We try not to think of it, what the plausible story can be he's off on that Platsburgh ferry a shroud of fog the mists and fowl outgassings must some how be endured one last time to say good bye, come back to me come back to me you friend now gone and lost never known all hopes of how to write this story . . . his story . . . if he had asked me . . . I'd start the book: "He faked his death to escape . . ." from Unipoems She asked " If you get across can you take this to the King of Nowhere and tell him, plead to him to think of her and the way that she needs him? but he won't come home so she goes out looking for him went down to The Flatiron Building asking anyone wrote a card mailed it home. I imagine her collapsed on a bench people shuffle through she feels the lonely loss why won't he come home? I imagine her. She wrote it like that on her card. But it was all for sympathy, just an expression of her drama and she felt lost because of it and didn't know how to proceed the tricks didn't work with him he'd gotten willful, run off with a different girl who doesn't go to church. Hear the steam whistle of an approaching ferry turning to make a smooth connect. Moving back from the railing and the ropes she notes the impatience of the people at the dock and how the other women really like to talk. the crowd rushes forward have your nickel ready she gets swept along now she is way out there in the ferry out past the jetty. Ferry to Red Bank 1906 🚦 🚧 🚨 🚩 🚪 🚫 🚬 🚭 🚮 🚯 🚰 🚱 🚲 🌛 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌙 🌚 🌛 🌜 🌝. 🚤 🚥 sometimes there is beauty within the fragments . . . 🌜🌜🌜🌝🌛🌛🌛 Sprongg . . . onng . . . ongg ga Her tired morning seems more like poetry than anything you can find on a blog. Bark Bark. Bark Bark. Tree Bark Bark. Bark Bark. Dog 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌙 🌚 🌛 🌜 🌝. 🚤 🚥 Woof and woe🌝 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌙 🌚 🌛 🌜 🌝. 🚤 🚥
who da thought?thought is sequential the end of it is never flood on, river of wise neglect let the bough break let the wind blow removed the baby from that cradle long ago and took him somewhere safe. Thought is over rated when it's thought for being mean to be mean being mean what you mean when you are mean when you 'mean what you say'. Memory is overrated there is joy in the person even when they don't know who you are anymore they still love you they usually don't forget that they love you usually. It was cold that day he'd driven all the way there and plodded through the snow to face the sorrow of his loved-one who didn't remember him but thought him to be someone else as thwarted. Memory is overrated when it's hard hurt of past tragedy as if it happened yesterday from the long ago. Bill Perilli, writer of all of the things on this blog. 🌜🌜🌜🌝🌛🌛🌛
What does one do with old software books? I'm packing them into bankers boxes. I'm going to stack them against a wall. Some of them were very useful. It serves no purpose to throw these away. Some of them are still useful, though it's easier to do it on line now.
May 10, 2017
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