I HAVE NO SENSE OF HUMOR

AT THIS TIME, I HAVE NO SENSE OF HUMOR. I AM AN ANGRY NOVELIST NOW AND I AM EMOTIONALLY RETARDED. I AM IN THE MIDST OF ANOTHER PROJECT DUE TO THE TRAGIC CIRCUMSTANCES OF MY MORTAL FAILURES. I HAVE COMMITTED TO FINISHING TWO AND A HALF ROMANCE NOVELS ABOUT KILLERS IN THE MOUNTAINS AND MYSTERIOUS LOVE AFFAIRS WITH MOUNTAIN LIONS COULD IT BE HER? THE ARISTOCRATIC AUTOCRAT BITCH WIFE? OR THE ECCENTRIC MUSHROOM PICKER NATIVE MOUNTAIN TOWN DRUNK AND LOSER? I AM BEING PAID A LARGE SUM OF AMERICAN MONEY AND WILL THEN GO OFF TO FRANCE TO STUDY WOMEN WITH HAIRY LEGS AND ARMPITS, BORDELLOS, BIDETS, AND ART. UPON MY RETURN, I SHALL RESUME MY POSITION AND RESPONSIBILITY INTENDED FOR THIS BLAHG BLAH BLAH BLOG. IN ITS OWN TIME. GOD HAS SPOKEN. I AM GOING TO BE RICH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Swamp: A Nice Town (I)

The swamp. A nice town. The marshes. The stagnant. Swamp. In a nice town. Beset by marshes. Stagnant. The smell of it bubbling in the humidity. Hot, wet, summer. Beaches. There too, are beaches. Commingling, stagnant, low tide especially: smells overwhelmingly rotten. And there are hideous creatures that are born and bred, also overwhelmingly rotten. But, but. But, add mutated to the hideousness and rottenness. I have seen them. Well, one or two at the very least. Snapping turtles with three eyes and rat's tails. I watched one partially devour my neighbor's orange and white calico cat. I forget the cat's name. That is not the point. The point is the ugliness and  brutality of these snapping turtles with three eyes and rat's tails: they made me very angry. Of course, this anger stemmed from a deep depression which had its bearings on me already at age of four. I am now eight multiplied by four which is thirty-two plus two equals thirty-four (I am a self taught individual and have defended my greater intellect against the educational system which was/is also stagnant and reeked/reeks of the enablement of a festering condition commonly known by myself as arrested development of the brain). I wanted to smite this ugly, brutal, creature as it feasted on that poor calico cat, with a large boulder. But, what good would that do? The cat was already half dead. These creatures bred like termites in a timber house. My cats. All of them suffered the same fate. To the swamps they were compelled to go. And they never came back. They never will. The good thing is that I have developed a deep spiritual connection with Rabbits. Bunny rabbits. Actually, I have always had this connection with bunny rabbits since I first saw "Watership Down" on television at the age of three. It is based on a book written by Richard Adams. I believe one of the first complete sentences I uttered was this: "The fields are covered with blood." Anyhow, my bunny rabbits enjoy their God given gift of freedom-they should. I do not keep them locked in a cage. Outdoors they have harness and leash. One has her own seat next to me when I read outdoors in summer under a large umbrella. The point is this: under my care, they will never be devoured nor disappear. The swamps and its mutants have receded into my past and I will no longer suffer the trauma of disappearances and deaths of my loved ones. Loved ones gone astray. To swamps and mutants. Its curse is at bay. My rabbits don't have the curiosity killed the cat syndrome. They're too smart for that. Anyhow....

