Thought Eighty Eight

I am broken.

I walk through this world knowing that I am. There isn’t much I can do about this, but love the people around me in the ways that I can. For I am broken. Crazy, perhaps, broken, absolutely. I love Manya as if there is no tomorrow, for there is not. I accept the crazy stupidity that is me at times, for I know I am broken.

The dark gods that look at us and watch us impassionately know this to be true. Don’t destroy me for I am love. That is who I am in this and every other moment, but if you do, I will live in this moment forever. So say a prayer to whatever dark gods you pray too, I will beseech them as well. Walking along this dark path, we shall find things we never thought that we could dream and make them so. For we are the gods within our time.

Stay frosty my friends,



Thought Eighty Seven

My tribe.

What tribe do you belong to I wonder? When I was in the US Navy back in the eighties, I belonged to the tribe VAW123, the ScrewTops. As our boson,s mate called them, the “fucking dome heads”. I was in “first lieutenant”. The guys that cleaned the shitters, buffed the floors, that kind of stuff. Most sailors that joined a squadron spent three months or so there, then went to a shop. Airframes, power plants, etc.

Not me. Fuck that shit.

I decided to stay in “first lieutenant” as long as I could. I could buff the hell out of those floors. Cleaning shitters was like breathing to me. Then I started discovering the stencils I could make of the heavy cardboard material we used for making lettered stencils. I made images of our squadron planes.


The officers loved it and wanted that stenciled on their doors, Ivy stencils on the walls of their staterooms. I remember the officer that held the qualification of being a trombone major in college so he could learn how to fly an E2C Hawkeye. Jesus in a sidecar, the plumber was probably more qualified. I stayed there for a year rejecting anything that tried to get me to move.

In fact, I rejected the shit out of that squadron. I rejected them so hard, I was finally transferred to the ship’s company. Back then they called my group GSE (Ground Support Equipment), part of AIMD. Now I heard they dropped the “G”. Efficiency I guess. To much time and gods damned energy to say the full “GSE”. I loved working on that ship.

The USS America, CV66. A god’s damned carrier and the last of a dying breed. She still burned dinosaurs. A hundred an hours or so I think.  I was named a DCPO. I crawled through air ducts changing dirty filters. Did periodic maintenance on fire main, valves and hatches.

Good times.

After three and a half years aboard her sacred decks, I transferred to shore duty, A heretic to the last. Abandoned my post and saluted her amidship and aft once more. She was born on the year that I was, in 1963. Her keel laid and life among the endless waves begun. I, a young lass of dubious heritage and thoughtless countenance walked her decks for three and a half years of her long and storied life. I hope the echo’s of my footprints still tremble in her sea laden hull three hundred miles off the coast of Norfolk’s pier 12 at the bottom of the sea.

Fair winds and following seas…

That was my tribe back then. Until it wasn’t anymore. The world has moved on since then. It kind of makes you think, who is my tribe? How long will we gather to devour the others that threaten us so?

I wish I knew. Tribe or no tribe. The monsters, gods, and daemons await to slaughter us all. Our minds barely sentient and for only a few rarified moments when we are not consumed with sex, food, tv, etc. and other bullshit.

So I sit, writing to you who might read this and wonder, what foul mind is this that might write of this that indeed this way comes?

Perhaps a friend, known not yet.


Thought Eighty Six

What if we are already in a black hole. SKULL-alone-V2.jpg

All space and time are compressed into one and can never escape. We have the observable universe dancing around us in a never-ending cycle. All while our universe continues to uniformly expand at forty percent of the speed of light and scarily the speed is increasing. In our unescapable universe within this black hole, other black holes exist as per the majority of large galaxies. Black holes so massive that we can barely calculate their size.

And perhaps then within these black holes in the galaxies of our universe, once you cross the event horizon of one and go past the point of no return. Before the gravitational forces can twist and tear you into pieces, then compress you down infinitely. You reach the point where you can never escape and all of eternity passes you by. You find yourself in another universe that again continues to uniformly expand at forty percent of the speed of light and scarily the speed is increasing. In this unescapable universe within this particular black hole, that other black holes exist as per the majority of galaxies.

Then perhaps the universe that we started from, before we crossed another black hole’s event horizon and reached the point of no return. Perhaps that universe is itself is a black hole in another universe.

Circles within circles. Unending, interleaving the fabric of reality where we exist and don’t all at the same time.

Perhaps that is how we gods exist from one to another, at these scales and beyond. How we make up all that is and is still yet to come. The endless circle repeating over and over again. Across mythology and story, the same stories are told on a thousand million planets, worlds without end. When we reach the point where even the gods are reborn. Knowing not themselves, until they do or remember.

We wish we could when we would not.

We wish we did, but we don’t.

The river of sleep that all succumb to in it’s forgotten finality.

Ending and beginning. 

The story is written, unwritten and rewritten.

Until nothing remains, not even the memory of what once was…

Chapter 24, Scene 5 – Mongruxx: WolfPac (Copyright 2018)

Thought Eighty Five

I am finding it harder to care about things. My time means more to me than a possession.  What we subjectively experience as time passing by, doesn’t really, it’s just our experience of this subjective reality. How our brain filters out the bulk of the input overload from our eyes, skin, taste, smell, etc. and puts together a picture that we “experience”. Then, even that is affected by how our body may be reacting to being hungry or stressed, or if we feel depressed or happy even…

It is a big stinking mess. It’s hardly fair to even call us conscious at all. If that’s what we are. Maybe we have moments of it, between feeling anxiousness, hunger, feeling threatened, aroused, etc.

