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last---past---next---now
�2006 Candor Communications


2006-04-25 - 12:32 p.m.

islands in the stream of consciousness (isoc)


how many days can I fall behind before I'll acknowledge that I fell behind, well really I don't know because on one level I am always accepting that I am behind but on another level the rhythm of the rhyme keeps me feeling the flow is right on time

sing it:

how many days can I fall behind
before I'll acknowledge that I fell behind
well really I don't know because on one level
I am always accepting that I am behind
but on another level the rhythm of the rhyme
keeps me feeling the flow is right on time

yeah, well anyway, welcome to the rhythm of my mind as another entry begins (it takes a moment to step off the dance floor and focus on the prose because (the flying spaghetti monster only knows) there is always a party going on behind the eyes that gaze out at the world (but we must not let on for then all decorum could be gone and rare is the soul who enjoys losing control unless, of course, it's in the private of behind your closed doors and if that's where you're reading then never mind, lose all the control you can handle and enjoy every moment and what are you doing reading this anyway?)

perhaps focus is the wrong word (perhaps?) what we do is allow the prose to flow where it will go, so to speak, much like the hole you know, the one that he keeps fixing so the rain won't get in way back in the day before the day that everybody talks about today is it with deep regret that I must inform you that you've missed a lot and perhaps even sadder is you don't know what you've got do you appreciate the person you are and all you can be and all the lessons learned by living in a land where you are free or do you just take it for granted like the mass humanity gathering to ask someone else to do it and pretending not to see they are shirking their responsibility

isn't he a bit like you and me

the story begins with our hero playing dominoes with bullfrogs (though one must remember not to slam them down too hard or their spots smear and there goes the game unless a few more bullfrogs can be found) when suddenly reality slips it's semi-cogent head through the noose of my imagination and gets hung out to dry, but not before I am asked to compose a letter of recommendation for my dear Berry who is leaving for greener pastures (and hopefully much more professional sanity than we have here)

and before I continue to lose my mind in whatever stream of consciousness it might happen along (it's never too late, of course, but just as of course, never enough), I will wonder aloud about whether you know what you missed around here (which may interest you infinitely more than the sort of random nonsense you are about to read in this entry) in the previous entry, I may have laid the groundwork for my own eulogy (though it was hardly thought out and probably could do with major revisions when I am awake... unfortunately nobody noticed, so I didn't die... or was that fortunate, hmmmm) anyway, one day I will make a list of all the entries that received no comments (not even one) and we'll see if they were caught in the vacuum of mass uploading or whether they were just not worthy or wether they simply left us all speechless...

prior to the previous entry, we have a challenge for the current LAZY (oh, did my caps key get stuck?) lifestyle to which I have sort of become uncomfortably accustomed I really should read that one more often and start a cult around it, but a cult takes more than one person, doesn't it?... so if you'd like to join my cult of the waking up inside cuz we want to live (exclamation mark optional), please inquire within... like email or call or something... thanks...

stepping back one entry further we have the entry in which I did not introduce Lydia, the pride and joy of blogmad where you can (and eventually will) find everything you ever wanted in a blogging community and... actually chat with me in RealTime in a chat box or in private one on one (click the IRC link and then click my name on the right) and ask me the questions you always wanted to know but were afraid to ask in comments or notes... wow, huh?... or whatever, your call)... communication, I'm all about the conversation, remember?... well, I'm starting to remember, slowly, tentatively, trepidatiously at times, and it's dang exciting...

you really ought to take a week off work (a month, even), sit back in your most comfortable chair with a nice pitcher of your favorite beverage next to you and read through the archives because you would not believe what you've been missing and if you do venture back, don't forget to write letters, comments, notes, your autobiography, checks, money orders, Monopoly money, we accept anything here at casa de candoor where conversation is our middle name (just wake me up and remind me, ok?)

and if you like sappy rhymes, don't forget candora

and as cute as cutething can be in her infinite wisdom and piercing eyes and as haunting as hairplay can be with her bottomless pit eyes and as loving as the-moo can be with her amazing exuberance for life and love and chocolate, not to mention her precious laughing eyes (or nicim with a heart of hope and eyes of everlasting romance, so help me hissy, amen and awomen too), I am (or was, even) still only half-assed fantasizing in my best paper fantasies and sometimes get so lonely I even lose imaginary friends (oh get real already) and if I had any clarity left at all I'd remember where I left off and wake up to find I love where I left myself (and so many many many many many others yeah, go for it, baby)

but yes, as I clearly demonstrate in some entries here behind the candoor and especially in the lands of the mostly dead, in spite of being an incorrigibly stubborn child, there are those moments when the self-pity merry-go-round threatens to capture every wooden animal in site