JUST BETWEEN US or AS WE GET TO KNOW EACH OTHER

Intimacy. I am going to be intimate. Again. I have no reservations about being intimate. Verbally. Verbal intimacy, or rather, in this case, more like epistolic intimacy. Being intimate, for me, has always been, by and large, a facet, among many, of my nature. Oh and commas. ,,,,,,,,,,,. Some people, always to my naive disbelief, become very uncomfortable when I am intimate. Verbally and epistolically. Neologisms are also a specialty of mine: Ne·ol·o·gism [nee-ol-uh-jiz-uhm]-noun a new word, meaning, usage, or phrase; the introduction or use of new words or new senses of existing words.
      Quite simply, I advise you to run amongst yourselves to the hills of the uncomfortable, uncommunicative, non-intimates if that be your personal handling of reading, hearing, seeing things intimate. I say GO! Or, perhaps you are in the closet with intimacy; a closet-intimate-peeping tom peeping clandestinely and concealing your identification. If you indeed prefer intimacy, but only hush-hush, I say "KNOCK YOURSELF OUT." 
       This here is a prelude to my autobiographically uncomfortable and intimately revealing portrait of my life. Past. Present. And, at times, glimpses into my not-yet-existing future. I have added, way at the bottom of my blog, Prolokiev's musical score "Peter and the Wolf." I have found this piece of instrumentation appropriate for the soundtrack of my autobiographical pieces. I insist you play it, even if just once, while reading something I have written, blatantly about myself, For instance: "The Swamp: A Nice Town" pairs up perfectly with this musical selection. You might even be interested to know that I also invent monologues accompanied with sound and have already tailored this piece by Prolokiev to suit the aura of my not-yet-finished monologue. But, later....later.
       I must also give you a heads up on a condition, congenital, that I have. It is a condition opposite to a saying you may be familiar with called "RESTRAINT OF PEN AND TONGUE." First of all, when my pen starts writing, or my fingers start typing, I cannot control them. This is not a fault. It is a condition. Conditions are more forgivable than faults. I did not intend my condition. No one intends conditions. Faults are strictly a result of bad conscious choices or endeavors. 
       Tact is an art-form. I can perfect it as an actor perfects that which he or she is not (if they are genuine good quality actors). But, it is unnatural to me and naturally I have not been graced in my nature with the art of tact. Also, I am not a starving writer. But, I cannot afford lids. Therefore, I cannot put a lid on IT. I do, however, accept donations (via email) in order that I can afford a lid. If you feel so inclined to suggest I "PUT A LID ON IT" my email address is: awfullyloud@ymail.com. This suggestion, I'm afraid, will cost you. At your expense it may be well worth the cost. 
        Sadly, I live in a capitalist society. Sadly, I cannot escape the curse of capitalism under the condition that I live in a capitalist society. I am a capitalist. Most do not like to admit this. Especially if their political slant be ideally slanted or immersed in the leftist-left-leftiest-left-wing-liberal philosophy. My sense of direction is terminally amuck. I know neither left from right or right from left. I find truth, not much so, in either direction. Being terminally deficient of direction, I tend towards that of truth. This, however, is more burdensome than my terminally amuck sense of direction. 
         The truth hides. It hides in the arena of neither left nor right. It is a son-of-a-bitch to pin down. When I seek truth it usually involves a search requiring a pack of rations suited for the length of time it takes to go fishing for truth. Truth is tricky. It hides between the lines. It is many, many, eons underwater and rubbish. Sometimes, I admit, I fail to find truth because I am not much of a scuba-diver and there is only so much I can take of digging through rubbish. Sometimes, as a result of searching for the truth, I collapse,,,,,,,,,,,,exhausted. I end up bedridden for days. I get nothing done. Therefore, in my case, personal conquest supersedes the search for truth. My personal conquest without a lid.
          Lastly, at last, and I am sure you are already exhausted with this "JUST BETWEEN US" business, I must discuss with you my HIBERNATION PERIODS. There will be times when my blog is overflowing with a deluge of posts (s) (s) (s). These deluges can exist over a period of one day, days, weeks.....and then....nothing. Why nothing? Has she thrown in the towel? Has she abandoned the written word altogether? Common questions concerning nothing. Never. I ask you. Never fear. My lack of output may, like the temperamental deluges, last a day, a week, rarely a month, but, sometimes, yes. I can assure you that when this happens, it is only temporary. Circumstantial. Circumstances that fall under the power of nature. Hibernation is quite natural. It is not a thing restricted to the lives of bears. The difference between me hibernating and a bear hibernating is this: during my hibernations many supernatural and cerebral metamorphoses are taking place. My body becomes inert. My physical and physiological composition goes into survival mode. When my mental faculties are in overdrive, my physical faculties react best by shutting down in order that my mental overdrive be supplied with all the energy it needs to keep from overheating and/or erupting. A simple translation: my body shuts down so that the neurons in my brain that control my body can limit their focus to keeping my head from blowing off. Multi-tasking neurons under stress can result in permanent damage and/or death. This may sound to you abominable, but it is actually very pragmatic. A scientific phenomenon. It makes absolute sense. If I did not hibernate every now and then I would become handicapped forever with nonproductivity. Always, the magic that occurs during my hibernations will be revealed to you. When I return. Inevitably. 

