TSCLT 12.0: The pantheon hates a pussy 2.0

[Wat_Tyler]

 

[thør]

It's a busy time for a major collector.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

The fun never stops.


Home. Heated some of last night's leftovers for lunch. Damn fine eatin'!


I haven't gotten a return call yet.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Got the go-ahead from the bossmens. Ducting will start next week. There are some things we have to do which feel like one hand doesn't know what the other one is doing. Likewise, there are two ways to react to that, one being to get all pissed off and the other being to ride it out patiently and recognize that Allah is in charge. Just because Wat isn't getting what he wants the second that he wants it doesn't mean that everyone is st000pid or that they all have it in for Wat. It simply is what it is.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Got a call back from the guy with the anvil bits. He took my lowball offer. He's having surgery next week and wants this shit gone. We came to terms in seconds. Must be the will of Allah . . . .

 

[Wat_Tyler]

 

[thør]

What does surgery have to do with it? Is he planning on dying?

 

[thør]

My neighbor around the block has picked up a 1970 Charger R/T with the original green paint and a faded black vinyl top. The 440 rumble was unmistakable.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

I guess that the surgery date is his Qaddaffi-esque Line of Death. Based on our conversation, I think it's a big deal for him. Besides, there's no telling what's important or not to some people.


Happy Saturday. Getting a bit of coffee onboarded for today's drive. Sleep was good, cats are all fed - Porch Panther got extra this morning - and the weather looks good, thanks be to Allah.


There was that Saturday I was working with a buddy redoing the back steps on his rental, and the guy up the alley fired up his Hemi 'Cuda. Sounded like the street had just been bombed.

 

[VinnyVeritas]

Git sum! Git sum!

If they run, they're VC! If they stand still they're disciplined VC!

Ain't war hell?

The rains continue. I have tree stuff down all over the yard. Ain't summer hell?

 

[thør]

Supposed to rain, tomorrow. Today is supposed to be the last of the blue sky days for at least the next 10 days.

 

[Inflation999]

The weather forecasts all say it will be dry today, the sky says "I dare you" so I kept the yard work to things that can either sit in the rain or I can grab and dash with. I trust those clouds to be more honest than the meteorologists.

 

[thør]

When they got a window in the local National Weather Service building the forecast accuracy got better.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Home. With my load of anvil bits. Got some of said bits sold ahready. That'll happen tomorrow.


A bit of ice cream and then off to bed shortly.

 

[thør]

Bits is bits.....

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Happy Sunday!!! We have a bit of rain outside. Slept alright. All of the cats are fed. It's more secure with the porch panther guarding the house. When I looked in the rear view yesterday as I was dragging the trailer out of the yard, he went bounding across the yard, so he's patrolling both front-n-back.


Happy Hiroshima Day. Talk about had it comin'.


Breakfast with the good Dr. Tyler, after coffee, of course . . . .

 

[VinnyVeritas]

When they got a window in the local National Weather Service building the forecast accuracy got better.

We always had to go outside every hour on the hour, more frequently when the weather got bad.

All we could see out of our windows was the tarmac.

(Yes, I know it was a joke.)

 

[VinnyVeritas]

I think that we're dry for a change. I don't hear any thunder at any rate.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Drippy-drop rain out there.


Weather stations should install Weather RocksTM

 

[VinnyVeritas]

We had weather A-6s. Pretty much the same thing.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

An empty c-rats can woulda got 'er dun, too.


Paid the HfD inshornce bill. Online. Good for another year.


Which reminds me, I want to see what their Big Jugs kits are a'fetchin' these daze.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Got the steering bits of yesterday's haul sold off, and for Yanqui dollars, too.

 

[thør]

Steering is important.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Braking is really uber-important.


https://poeticoutlaws.substack.com/...id=112442387&isFreemail=true&utm_medium=email

Metaphysical Outlaw​

By: Erik Rittenberry​

I awake to the ethereal wind singing in
the trees. The morning sky, the color
of ashe overhead as I roll my aching body
out of the tent. The grass is damp
on my bare feet. My body worn
and ragged from yesterday's
18 mile trek through the forest. I
strip naked and gently wade
into the cold lake. The ripples of the
still water disperse as the sun emerges
from the night.
I let the golden rays blast my face as I
dry off and sip black coffee in silence
thinking about the great poets, mystics,
and wanderers of the past. The ancients,
the romantics, the transcendentalists,
the beats. The words of Gary Snyder
crop up from the depths, “Nature is
not a place to visit. It is home.”

