dear future baby momma

To all my future baby mommas

Constant love is the minimum.  Not in stated desire, but in act, word, tone, in deed, every encounter.  The sacred nature of that little person seed that grows within you cannot be overstated.  But your role, in its existence, is bittersweet indeed, if ego clouds the real.  What do you provide, survival, support, and sustenance-wise?  Healthy examination of immediate reality and unwavering belief in the best possible outcome of all possibilities is a good way to frame it.  I know you’re capable enough to create a perfect little heaven to get that kid on its feet in a healthy productive world.  We all make it that, every moment that we do.

Good trade.

I think our DNA would mix well, is all.  I’ll make you as happy as I can make you until all the rest of your boys make my life so completely unbearable that I have to love you from far away.  It’s all good.  I’m still here.  I forgive, I forgave, I have forgiven.  Myself, for those awful moods I brought upon you.  I didn’t plant them, I just ran into them along my weird little trailblazed path.  Bushwhacking, whatever.  I love you with all my heart.

Dear man man, everything is easy.  It’s also hard.  It’s whatever you let it be.  Don’t try to divert it to something unnatural, it won’t be forced.

A wise man (my uncle) once said to me something to the effect of: children do not belong to their parents.  They belong to the whole fucking world.  I think what he meant was that if you act like your child is your property, your matter to mold as you see fit, you will only distort and change what they are meant to be.  Don’t worry about this, your meta-role, because it will provide you and your kids with all the insights you can handle.  You’ll do fine.  Relax.  Breathe.  Thanks.

I was thinking about my kickstarter video again today.  I can’t believe I haven’t filmed that fucker yet.  wtf?  This version has me “air”-licking-my-finger-&-counting-out-cash, and explaining my sliding scale of what-I-would-do-with-the-money.  The concept is quite scalable.  Trade-sharing food production amongst ourselves, turning properties as small as a few square yards of old lawn to a pivot-irragated 1600 acre block, into productive permaculture and cooperative wildlife survival infrastructure.  Solar is top priority, but wind, water, magnets, cables, domes, databases, sensors, hinges, latches, shovels, rakes, pulaskis, rocks, and heaps of elbow grease all play a role.  You should be there.  It’s gonna be a party every day, and all night.  Whenever you’re ready.

Oh, so Global Research posted some good osama/al-quaeda info.  Not that any of the fucking tv addicted troglodytes that I’ve met irl care about that kind of thing.  If it ain’t on TV, it’s not good enough for them.  Hey, hate-mongers, thanks for enabling these corporations to continue advertising poisons to you and your children.  Way to go.

spaz.  Pfft. Whatever.  Hey, you keep me around as long as you think I’m good for you.  Far as I can tell, I am only ever good for people.  That’s why they gravitate to me.  The button pushers love the suitcase dirty bomb.  Love/hate.  Whatever.  In your twisted little love/hate dichotomy, as opposed to the real characterization of universal “love”, they’re the same thing.  They’re attentional aspects.  Projections of ego.  Contain/preserve or reform/refinish/revolve.  Honestly, what is the difference?  Love is not attaching to any one thing past immediate appreciation and thankfulness.  Yes, we fell in love many times again today.  Angels, everywhere.

Rummage sale was, I would say, a resounding success.  It was cold and rainy, we still have a hefty percentage of stuffs, but the stuffs that went, why they went to the correct people at the correct time with the proper intentions for/from the universe and all parties involved.  I saw, from my perch atop the porch, the license plate “TWB” and I said, aloud, “I recognize TWB!” and I walked off the porch, on the non-stair, 4-foot drop side.  My shoes hit the turf with a solid thump, and I compressed limbswise to absorb gravity. I stood, my high school English teacher and Forensics coach recognized me and offered a hug.  I took her up on it immediately.  Cautious optimism, I would say, is what she gave me in response to my plans/story.  It was off the cuff, in a sense.  She’s seen my poetry, so her standards matter.  No, whatever, ha ha.  I got a hug from Ms. Bonnell and you only got to hear about it from a different time zone.  Neener.

When the old man got back from his morning appointment and got out to relieve my rummage sailing shift (that, kids, is work), he brought food. Pepper chirps. Brb.

That dog is great.  She gets me outside, teaches me about composting poops, and takes her sweet time doing everything.  Granted, about all she does is that which is essential for survival, but that’s ok.  Navigating capitalist architecture requires a chaperone for the four-legged.  That’s ok.  Describing a process and criticizing it is not the same as condemning the people who do the thing.  Once a valid critique and viable alternative are offered, to cling to the old is to be the crazy person.  Again, that’s ok.  Temporary insanity ain’t just how they get away with murder on TV, it’s also a viable plea to the dictator to give his verbal synopsis of the present.  As with the rest, it’s open to re-characterization, but how often do you have to correct the dictator?

no, I think I seriously might have this: don’t be scared of words learn from them.  I don’t know what the lesson of this video is, but there is one.  Scout’s H.

Dude, is yer face gonna be permanently mangled?  That’s fuckin knarly!  Come here and gimmie a hug.  Do you got a girl friend, err, boi, whatever  you need.  Let’s find you a that.  Still attached, she dug in and said, “I found me a that” like I would sound to a kitty! I was all, “what are you doing for, umm, now?” and she was all, “being impregnated by my new eunuch, uhh, thing.” And I was all, “word. Don’t wait up, kids. I’ll see ya next week.”  My imaginator gave me that just now.  How weird is that? Pretty weird ‘cuz that’s not the real ending.  The real ending, I was all, “sweet.  Who’s that sorry chump. I’d hate to be thatguy.” So she started knowing on my lip.  Amen.

Ugh, how am I over gore grind already?  I love the band sounds, it’s the intro clips that hurt.  The voice sounds are fucking beautiful.  That growl.  Brutal.  I’m a percussionist snob, too, sorta.  Or, I have been, can be.  I like like who I, you know, like like.  What about that is unclear?

My new wiki site, upside down, led me to this. and this and this flashback humor.  Clever.

I secured a few more hours of employment up here, so my move is delayed yet another day.  So be it.

I love you.  I want to work with you.  Most importantly, I want you to be happy.


~ by LazyAssWasteoid on 2011-05-15 (Sunday).

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