I called him a polymath farmer. Sculptor. Athlete. Slob. Heh. Yeah, well, not forever. I see him as blissful, heading up a Prairie School with a partner who’s far closer to his age than he ever thought would be appropriate. They’re ultra-productive. They’re surrounded by kids, their own and their helpers, co-owners, and survival-oriented present-life-mates. Symbiotic co survival.
Now he’s publicly engaging in conversation with local officials, calling them out on the technical aspects, establishing his own brand of authority. Nobody will deny your expertise, dude. They see the wares. Go find the girl so you can get on with your life.
Not being an organized person is no hindrance to organization when teaching outsiders how to duplicate processes moves forward. The path to excellence is not static.
I have a copilot of increasing volume.
Cut through the bullshit. Calling other parties insulting names, or using insulting tone while explaining plain facts is of no use to anyone. Your opinion about the state of affairs is red tape. What do you see? Convey relevant information and move on. Your addiction to stressed timbres in conversation mummifies everyone with red tape. Speaker included. Your position is not your worth. Use your worth to extract public benefit from your position. Believe in the expertise of those who have the balls to look you in the eyes and tell you exactly what they think. Hire them.
So, are you afraid I’ll “like” everything, or that all your other boys could get jealous? Or, do your political aspirations transcend admitting publicly that you and I have shared hours of conversation before. It’s my fault, for getting on facebook. Only there is there any limitation to my ability to communicate with you, like you, or holler out over the rooftops how much I love you. Know this, when you decide to be my friend again, I’ll be right there, back up to speed in moments, and as in love with you as I have ever been. It wasn’t a bad thing last time, was it? I know I push. I want forward progress. This is my karma, and I relish every moment.
I need a fucking crew. I need a personal assistant or ten. Sometimes you’ll be sucking my dick, sometimes your beautiful little vagina will be receiving my cock, sometimes you’ll be doing internet research and design work, and sometimes you’ll be pulling weeds in the garden, cooking, emptying the composting toilet, designing a new composting toilet that doesn’t have to be “emptied,” and helping raise our kids and pets. What else?
Harems are hierarchical. I figure eventually, I won’t be the only cock there. I never am. Those fuckers are everywhere! I see through ‘em, and they get out of the way soon enough, though. No “man’s world” is ever going to give me any legitimacy. Fuck ‘em.
Open (the pathway to) Source. Sweetheart, here’s how I think. So, my “friend” was criticizing me about thinking or being willing to fuck someone’s “mother.” I said, “mom’s need lovin’, too.” Amen. Just because I’m a slut doesn’t mean I’m not a discriminating slut. I want anyone who wants me, likes making me happy, and doesn’t stress about petty shit. Sometimes I’m the petty shit. Less often, but still, it happens. The most effective way to disconnect from verbal hooks is to leave. No, critical words are abuse, not constructive. Your lack of understanding does not warrant filling my ears and precious moments with jealous, hateful, derisive speeches.
The polymath knows the depressive concussion of harsh swears directed at the ether. Paralysis. It doesn’t matter who you’re yelling at, does it. Everything freezes. It hurts. Collectively, there’s a sting. The less sensitive of you, insulated with resultant excesses of your hate and fear, barely feel this tinge any more, many of you laugh at it. Laughing is always a step in the right direction.
I savor the touch of your hands. There are fewer more immediate or effective methods of creating a comfortable and cooperative solution that skin-to-skin contact. Fuck it, hugs all around. Hand hugs work too. I’ve had some overtly sexual hand/hand interactions. Well, once. That time we didn’t. Old habits die.
The reconnections of the coop-ish thing that used to exist at the end of the road I grew up on have been reactivated, as the old folks start to realize that lawns are an analogy of the rich for their many acres of growing food, the resources of the planet. Then they look again and their actual lawns are consumers of poisonous liquid which costs of gold. But their bodies are old and frail and tired and fat from consuming this poison. They look daily to their god for answers, but it sends them in the same meaning/direction-less circles. So they search for more experts to tell them how to fix healthcare and unemployment and the mindless cruelty of poisoned minds. The poor spend their last few dollars on more liquid energy to occupy a space designed for the “management” of such masses of nonviolent “do”-“good”ers. There’s a half-hearted orgiastic display of “how the world could be, if only these other people would…” until they realize these other “people” have never had any interest in listening. They’re not even looking at you. Ha ha. Now you know how short guys feel, or tall girls, or weirdos, or geniuses, or exceptionally proportionally normal or unique, or bald, or young, or broke, or homeless. Fuck you. You are this wasteful society of hate, you fucking assholes. You are the ones who promote the agendas, first in your very “job duties” and then by chanting and fist-shaking and then eating at corporate restaurants. Go back to your tv-viewing and lawn-mowing ways. Quit polluting the air of my beloved city more than these fucking politicians already pollute it. The funny thing is, you could take that very building away and they’d still do the same evil they’ve always done. Am I talking about the state or the “national” level? Yes.
Here’s the thing about my babbling, though. I don’t demand your time when I do it. Take it in at your leisure. Get back to me when you’ve thought through it as much as you need to. I’m doing better in my current state than you could possibly imagine. (I’ve found, you can find) Happiness in slavery.
