yeah, hotmail is down this morning. woohoo!!! no emails for me!
oh, except that work thing. ok, let’s ditch that for a few minutes ~ so then, what’s on order for “time-wasters anonymous” today?
well, i know there’s a lot of biker gab to catch up on. and, if i ever do make any scratch off this site, well then … maybe i’ll dedicate more of my time to that gig. But, i’ve got to tell you folks … there’s a lot of pro-bono schleppin’ that gets done around these parts.
so it goes.
Which leads me to … need of exploration elsewhere ~ because sometimes the bike is not enough.
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As we know from the BummerLife crowd … there is (and always has been) a rebellion against the . . . conditioned aesthetic. You know ~ this idear that we are programmable machines … built and spec’d to desire a certain way, desire certain things … find beauty in the certain shiny items we are asked/told to buy.
Personally, i am a huge fan of beauty. However, i’m afraid i opted out of my lease with the programmers a fair bit early on in life. i mean, i admire the effort and persistence those programmers put forth in trying to pin down every aspect and sellable element of “beauty.” It’s just that … well, the programmers are limited by their language, their parameters, their goals.
And so, there are those who jump the grid, exit the matrix, hack the code and piss the programmers off by exploring … the anti-aesthetic … so that they may define for themselves what beauty is ~ to them, at that exact moment in time.
… we’re talkin’ about growing ‘staches the size and consistency of rain forest cattypillars. we’re talkin’ about the prize of the deformed, the sideways clarity of the isolated, the purity in being beat down by the act of opening your eyes to the world
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For those long-time readers, you’ve suffered through ramblings, long and hard, about how i choose to enjoy life the best i can …
to plop down on the ground, staring with continued and warming surprise at the indecipherable scurry-work of ants.
to wade through the caucaphonied crowds of man, in search of those drowned out voices that wilt and wail against the shouldered constraints pressing upon them.
to pass hands gently over forgotten petals – small and pert in their fadingly glorious flowering.
to … suck it all in.
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i’m outta here.
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