caterwalks

We’re not in Heaven, I don’t think.  Many people like to look to planes of existence, or dimensional realities as being some type of explanation of why we feel the way we do.  Oh, oh, we live in a feeling world.  A human world, our society, comprised of the actions of our personalities, genetic expression of brain matter, thoughts and ideas, and I suppose at it’s core, feelings.  The emotional ballast to provide us the impetus to raise our heads to the sky and wonder.

I say we’re not in Heaven, because this reality is such a fearsome and mighty one, fraught with perils and danger.  Do not assume otherwise.  Do not assume that the lion will not eat the bear, because the bear does not eat the lion.  Back a million years ago, the stars shining down on the grass of the earth, if there was such a thing as a million years ago, or grass then, these stars were brilliant.  Our artificial light is too much for it now, though.  It is far too close and bright to do the night sky justice, anymore.

Morality, reason, justice, crime, these are elements that are non-existent to the stars and possibly trees, but we humans know what it is.  We may not think it exists, we may not feel as if this is so, but we know of them.  They are spectres or ghosts and clouds of some other worlds, maybe ones we originally came from, or that call us and pull us forward to come home.  It is of no matter, in the end, because we are not choosing these things for ourselves.

We make choices, in a way, don’t let me be so hasty.  Somehow, these universal concepts have found themselves in us, as we can reason out and think of them, and our respective positions, even if we feel they should not even really exist, or aren’t even real, after all.

We don’t just accept the naked brutality of Mother Nature, is all.  We sometimes imagine another, more peaceful scenario, universally.

turbo hyper thrusters on sale

Back when I was a child, a wee child ne’er larger than a toadstool, and I mean a big freaking toadstool from the plyothecausaurus era, a made up epoch in an alternate Earth’s history, I would hear people talk about putting dandelions into a salad.

Never do this.  As a child, I plucked me a little lion’s head looking flower, a weed in some cultures and ate its milky stem.  Not so pleasant tasting, unlike a chocolate candy bar, as was the item I and other little children were mostly after back in our day and age.  You’d hear stories about how soldiers out in war times were giving some refugee kids candy bars, but that these kids were so unused to the way of the candy bar, they developed gastro-intestinal distress.

This dandelion stem I am talking about caused me discomfort, I’m not going to lie.  It is okay, I guess, nowadays, because everybody is wrapped in bubble wrap, probably why these young kids are hellbent on being so psychologically destructive, as they are being given no outlet for the repercussions of dealing with survival, daily.  In fact, kids were mean back then, too.  Depends on how the parents were raising them and if you’ve ever experienced a time where adults were at each other’s throats because of politics, and belief systems they have acquired for themselves, handed down by the powerful, rich and wealthy, then you would understand what a pot the Earth is to piss in.

These are spittoons, these planets are.  I say this with hayseed sticking out of my teeth.  The Earth is a spittoon, I’ll say.  Spit.

Others will disagree, everyone was raised different, that’s why.

It isn’t terribly important.  We must be respectful to Earth, like we should everything else, but it is a giant lump of clay, after all.  We can drill down real hard, and collectively as a species, start spitting into this hole, but when the great and terrible monstrosities eventually arrive forth, sprung from mouth bacteria and a couple hundred or thousand years, you can expect how someone could be so antsy about the whole idea.  I digress.

Listen:  It’s not that important.  You die, I die, we all die.  It’s just the way that things go.  However, we have some kind of spiritual or emotional manifestation on this plane of existence, in so much that we even have a God that is recording all our deeds to judge us accordingly and grant us eternal life, for instance, to name one, and so possibly Egyptians were wrapping up dead bodies and praying to space cats, that you can get that this is a sort of confusing thing for humanity.  The whole thing is, it probably always was.  This is why confidence is so valued.

 

chicken pot pies

You check your refrigerator, looking for chicken pot pies.  You feel your way around in the dark, your refrigerator light bulb is broken.  You broke it because you weren’t sure if the light turned off, really, when you closed the door and you’d be damned if space and time would lie to you.  You have destroyed the chance for your machine’s cold-hearted laughter deep within, either totally illuminated or not.  You busted all the lights in your house and blacked out the windows, too.  Why?  Because space and time would lie to you.

Why would space and time lie to you?  Is reality only an illusion?  Why do you live in a black box?  I get you, I feel you, I see the theme here.  No lies.

Fine.  You’ve found a chicken pot pie up in the freezer, still running cold.  You open your busted microwave that you rigged up to work even though you have smashed the viewing window open, because you’d be damned if anything will keep your food from you.

You are a monster.  You are a fearsome sight in the light of the world outside.  Where are you?  In your imagination.  Hi.

You tear off the house you are in, the vague concept of home and take off running into the night, wild and free.

Goodbye, wild monster.  Find your prey or your haunted dreams.

checkerbox fountain

Ladies strewn about, dancing gossamers and all this, silk cloth trails.  The world of writing is as much about fantasy as it is reality.  Don’t take what I’m saying the wrong way, there is fiction and non-fiction, but there is even a little bit of artifice in non-fiction, because someone, somewhere, figured we could do more than just be cavemen.  Language, ladies and gentlemen, it is inherently a magic of it’s own.