For someone who claims to not understand the written word, he sure spends a lot of time reading political websites. Every time I walk by, it’s “the news” of the man. It’s no wonder patriarchal systems still exist on this planet. You keep feeding ‘em like that.
I’m headed out to take some woodwork to a gallery. Wish me luck! (3:13 pm)
Ok, here’s what I found out, for this particular gallery. $30 and less is good. Sets, especially choose-your-own sets, good.
YouTube is publishing playlist additions to the feed again. I can’t decide where to put this. I should tweet this stream, huh? Love. I re-do my channel to accommodate and it switches back. Why the fuck can’t I choose “add video to playlist” as a publishable activity to my feed? That’s stupid, YouTube. Why can’t you add the feature rather than turning it on and off inadvertently.
As it simultaneously chuckled and rolled its eyes, it thought, “what, sometimes you just gotta throw a *narf* at the end of a tweet.” Nerd. This might be my favorite page on the internet. I visit often.
Next day, 2 min to 1 pm.
I dreamt I was physically a girl last night. My first urge was to masturbate. What? Female orgasms are already one of my favorite things, and I’m jealous of the equipment. I don’t remember climax, but I woke up hard. Yes, I’ve learned to enjoy my morning wood without rubbing one out, too. Don’t get me wrong; I’d prefer to be woken up by a blow job every morning. If you’re gonna have five orgasms a day every day, you gotta start some time. No, I think that’s optimal, not excessive. Get over it. That’s why you have a coop. Someone will get it done, whether you want to do it or not. One of the many reasons, you could say.
The shop is calling. Pyramids to be made.
I only talk shit about my family. I have only family. I talk shit about everyone who is “doing” shit.
I’ve been integrating Abraham’s teachings since I can remember (well before I could call them that). They’ve been tough to put into words, but they’re making their way. My life seems a process of getting into and then being knocked out of the vortex. The cruel society rewards the knockers. I’ve never understood that.
Fend for yourself, show ‘em the handshake. He’ll recognize me by my handshake when we meet again. We just needed water, bro. Thanks for that. We all got electrocuted that night. Probably shoulda died, but were having too much fun to care. Heaven is a mosh pit.
Hyper-awareness, that’s what is required. Nano-agility and juggernaut strength. Smart-liquid-metal, organic parallel process sing. Rooted sellars, blades in the clouds, mirrors lenses, and prisms put sunny photon waves every place they/we needs growin’. You are all my brothers. You are all my sisters.
HEY. HAAYYYY!!! HEAR YE, HEAR YE, ALL WITHIN EARSHOT! LISTEN THE FUCK UP! The new era is upon us. Your present leaders look and sound nothing like your leaders of the past. Your present leaders want entirely different actions out of you than your leaders of the past. They want you to do for all. Ask not. Period. Listen, experience, and absorb the ways of speaking that neither hinder nor impede, but encourage, teach, and make healthy. Spread love, fellow humans.
My slave name is Tyler Tavy Kelm Mertes. I was born on the ninth day of the ninth month of 1976 at 1:43 in the afternoon atWausauSouthHospital. Ever since, I have been preparing for this very moment, this act. The mass is here. The network is here. The willpower is here. Your attention on this one place, this one building, this one group of actors of highly limited directive, has served multiple purposes, and for that, as with all acts which are driven out of a desire to do better for yourself or the world, are good and holy things. So, learn. Listen. Talk one-on-one with the strangest people you can find until they’re no longer strangers. It shouldn’t take too long, brother. Little sister, my opinion of you is way too high to expect you to stand next to a no account drifter like myself. Let’s find you a couple of fresh little man-meats to dote on you for a while. They act up, swing by me. State executioner, at your service. Hey, if full consensus says they’re better off dead, I will carry out your will.
Call me t or tt, the engine of dirt. I’m over-under-educated, who the fuck cares if I ever get paid. And the goal, as here stated, rock stardom be damned, is getting you laid.
I wish you love, light, laughter, libido, lucidity, and as many licks as it takes.
p.s. follow-up on the D. Swearing is helpful, for you. As it is for me. Still, I think tone and direction of the swears determines all. Don’t dead-end ‘em. All is not lost. Let’s just go to the next easy solution. If you want to lead, you have to understand when and why to follow. You’re eloquent. But you pick fights with inanimate objects or expect people to be things other than they are. Being the veggie zen authority is tied up with your ability to share your property with your pupils. Let them clean if you can’t. They won’t care why. We love you, but you’re a big, powerful personality with a booming voice and the strength of ten mortal men. You, as every other farmer I know, control and work more square footage of soil than any one should be expected to shoulder alone. And, as most farmers I know don’t spend enough of their time engaged in repair and fabrication of their equipment, their organization of workspace is not optimal. We can help with that, too. If you want me to love “your” tractor as my own, it has to be my own, when I’m working on it. Just because you fell into a sweet little situation doesn’t mean you have to be the only one to enjoy scampering around that little slice of heaven on your dirt Ferrari. We have use of that badboy in other zip codes.
p.p.s. I tweeted once that I assume, when you stop tweeting or starring, that your life is wonderful and beautiful and you’re getting laid like the beautiful rock start that you are. I assume the same when you’re not IMing me, and when you do make contact, my job is to make you fitter, happier, more productive feeling. If I can’t vortex you, you can.