It was said that the English poet
William Wordsworth
sauntered close to two hundred
thousand miles during his lifetime.
The unrivaled romantic poet would
venture off on foot to landscapes
unknown, sometimes with his sister
Mary, sometimes alone,
with a rucksack of writing utensils
and notepads, drunk on the nectar
of nature, his senses heightened,
capturing the poetry
of existence.

I wandered as lonely as the cloud
That floats on high o’er valleys and hills.

Just two years after the American Civil
War, John Muir embarked on a thousand
mile impromptu walk from Indianapolis
to the Gulf of Mexico. It was this wild,
transformative journey that fueled
his devotion to nature, entirely
changing the course of his life.

The clearest way into the Universe
is through a forest wilderness.

In 1878, the Scottish novelist
Robert Louis Stevenson,
took up a 12 day 120 mile trek alone
with his stubborn donkey through
the vast, diverse landscape of the
Cévennes mountains in south-central
France. With no marked trails for guidance,
he journeyed through rocky terrain and
pine forests and grassy meadows with
little more than a sheepskin-lined
sleeping bag stuffed with bottles of wine,
chocolate, books, and coffee.

For my part, I travel not to go anywhere,
but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great
affair is to move; to feel the needs and hitches
of our life more clearly; to come down off
this feather-bed of civilization, and find
the globe granite underfoot and strewn
with cutting flints.

Ah yes, we still have it in us, don’t we?
The metaphysical grit it takes to reawaken
the primitive within?

To emancipate ourselves from the
unbreathable world of modernity,
to finally say YES to the neglected
murmurs of the blood.

To let the ancient wind relinquish
the useless urge to know, and to
keep the poetic fire forever raging
in the chest.

To depart from the steel and asphalt
of the status quo, the futility
of busyness and the cozy cage
of so-called success.

To live out the secret life
of the imagination, to live
in the NOW in full celebration
of the flesh and spirit, to break
from the lower domains of rational
and discursive knowledge in
search of the higher realms
of unitive experience.

It was Nicolas Berdyaev who
reminded us:

Freedom from "the world" is union
with the true world, the cosmos. Thus
to go out of oneself is to find
oneself, one's true centre...

Ah, yes…
to be enriched with little,
to need almost nothing,
to triumph in solitude,
to evade, at all costs,
the desperate, fear-ridden
state of the contemporary flesh,
those rancorous children
of the profane, glutted to bone
with benign comforts and bloodless
conveniences, their minds riddled
with dogmatic theories and concepts,
their spirits completely severed
from the soil it came out of.

We still have it in us, don’t we?
You and I?

Deep down we all harbor a wayward
inclination to take on that rugged
journey to the sublime, to revel
in the immortal awareness that
lies beyond space and time.

The earth yearns for a radical elevation
of our stifled consciousness,
the courage, once again, to live
dangerously, to move into the
unknown, to become a transcendental
drifter like Wordsworth or Jesus
or Matsuo Basho.

To live in the purity of your own light, to live
beyond all understanding, a treasonous life
bound to no creed or convention,
to live as a renunciation of the
well-worn path.

To be a metaphysical outlaw
who treads lightly upon this
war-torn planet, to shun the
mask of social pretenses and untangle
the mind from all ideals and ideologies.

To do the “heart-work on the images
imprisoned within.”

To be a spiritual lunatic forever in exile
in search of a new dawn, roaming
and roaring like a wild-eyed vagabond
beneath the unconcerned skies, to sit and
sip jugs of red wine like the ancient Chinese
poet Li Po, carefree in a wildflower meadow
beneath the elm trees on blue sky afternoons,
to “drown away the woes of ten thousand
generation!”, to bathe ourselves in the wild
mysteries of the earth, away from
masquerade of the political world,
away from society’s lies
of what it means
to BE
to BE
to BE…

Ah, yes, to BE, to Be like Thoreau
and Whitman, to commune with
nothing but the universal soul
of the here and now,
the OVERSOUL,
“the wise silence”
that slithers throughout
the ether, and come to discover,
once again, the hidden source
of the stream of who we are.
Oh, wandering One, if you are
in search of the greatest treasure,
don't look outside. Look within,
and seek That.

 

[thør]

Indeed.

Right now, my town is trying to pass a law that allows bicycles not to have to stop at intersections. I think it's going to be a shit show for bicycles to be allowed to do things that cars can't.