     So. I think I have acquainted myself well enough with you. I have found that I benefit more if my audience has a critical understanding of who I am and why and how and whatever and what not. Then, when the shit starts pouring out, intimately, violently, beautifully, sadly, or stops pouring temporarily...........................No apologies. I must go now. Part II of "The Swamp: A Nice Town" is calling my attention. Adieu. 

I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW...

YES, I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW. WHAT I WANT YOU TO KNOW IS IMPERATIVE TO THE UNDERSTANDING BETWEEN YOU (THE READER) AND ME (I,THE MASTER OF THIS BLOG). BETWEEN MASTER AND READER, STRICTLY, VERY INTIMATELY, COMPLETE UNDERSTANDING. WHAT THE READER MUST UNDERSTAND: I, THE MASTER OF THIS BLOG, DO NOT TEND TO ORDER. A SIMPLE TRANSLATION: I, THE MASTER OF THIS BLOG HAVE MANY IDEAS. STORIES, OPINIONS, ETCETERA.  THE POSTS ON THIS BLOG DO ADHERE SOMEWHAT, IF NOT TAXONOMICALLY, TO A SENSE OF STRUCTURE.THE SENSE OF STRUCTURE QUITE SIMPLY THIS: I, THE MASTER OF THIS BLOG, PLACE MY POSTS IN CATEGORIES. FOR INSTANCE; ONE DAY YOU MAY READ A TRAGIC POST THAT IS NOT FICTION AND A MEMOIR. IT MAY HAVE MORE THAN ONE PART: TRAGIC POST (I), PART ONE UNDER THESE CATEGORIES "NOT FICTION" "MEMOIR." THEN, YOU MAY READ ONE DAY, AN OPINION: A SINGLE OPINION POST THAT IS NOT A PART, BUT STANDS ALONE UNDER THESE CATEGORIES "MY OPINIONS" "NOT FICTION" ETCETERA. THEN, SOME OTHER DAY YOU MAY HAPPEN UPON SOMETHING FAMILIAR AGAIN: TRAGIC POST (II), PART TWO UNDER THESE CATEGORIES "NOT FICTION" "MEMOIRS" ETCETERA. YOU DIG? JUST TAKE CARE TO LET ME KNOW IF I HAVE MADE A CONNECTION WITH YOU, THE READER, AND HAVE SUCCEEDED TO BRIDGE AN UNDERSTANDING CONCERNING THE NON-CHRONOLOGICAL NATURE OF MY POSTS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE ISSUE NOW?

            COMMENTS. COMMENTS. YOUR COMMENTS ARE VERY IMPORTANT AND NECESSARY TO ME. I MAY BE MASTER OF THIS BLOG, BUT, I AM A HUMBLE MASTER-NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH ARROGANT MASTERS. ARROGANT MASTERS BEREFT OF HUMILITY ARE ACTUALLY STUPID PEOPLE PRETENDING TO KNOW A LOT AND TO CALL THEMSELVES MASTERS. COMMENTS. COMMENTS ARE LOCATED AT THE END OF THIS POST. THEY ARE AT THE END OF EVERY POST. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS CLICK "COMMENTS" AND, HI-HO SILVER, YOU ARE ON THE RIGHT PATH TO VOICING YOUR,...WHATEVER YOU WANT TO SAY. DO YOU UNDERSTAND? I HOPE YOU KNOW. NOW. THANK YOU. SINCERELY. I WONDER IF PEOPLE STILL READ. HONESTLY. THANK YOU.

