what becomes of the mind during the streams of consciousness entries (that some might claim holy and other might consider nonsense) can be pondered as a concept to fill many entries, however in this entry we present a couple of the recent streams left as comments for two of the lucky people (we may call them muses) who inspire such comment streams... for whatever it may be worth to you, here goes:

after many years of abandoning them my abs have abandoned me so pass the Doritos and cheese dip and chocolate whipped cream wafers and mousse cakes for all that is decadent about me has been swallowed by my mouth and I live to go to taste bud heaven where, I am told by those who encourage my belly, that Buddha awaits with a big grin and an even bigger vat of chocolate fudge dripping as sauce which is the path to contentment or nirvana in other philosophies and yet the gentle pull of hormones below my belly still call for other pleasures of the body outside of the mouth and masturbatory fantasy leads to longing for the wonder of sharing beyond taste bud heaven which brings me back down into the flesh and hunger for kissing and touching and rubbing envelopes me almost as much as the vat of chocolate fudge dripping sauce leading us back to the same old song and dance endlessly revolving around loneliness when the hunger to share grows out of my brain like antlers upon which no hat is hung and all I can do is lament and whine and sigh a lot and reach for another chocolate cr�me wafer and maybe some ice cream, again forgetting about how vital abs are to conscious awareness in the flesh and attractiveness for sexual interactions with those not wasting away toward suicide and I am awakened by the realization that the Buddha is a child hiding his penis under his belly and I wonder if that is where I am headed when suddenly the sound of brakes stop me in my tracks with laughter and shrieks of stupid boy stupid boy you could have been something if you only took the time and yourself more seriously but not in old age you will suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune for you squandered your fortune and potential for some baubles and uncontrolled generosity leaving you penniless and alone, the latter being the rub that chafes most harshly on the soul of the romantic who wishes to be something more than a prophet sage poet and all around good guy if only the television was not such a powerful force and self-pity was not such a soothing mistress perhaps the wallowing would not have lasted so long and the abs might still be around...

what did you dream?...

welcome to my nightmare Alice, no pill will help mother now unless it's something new and maybe I wanna new drug or a new machine cuz I wore out my welcome years ago on tapes 165 through 169 flying like eagles and shining like crazy diamonds and venturing into many unknowns and culminating in an excruciating crescendo on Abbey Road and even if her majesty was a nice girl she didn't have a lot to say and I rejected all the pomp and circumstance anyway which left me lonely, so lonely I could die and I can't tell the reason why I feel so wasted and I can't find my way home further compounding the foolish games I may still be playing in my head as I cannibalize my abs from within and take, nay, cut another little piece of my heart out baby baby can't you heart my hear beat oh baby love, sweet baby love, won't you be my, be my baby now...

and she still does not respond, probably because I am so ridiculously incoherent and lost in my chocolate wafer babble that only a mother could love from afar for just so long before even she throws up her hands and sends for the men in the white coats and I wonder why couldn't they be cute girls in white coats that are coming to take me away ha ha he he ho ho hey hey ha ha and maybe I should just run myself a calgon bath and some peppermint patties, knowing that a can of whipass is what I really need but I'll resist it from anyone but myself or the one who must be chosen by me even if it takes forever I will wait for her through a thousand summers and dreams and nightmares and wasted abless night...

but I don't want a cigar or to go far or to be waiting here behind blue eyes cuz nobody knows what it's like to be me...

so perhaps ken kesey or jack Keroac or alan ginsberg and others of that ilk are next on the drawing board of desperately seeking susan sontag or relief from boredom, whichever comes first, and lenny bruce or mort sahl and george carlin could amuse me in my darkest hours before Gavin Friday asks for another blow on the bruise and frank zappa recreates the mothers of invention for the fuggs and fire plugs and stone blank mugs staring intently at the cold glass aura surrounding the wishiin and hopin and dreamin I might still do if I really want to torture myself with F Scott Fitzgerald dreams and Albert Camus' The Stranger before I delve into the depths of Kierkegaard and Neitche and Sartre from whence there is No Exit as we enter the revolving door of Waiting For Godot and the record starts it's endless skip skip skip skip skip...

might as well read the Bible...