Only in those moments of clarity when our turbulent minds are calm and placid, do we perhaps experience consciousness. As we expand ourselves and reach out to be something else. Most of the time we are not much better than animals. Like feral pigs rooting around in the dirt, snarling and arguing. Feeling fear and regret. Flinching away from the pains that surround us. The word conscious is a Latin word, meaning being aware or knowing. We are aware of ourselves internally and externally. But most of that is either external stimuli or our own internal stimulus.

I have met many people over my life, that had very little internal awareness of themselves. That actively chose to be externally focused. With no inner life what so ever. Like alligators sitting in a bog looking for their next meal.

Or a duck perched in a tree, where ducks are not supposed to be, but that would be fine with me, if a duck chose a tree, to see what it could see while trying to be, as happy as a duck could be while sitting in a tree.


Thought Eighty Four

It is our story.

Your story and mine. Each of us individually. Sometimes together, sometimes not. But it is the story that matters. That is why we get so engrossed in TV, movies, Netflix, video games, books, and the Internet. But our story matters not, as much as the story overall.

This story of the expanding universe, the civilizations that rise and fall. Across a thousand billion planets of which we are one. Drifting, moving, across a universe that is expanding at 40% of the speed of light.

We want our story to matter. Linkedin is full of people telling everyone to follow their dream, work more and longer to achieve those same dreams. At a certain point, you begin to wonder if it is some self-masturbatory exercise. People lost in the smallness of their lives and “passions”. Our galaxy the “Milkyway” will crash into the Andromeda galaxy around 3.75 billion years from now. That is part of the story. Small among the thousand billion galaxies that exist. Humanity will in all likelihood be gone long before then without even relics or ruins to show that we were once here on this planet.

I sit here looking out over the golf course writing this. In the distance, I see a storm gathering. The blue jays’ flit and flutter, eating from the ground. The ducks gather wagging their tails performing their dance rite of spring. And my flickering moment of existence, as I sit in the cold with a cigar and a black cup of quickly cooling coffee.

My story is important only to me and I am slowly discovering that isn’t either. Not more than a nanosecond of light, as it travels forever onward until dissipating into nothingness.



Thought Eighty Three

Sitting in my garage this morning smoking a cigar, drinking coffee, and feeling grumpy, I realized something.

I like it.

I like feeling rough and raw. Unshaven, the burn of a cigar and strong black coffee. The endless black that reaches out before us as we hurtle through space at forty percent of the speed of light.

Bugs on a rock.

This time aware of what I am. Knowing what matters and sometimes hating this whole human condition. The balance of all that pulls at us. Emotions like waves that constantly threaten to crash us against the rocks. The opportunity to learn to balance it all. The existence of emotionality tied so strongly through our bodies that seek constantly to control us. The ability to use our minds and perhaps across a thousand billion lives become something more than the traps that are the gods and daemons.

The gods and daemons are traps.

Traps of emotions. Traps of becoming an emotion that only owns itself in an endless spiral of nothingness. Two-sided coins that take us nowhere. That’s what a lot of the daemons and gods may be. Perhaps some are more.

Our bodies are machines. Machines that are dedicated to processing food, water and air. A fair amount of our brain is used to run the machine that is us. Beyond that comes emotions and thought. Emotions are from part from the mind, but largely from the body. Because the body remembers.

Bugs on a rock.

Then there is the mind. Right back where we started from. Struggling to overcome the emotional body and all that encompasses. Wisdom comes from reflection on a life of experience.

I often find truth in interesting places. Watching “Blacklist” on Netflix, the protagonist Ray Reddington said, “Wisdom is wasted on the old”.  The young don’t want to hear it. So you end up shouting to an empty room. But in my thoughts, the room isn’t empty. I am in it. So perhaps the wisdom is wasted at all. Perhaps my enjoyment of this wisdom, what I have learned over my life and self reflection makes it all worthwhile to me.

Bugs on this rock. Traveling at forty percent of the speed of light.

And the speed is increasing…




Thought Eighty Two

I am a pilot in my own mind and emotions.

I didn’t feel like I am the sense of ”I am” more and more of the time this last week, but just a pilot of this collection of emotions, PTSD, and many other things that seem to make up this mental compilation of me. It feels scary at times, a series of white water rapids that threatens to spill me off into the raging torrent. 

I remember decades ago when it was just me. The world out of control, people ”doing” things to me. It wasn’t good. I felt helpless. The direction of life going where it would. Now it feels much more like riding a wave. Piloting the consciousness that is me, riding this wave. Riding it until it breaks gently against the shore. Or crashes into the rocks. 

Either one is fine, on the other side of the black.

The river of dreams that is the black. All of the things we can’t remember life to life. The immense burden of the weight of our histories across a thousand million lives in parallels of the endless realities branching out. Too much for one mind or not? I don’t really know. Perhaps instead it is learning to pilot the mind of this entity that we are. Then maybe we can ingest all of this at once the way the gods do.

eve6-v2_sharpness_1Coming back home, I feel reconnected back to my sweet loving wife, this my daily existence, work, etc. Still, it feels strange sitting here in my garage smoking a cigar and working on application issues with a group of people spread across the globe. In my mind, I build another model of application data flows as I have done so many times before. Like a temp table of a database, this too I shall dump once resolved. Eve6 plays “Small town trap” as I write this.

Changing gears:

Writing the characters in my novel is similar to piloting my consciousness, only maybe a bit harder. Inside my mind, it is a bit more like keeping yourself balanced while not being overwhelmed by the surge of emotions. The characters are all written by me.  They become like friends that you know and enjoy getting to know. Watching them change and grow, much like the people we love around us. But I do find it exhausting at times being in so many different heads. It kind of makes sense to me why so many novels have only a couple of main characters of protagonist and antagonist. But then life can be wearying. Why wouldn’t creating be also? Even in the Christian mythos god rested in the seventh day.