A slight DISturBanCe...An introDucTi0N t0.be C0ntinuEd.

When I came into this universe blue and screaming, pushed out,  breeched, there was a slight disturbance in the universal sound system. Hence the explanation for my outburst upon entering the fluorescent zone, ripping the ears off the adults as they greeted me with grimaces so in sync with the injustice of my prematurely dead cocoon and rude displacement into some weirdo landscape that bound me, within its own gross pitch, much grosser and all encompassing, not sparing me the embarrassment of its ugly, ugly, artificiality; the scene that inspired my gut to howl was lying to me, right off the bat. I was born a hundred years old. My running commentary was, even during the stages of my sunny infancy: just let me................BE. NOW. Or ELSE. But, the slight disturbance. That was my purpose. To paint a picture. For those that don't know. The humming. That is what troubled me almost as immediate as the lighting that cast a yellow jaundice on clinical skins, making translucent the bodies busying about me raunchy- glowing and the pace was like all the weirdness attacking my mind at a speed I found odd for the fragile being naked confused, already assuming disappointment and remote as a foreign particle passing through oblivion. AND I was not screaming because I was a healthy baby, No!! Don't try to escape into the banality of that EUPHEMISM. I was screaming at the......slight disturbance....a little hummingbird of a drone...so very slight.....and horridly upsetting my sense of equilibrium, which , ha, did it ever, could it ever, no, rather........inspired tears to the dry humor of my face: already my defenses were activated. Sensing the enemy, the smell of a fight. Old nag. For the initial immersion in strangness was abated by my HEALTHY screams. Nice, violent, relentless, health bursting out of my little larynx like an experienced escape into normalcy. I learned very, very early that the humming.....needed every ounce of my fierceness to make it, insignificantly upstaged by this innate stubborness still so alive in me today to put it in its place. It was tiresome and the desperation to remain unscrutenized, to gather my best receding into the backdrop I could manage, instinctively morose to the exposure impending, the vulgar reality that haunted me and filled me with such painful loneliness: They found me out eventually, I was from the forbidden planet; I stayed within the looking glass for years and years, knowing the familiar glances blowing my alienation up into a full blown illness. They knew I was not one of them. The teachers knew I was not present in class. They made me aware of how difficult and bored I was with their idiot assignments and the shreak of the girls flirting and so ready to please these monotonous boys that looked through me like the plaque would infect their silly games with a slap of aloof ridicule. HUMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM. It rose in tiny increments, barely perceptable, but terrifyingly acute, my ears had tuned into the slightness, it's disturbance raising the tiny blond hairs on my arms, my neck. The clouds had started to roll over my childhood with a cruel realism only I knew. Only I heard. It took over my mind like nature. It was natural. Except. No. One. Else. Ever. Mentioned. How. It. Erased. Their. Carefree. Joy. Prematurely. RUINING. MY. Little. Life. Making. Me. Solemn. Aware of the Dark. Too early. It had infected my conscious. HUMMMMMM. HUMMMMM. It swelled as I grew, bit by bit. Patiently taking over my little girl thoughts and turning them ancient, morbidly precocious, anxiety of the ominous something. It got bigger with years. Still only I heard. I covered up my sad acceptance that a monster was growing in my mind and getting a head start at the long tormented weaving, plotting, teasing: letting me know I had no will of my own. The danger was only budding. It pinched the back of my neck in murderous dreams. Began to take on a mature cacophony of the most wretched, poltergeist of sound, melodies forming to the violent threat of the nightmares that terrified me for many years. The humming of the unknown. The unknown. Instability. Usurpation. Corruption. Devil in my brain. Hummm. Hummmm. Humm. I began to obsess about silence. Oblivion was a friend of mine way before the real dark addictions took over in order to survive the mean, hollow, relentless dialogues stealing me from my family and my comfort and throwing me down into the grave I had already begun to covet. Too early. My life. Was this. I hate. Hate. I want IT dead. RAGE. Into. My future. This was only an introduction to overwhelming displacement and threshold for the strangness that knew no boundaries and alienated me from the lives of my so-called "peers." Indeed. A bunch of ignorant kids. My resentment began on the first day of nursery school. The humming was even more disorienting and pronounced. It had competition with the pissy pants boys and girls whining, annoying, drone of an education that began, without fruit, pointless. Another intrusion. My eyes would have shot lasers into anyone that invaded my private, esoteric, misunderstood, unattentive tent of brain. JUST SHUT UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE. That was all I wanted. I had no idea why. Where these intensities stemmed from. But, I was serious. And the humming. It grew. And grew. It shut me in. The hum graduated to tones. Tones are the best I can do to describe the disturbances that vibrated and shook my thoughts into bursts of nervous, surreal, unexplainable processes raising their voices and asserting the right to consume me. A cacophony I would never be able to explain to the people around me that pointed when I became too tired to feign and blend, my face twisted into a frown of concentration. I paid great attention to anything but what this useless school tried to drill into my already over occupied skull. No vacancy. Not yet anyhow.  No matter what I wore, did, said, thought. I carried the heavy burden of isolation and it crossed over, too young, into despair, not knowing that it was despair, complete with the quiet reservation foreshadowing a private hell that grew and matured, faster than my late blooming child-girl-body; too fast for me to catch and come to understand. I walked in fear. The sounds were not like any sounds I had ever heard come from the wonderful music of my musical family (before the impurities of its dysfunction set into my consciousness). I harbored an enemy. I would try to kill this enemy off for a great portion of my future. Just wishing to be free. To be deaf to the hum, the tones, the anilhilation of my youth. The facilitator of a swift desent into realities too twisted to foresee. I wanted the thing that would quiet my disfigured, freak brain. I had a vengence that sought out the poison, a very, very, strong toxin to avenge my right to be happy. and free,  and pretty, and part of. A violent intoxicator. Just kill the noise. It was never music. It was the monster. Humming, self-satisfied chimera. Stealing away and having fun ripping shreds in my sanity. Cacophony. (to be continued and most likely modified or made extinct).................