the Talmud, perhaps, for it came first, but nobody knows if it was the chicken or the egg for everyone sees and saw with their own eyes what they wanted to see and the strongest minds collectively decided what everyone else could see after they poked their eyes out with fear and threats of fire and brimstone and hell's bells, look at the time...

nothing to say, but it's ok... g'morning, g'morning...

and z0tl said...
only took 5.8 seconds for all that to cross from your brain into your fingers, eh?

and candoor said...
yes, I was feeling a bit run down and distracted, so it took longer than usual...

which was followed by a second stream that was inspired by a second muse and then related to the first in a comment that looked very much like this one:

I attempted to seduce her thusly:

"open quote"

the strangest thing about this internet experience, for me at least, is how impulse draws me to feel like I belong in someone's world, as if I am neglecting someone when I do not visit and interact on a daily basis... it's different from the romantic fall-in-love fantasy and way beyond the libido lust fantasy, it's like - wow, this person really says what I mean, this person is in my head and it's so comfortable I don't want them moving out - ever...

of course that could just be the odd vividness of my imagination (if I had any ambition left at all, I'd make a wonderful quixotic hero - or stalker, but on the comedy side cuz I don't take myself seriously enough to be consistently scary), but maybe you understand me as much as I think I understand you... if not, it's still a wonderful delusion, even if I don't invest much time and energy into it...

no offense intended, I mean, give me half a chance and a little encouragement and I'd surely fall in love with you enough to want to know everything there is to know about you in historic detail (and sit and listen until you actually tired of talking or writing, if that is possible)... but these long distance literary conversations are a bit too open ended for my irreverent anything's possible brain, so I wouldn't take the occasional love song you might inspire too seriously unless you really wanted to and then I'd ask why a few thousand times before saying, well, we'll see after we actually meet (but don't let that diminish any fantasies if you like fantasies, cuz I sure won't)...

just let me know if and when you think I've contradicted myself or wandered too far from any one point too much and you can only go "Huh?" (and if it's too late, oh well, you oughta know that's about par for the course for us multi-track minds types... maybe we'll get lucky and find each other again somewhere along the thought stream... well, I'd consider myself lucky if that happened, you might consider yourself lucky if it doesn't, but then, that could just be the insecurity hiding behind my self-deprecating humor talking... not that it hides well enough to even call it hiding, but...

so this feeling that we somehow emerged from the same cosmic egg, ethereally, not only lingers, but draws me closer to believing it (your seductive powers are quite amazing, as if you didn't know) and I've decided that I want you in my will when I write one... we're family, after all, even if I'm the only one who knows at the moment... hopefully I'll figure out exactly what I'll leave you before I die, otherwise you can choose... I trust you...

I am not sure if I am laughing at the absurdity or if my laughter comes from how much seriousness is woven into these words, but even though I think you might have two of the most irresistible doe-eyes ever when you are on hold before believing something, I still hope you're laughing too (in layers) cuz that might mean you understand even more than I do and have plans of your own (wow, scary thought, I've been a solitary babbler for a long time now)... maybe I'll send you a lock of hair to work some magic stuff or something...

if you only weren't 3000+ miles away, I'd drop a flower and my number in your mailbox and wait for you to call... of course I might wait forever, but it's not like I we have to be friends in this world, being from the same cosmic egg and all, we'll bump into each other eventually...

and I think it is time to wander off from this comment leaving anyone reading whether you actually know me or if they should buy you pepper spray and a big gun... just let me know if the controversy gets out of hand and I'll stop :)

"close quote"

at which point nothing happened because the comment never appeared where it was intended and now I am not sure if that is because I didn't send it or because she deleted it and without abs, I don't have the guts (wait, that's not right, without abs I have too much guts) to call her up and ask (her number would help, I suppose) and not even a private message will happen until I get a little sleep and think with more coherence than the babbling idjit I degenerate into when I am as sleep deprived as I am at the moment because I still have not cleared the chair and clothes and assorted other stuff off my bed from when I put all that stuff up on my bed when the people came to clean the carpet on Wednesday (and that would be more than a day or few in normal Earth time I suppose) so I am blathering (or is this blithering... judges, can we get a ruling?) incomprehensilly and just on the soft side of incoherently in the very least without malice or forethought because thought is beyond my grasp at the moment...

still, it turns me on...

. o O ( NOTES ARE THE NEW HAPPY PILL ) O o .
(just let me know you were here)