freakin synchronicity... or is that sinchronisity?... more likely, zynchronizity... so I head back to work after a rather hectic weekend of going to a Jesus-to-God real life Southern Baptist church to see a dinner mystery show (where, of course, nobody really did it, because it was all a big mistake... the good folk of Little House on the Prairie would be proud and then being sucked back into a vortex of time and corn-(as high as an elephant's eye, at least)-ball romantic tear-jerkiness by Precious's high school production of Carousel (and suddenly I was in high school again singing Never Walk Alone (in the time of Amy, the original and still the goddess of soulmates, and her court of could-be soulmates, when {and where} I learned the life-saving truth that there are multiple soulmates in this world even more sure than there are multiple universes)...

and we (at work, where we headed back to) get sprung on to stay a few hours extra for an unscheduled in-service training for Suicide Prevention... fuck me with a coin, Cidence (hey if fuck me Freddie can work for Stephen King, then the coin can work for me and Cidence... pass it along, or aloft, at least)... the universe is everywhere (oh really?) and the connections love to amaze the crap out of me (which is why I only use the virgin prunes in emergencies when I am strong enough (and dumb enough) to block the universe (what a shithead I become them)...

PLEASE NOTE: if anyone is offended by the adjectives or phrasology of this entry, take a chill pill will you?... the language is for communicating, not coddling... and some vizshius communicating be needed about herenow cuz a bruz (latin for bro, which is a colloqial slang abbreviation for brother, dontcha know) is contemplating tripping the rift without a net and disconnecting from the cord (you go see the flickershow Solaris and tell me what you think, or leave a Memento, at least) cuz sure enough the world ends every day and begins again in the next moment and if I were broken in da heart to the nth (which has been my case for a long time) then I'd cloze da book and face the final curtain and chapter our some closure so the heart could go on to a new net space where memories can be started over from da herenow and left behind like a period is as a memorialz.

In da year 2525, if man still be alive, would he still shuck and jive, anytime?...

and maybe that is exactly what I need most of all (like she said to the scarecrow, "I'm going to miss you most of all"... what?... to be brainless?... to find out everything I've ever needed was right here in my own back lot inside my head after all... that wishing my life was a non-stop celluloid movie show was a waste of time because it really is?... what was that Jim Carrey gig?... are we drifting a little further through the stars yet?... everybody needs a little seventh sojourn, sometimes... tenkyu very much Dean Martin and the Lemming Sisters for gracing our stage with your wonderful presents... but what if I don't want to go back to Oz?... and what if everything we know is wrong?...

no, not again...

that's when I revisit myself for a cool refreshing glass of hogwash in memory of Elizabeth Reed, the clarinet player, who garnished the loins of our manhood with splendor in the grass and the occasional black olives, virgin, of course... don't laugh, but she always thought the virgin olives were the ones without the pimentos... ok, so laugh, it was a long time ago... and then I went back to find da Z-man only to find Da Godz (or the gods) have spoken, which immediately prompted me to speak in tongues thusly:

zomigosh, we've gone and woke da gods (will da godz be next?)... I am looking for the DON'T PANIC button (because I am afraid if they botch Douglas Adams masterwork too much, I'll want to shoot myself... or at least the filmmakers)... maybe the film will actually be so good, we'll want to live to see the second book and third book and so on turned into celluloid gifts from the godz (now that's hopeful)... but my trepidation has foundation in the fact that I did not see any dudes with two heads in the trailers... could it be they don't want to be accused of immitating Men In Black?... I shudder to think of a Zaphod with one head... it would be as bad as being without a towel... almost... stop me before I drive off that cliff... DON'T PANIC.

sending out an SOS to the world won't someone come and my won't someone come and find my won't someone come and find my voice may be offkey, but right on sistah, broddah got no lack of sincerity...

you talking to me?

it was so sad,
the day the music died...

this time I'm saved by the music... saved by the songs we can sing...

you talking to me?

and then the DLand server ate a paragraph or few, demolishing whatever this entry might have been and so, we have what we have, with bitterness...

I remember returning to the moment for a moment and putting on music... I think it went something like this:

meanwhile, in RealTime� (relative to now), I put on Abbey Road again and I will sing a lullaby... in fact, I should consider sleep since I must work tonight and it is not easy to stay awake without sleep, especially since all I do at work these days is read and reading when sleep deprived is a wonderful sedative and what's all this reality creeping in here?... oh, it is not all illusion?... I was reading something or somewhere this next thought came into my head and I shall recompose myself the best I can to remember it went something like this...

Last night I was a man dreaming I was a butterfly... today, how do I know I am not a butterfly dreaming I am a man?...

once there was a way...

so as we blaze another entry long into the state of sleep deprivation, sending up flares for our fallen comrades and all ships at sea (and z0tls, mustn't forget the z0tls), I cross my eyes and pray to the goddess of lost hope and broken dreams for her precious gift of fading bitterness and time, for in time the pure love that was becomes the sweet memory and the smile can return... the bitter becomes bittersweet and the bittersweet becomes sweeter all the time... always with the sadness, but sweeter still... as Jane Oliver said, a Beautiful Sadness... she got what she wanted, she lost what she had... it is not just each man that kills the thing he loves... sometimes, the woman does the killing... all things equal... as profound as a knife in the back, as subtle as a brick to the forehead, as simple as a deletion from a favorites list...

it is amazing, sometimes (all the time if you know how to look), the things you can miss, in just a few days...

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