Don't let it end like this. Tell them I said something. -~~ Pancho Villa, Mexican revolutionary, d. 1923

(Yesterday I was inspired to collect some of my favorite farewells spoken by those previous to their suicides. Not a pretense for your attention reader. Or friend. Travelers. I was genuinely soothed after I read them to myself sporadically. Yesterday I was in a Rotten mood. Sometimes it gets so rotten, that yes,  I am comforted by a farewell I admire before oblivion. I actually enjoy the jealousy of the jerk on the receiving end. I bet he won't meet me in the dirt pit despite also being fed up like Winston Churchill.) 


And so I leave this world, where the heart must either break or turn to lead.
-~~ Nicolas-Sebastien Chamfort, French writer, d. 1794

Nothing, but death. 

-~~ Jane Austen, writer, d. July 18, 1817

I'm bored with it all.

-~~ Winston Churchill, statesman, d. January 24, 1965

Damn it . . . Don't you dare ask God to help me.

-~~ Joan Crawford, actress, d. May 10, 1977

A dying man can do nothing easy.

-~~ Benjamin Franklin, statesman, d. April 17, 1790

Does nobody understand?

-~~ James Joyce, writer, d. 1941

Goodbye, my friend, goodbye 

My love, you are in my heart. 
It was preordained we should part 
And be reunited by and by. 
Goodbye: no handshake to endure.
Let's have no sadness--furrowed brow.
There's nothing new in dying now.
Though living is no newer. 
-~~ Sergei Esenin, Russian poet, d. Dec. 28, 1925


Nothing matters. Nothing matters.
-~~ Louis B. Mayer, film producer, d. October 29, 1957


I owe much; I have nothing; the rest I leave to the poor.
-~~ François Rabelais, writer, d. 1553

I don't believe that people should take their own lives without deep and thoughtful reflection over a considerable period of time. -~~ Wendy O. Williams, punk rock performer, d. April 6, 1998

I feel certain that I'm going mad again. I feel we can't go thru another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time

~~ Virginia Woolf, author, d. March 28, 1941