but this is obviously not one of those times

no, this is one of those ridiculously egocentric moments when all the little wooden animals are set free to frolic in the fields of clover and daisies and daffodils and poppies and whatever imaginary plants your minds might come up with (hallucinogenic or psychotropic qualities optional) as we trade one illusion (poor-me) for another (I am the greatest) in our manic-depressive roller coaster ride between birth and death (or pre-birth and whatever comes next, depending on your ethereal perspective)

what, you may be asking yourself, is the point of such an entry as this? well, if I ever find out, I'll be sure to let you know and if you have a clue, please share it with me actually, I've heard rumours in the back of my mind that the pure frivolity and egocentric nature of this sort of mega-free associative mostly narcissistic egocentric selfish babbling is very therapeutic for the psyche and besides being exercise (which I certainly need inside and out), it is quite like a massage for the inter-cranial substances the proof of such theories (if the rumour is to be substantiated) is the gleeful grin spreading across the frontal portion of the cranial-container demonstrating some such positive energy flowing through the synapses (not to mention the distinct sensation of clearing sinuses and other cavities and tubes)

self-indulgence is essential to a healthy life (I firmly believe) and without getting too pornographic (or directing you to any one of libido's current flock of visual fantasies, since some of you apparently do not wish to be the inspiration for romantic passions or even innocent love songs in spite of your predilection for posting your pictures publicly {alliterate, are we?} and if nothing else, I shall respect your privacies or wishes as I understand them as you express them and remember:

the only way to be stalked {or carried away} by a stream of consciousness is to fall in

and if you can't swim I'll give you something to hang on to

so no worries, my dear readers who enjoy the work of the lustful muses, I also firmly believe that rejection of my literary creativity is but a fleeting expression of fear or misunderstanding and in time, everything changes and until then, I will continue along my merry way being ever so more obscure about who my flavor of the month might be this month so as not to be misunderstood as a stalker or pervert when I am not being one cuz then it would diminish the impact and effectiveness when I am being one)

wow, that was a long and winding multi-paragraph parentheses, aye?

I believe I was pondering what do you do when a muse refuses (wasn't there a movie about that? or was that about someone who refused a muse? the later, now that I think of it but what about when the muse refuses the musiness that the muse can inspire? how sad, it seems, when someone fears sweet dreams yeah, sweet dreams are made of this or is it these? anyway, I interrupt the original thought that began this entry {was there one?} with this other thought)

when you meet a muse that you like a lot and you fall in love but she loves you not, that's the way of love oh, you know who I mean (and no, I'm not telling cuz it's more fun to keep you guessing if you don't know who I mean and don't want to do your research and if a little mystery does not enhance the titillation factor for you, well, tough cuz it does for me and my the one and so it shall come to pass that you'll only know if you really want to and if you don't then you don't cuz you don't)

and then, in an equally obscure aspect of our cultural heritage, there is such a perfect composure between parent and child as one seduces the other with innocence and the other seduces the other with nurturing and neither acknowledges the sensory wonder of the bond they share, taking for granted that it is and was and will always be there

and oh for all the unrequited loves in our lives (or at least mine)

I was one, you were one, we were two so much in love together, I loved the white socks you wore, you don't wear white socks no more, now you're a woman yes, Mr. Bernie Taupin (lyricist for Sir Elton John), those words sent chills up and down and around my spinal cord and extremities for many years because they brought back the sweetest of memories, twice baked no less, and pressed between the pages of the space between the ages of innocence and consent and promises we always meant to keep but somehow never did and still they never broke and not a word was spoken (and the church bells all were broken)

lessons to be learned from this are numerous, but suffice to say that beauty is sometimes only skin deep and even the most doe-ish eyes can be blind to the venom of fears within so when the clowns come 'round collecting for the old clowns home, remember how a little make up can change someone's appearance so dramatically that their own mother could not recognize them, only god can make a tree god being, in this reference (and most others) an the imaginary being in the sky that George Carlin made famous shortly after he got through revising the seven words you can not say on television or the flying spaghetti monster or the universal energy that bonds and controls all things

or your favorite deity, for that matter I mean, you can proactively generate any explanation you wish for the time space continuum or the infinite layers of reality, but in the end you'll find it's all the same.. we either care or we don't and some simply don't and they start so young these days too, humping just about anything while feeling next to nothing, alas, sometimes I'd rather have a real doll rather than a phony human and as Dan Fogelberg said, someday they'll all understand at least there's always hope and until then, so many (most) will waist their youth pretending the truth is something they can sing about while deep inside where the run and hide they think truth's something they can live without and then they wonder why their world is so full of doubt passing gas with the devout

and that's what I did on my summer vacation bible camp, ma

meanwhile, in a completely different board room in my head, we spiral closer to wherever it is I was when this entry first started noting that the following has nothing to do with the preceding, cuz what it was/is was I decided that I wanted you all to love Lydia as much as I love Lydia so I left the entry in which I do not introduce Lydia up for an extra day or so and therein fell still further behind the times of days and dates and entry points into the cosmic spheres and trapezoids of chaotic rubble that later became the universe second removed and she finally gave in after they begged her to drop her shorts for seven solid hours (of course that was probably someone else too, as the names are changed and obscurity maintained to protect the innocent, sometimes)

and then, I return to be saved by Lydia (and the Moody Blues too, but that's yet another track on the soundtrack of my mind) yes, well, so anyway (seems I am going to get to this original thought sooner or later), Lydia had a song written just for her, but then I forgot to save the chat box so I'll have to re-write it someday when I am more awake and can remember with many thanks to Groucho and the writers, I ad-lib to the tune of the song of a similar name

Lydia oh Lydia oh have you met Lydia
Lydia the blogmad lady
customer service she can deliver
she's got skills that make us shiver

Lydia oh Lydia our dear darling Lydia
Lydia the one we all chase
she watches the shout box with such style and grace
people come running from all over the place
just to see her heart and her bright smiley face
we can learn a lot from Lydia

Lydia oh Lydia oh have you met Lydia
hotter than Sexy Sadie
she's the wonder of the ages
read all about it in her pages

Lydia oh Lydia our very own Lydia
Lydia the Queen of BlogMad
she manages trolls with the greatest of ease
and the rudest people end up saying please
when Lydia comes in they all drop to their knees
holy Goddess, that's our Lydia

give us Lydia we want Lydia
sweet deliverer we say Lydia!

I think it was better in the chat room, like you had to be there, but then, I had the one and only Lydia all to myself and how could anyone ask for more inspiration than that (I tease, I jest, I put her to the test, but the truth is she's a cut above the rest, so at last we must confess, the darling Lydia is the best and won't I get challenged on this one, already, time being ever so relative) and I suppose now Mjet and Thorton and Cat the other mods are gonna expect their very own song and dance routine blessed red ender, whatever have I gotten myself into?

oh yeah? well you only think you are laughing at me

I laughed first (and I hope the other laugher I hear is not just an echo) wow, that might be a profound parenthetic aside if I was more awake to notice it beyond fatigue, beyond giddy euphoria of sleep deprivation, beyond the twilight zone, there is another dimension of space and time where nothing is stable and outside of the rhyme and reason remains moot and logic's a crime and everyone has a chance for the sublime

two hours sleep yesterday

you see what happened was I got home from work and put on my shorts and sneakers (and even opened the front door, apparently, cuz Rasputin found it open some ten hours later when he got home and I was still sitting in the chair at the computer) and I sat down at the computer for some reason for a moment checking an important message about a secret mission from god, perhaps or looking for a comment that would provide inspiration to rock on

a couple of hours later I wake up slumped in the chair and start tapping the keys in blogmad IRC and some seven hours later Rasputin gets home (and finds the door open) and talks me into going out to the Chinese buffet (yes I know I was supposed to be going to bed I didn't lie, I was misled) and so I never did get any sleep except for that couple of hour nap from the morning slumped in the chair (not the big green chair you don't hear much about the big green chair anymore, do you? well, ever since the last laptop died and I moved to use the desktop as my primary computer, I don't sit in the big green chair much I wonder if it misses me as much as I miss it anyway, naps have not been the same)

and yesterday I almost got three hours sleep, I think the day before I got almost six hours sleep, which is probably why I was not that sleepy at home the last two days but now, quite suddenly, I am zombified there's stress in the breathing and strain in the heart muscle and I've had two three-hour soaked teabags and some Code Red and I'm still barely able to keep my eyes open (and had to pause this entry a couple of times to go walk and wake myself) and here we are at work, no less

so whatever was written already in this entry is excused due to lack of cognitive ability

except for the words about Lydia I meant every positive word about Lydia and the other mods too and all you fine people who come through blogmad and all you dear readers, especially dears who spread love as well as moo, who is a breath of fresh air and an inspiration every time read her words or see her smiling face when I win the lottery and build a big house where we all can live, her and her hubby will have the guest room right next to my wing and I also love the others among you who actually do read my entries even when several appear at once if you only knew how much I love you for that

we live in a world full of people who, for one reason or another, learned to be afraid to truly and openly show and share their love when we find someone who dares overcome the fear to actualize sharing love, we call them saint and say we are blessed by their love but people, it's the same love in us all and we are all capable of giving it, sharing it, and being as blessed

and it is on that note that I shall pause, for the point of everything we need to know to improve our species and better our lives and save the world is right there in those last few lines for all who care to see and understand so take care dear readers and friends, do not go quietly into the night but rise up above the walls to tell the story of the remembering, the victory of innocence over lies, love over fear, and truth over chocolate bunnies and boxes covered in pretty wrapping paper

mmmm, chocolate

we're all just islands in the stream of consciousness valiantly trying to believe in things we don't understand (and there's trouble) as we wait for someone or something to wash up on our shore






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