I said ladies twice, gentlemen once, but I believe it’s all up in the air now.  Scientists can make anything happen.  The good old days were the good old days because that’s when everything was fucking normal.  Excuse my mastery of the bad languages!  Listen, for a few thousand years, technology has not rocked us so freaking hard in the skull.   Electricity is a bigass deal, but you go and check the fossil records?  Mankind existed possibly a few hundred thousand years prior to farming and landscapes and airplanes.  Who knows what we talked about, it was a slow start, but boy now does that candle burn on both ends!

Figure that out.  A thousand years ago was the year 1018 AD that was a long ass time ago, but the scientists who are creating black holes in their little lab beakers, and splicing rocks and animals together, and creating the medications that allow you or I to behave what the police consider sanely, are also saying that we were just normal humans for over a hundred thousand  years.  Let me put that into some kind of perspective for you.

100,000 years.   That’s a lot of grandpas and there was no major technological advancement freaking people the heck out all the time every day.  We all know it sucked though.  We’re somehow subject to the laws of nature, but we people always prove our own mastery over the laws of nature and now this technological snowball has definitely caught some momentum.

Enter fiction.  What’s going to happen, people want to know or possibly, what is one way that all this stuff can go down?  Here’s the real answer, I’ll tell it to you, because I’m Keith Bingham.

With power and possibility comes responsibility.  Meaning the questions we are faced with in our days of reckoning while alive on this planet are of a moral nature.  That’s the way it’s always been.  The odd thing about morality is that you can’t really force it on anyone else, or make them believe in it.  Cavemen had moral issues.

Consider this:  Your brain is designed to calculate sensory data and analyze and organize this information into some type of narrative of survival.

Survival, meaning life or death.  That’s why morality exists, because in whatever reality or universe we’ve managed to evolve ourselves into, life grows and dies, so all of morality has some kind of rational foundation.  Anyway, on with the show!

BIG ASS PTERODACTYLS ARE EATING YOUR TIME-SHARES was the original name of this writing, however, it has been changed due to my morality.

 

shimmerlights

Ring-a-ding-ding, it’s future o’clock.  Get up, shake off the cobwebs, feel the morning.  Night, you belong to the river, be dark.  Wake up with a thousand sleeping culprits.  I mean this wholeheartedly.  Become an advantage.  Be loose in the goosebox, bros.  Put the cranium to major elasticity.  Smack the canvas, drip the paint, boys.

Go find a large, long, deep rabbit hole and climb in and wear a suit on the other side, where butterflies alight off your fingertips and the sun is always behind you, all walking deep pavements and bottlecaps make tap-shoes of your feet.

I mean this.  Endure the trials of malignation, be a raise of positivity.  You feel me, dog.

Exemplor the Tanvas

Hi, do come in, it’s been so long.  Haha, Mr. Exemplor believes in a justice, yet a corrupt justice, one of immediacy and expediency, I am wholly sure he orates ornately and orientatedly, as he has a few bings, dings, and dats in his shield.  Hi ho.  Missile captains are usually 24 marks, and we can end in a cold bucket, if you’d like.  I have no preference here.

This gentleman received an ice bucket shower, I’m kinda jelly, not goin’ to lie.

Ladders Live On

You awaken or rise from sleep or fall out of bed or something.  You stumble around on your toes because you have two feet on the ground.  Why should you do this particularly human thing?

Because you are.

You are one.  You are a human, it’s a little hard to understand.  Me, or him, or you, or I, or whoever the protagonist of this tale is.  This is a tale.

You may get coffee in the mornings.  I do.  I appreciate the cup of coffee I make in the morning because the coffee machine is pretty much set and forget as far as I’m concerned.

forget about it, my coffee maker says to me.

I will, says I.

But I don’t.  I love him so, and I love his coffee and I drink it and in a little while I am happy and awake, due to the bean water, my bros.

That’s ok.  We’re forty light years in the future now and you’ve just found this, maybe.  But maybe you didn’t.  Maybe I wrote this in 1846 and I’m a time traveler.  No, I’m kidding.  Maybe I’m transcribing a letter I found in a painting I got at a yard sale, but no, people didn’t talk like this back then.  They don’t talk like this back now, though.  They do then, out there in the future of it all.

Listen, seagull

There’s this damn seagull flying around my head.  More specifically, the seagull is circling the bread I have in my hand.  My dogs drop everything they’re doing when their dog awareness formulates the prospect of food materializing.  Jesus creates a miracle out of a few cans of tuna fish, or some stale Wonder bread, and goes on to tell this same couple thousand people, assuredly, that they weren’t really here for the Lord of All Creation, but more for the lunch that was getting passed around at the time.
Fuck you, seagull.  Can I say that?
“Hey, seagull.  What the fuck?”
How about that?  Is that more appropriate?  We’re all alive, we all eat and kiss the blarney stone, ok?  I get it.
I tear off a piece and throw it for him and of course, he eats it.
Then he comes back for more.  He’s not leaving now.  He was thinking of leaving before, he’s never leaving now.
Is it important that I feed him?
No.
He’s so persistent that he’s probably fat in seagull terms, all seagull doctor hidden away in seagull town telling him his seagull BMI is too high.
“Quit eating so much!” Dr. Seagull says.
“Fat chance,” says this guy, my new seagull.  “Fat chance, we all eat, I bet you ate yourself, today,” says my seagull.
“Fuck you,” says the doctor.  Then he’s sued to oblivion for being offensive.  My seagull is paid restitution and he ends up at where ever I am that this is happening.
This is supposed to be about happiness.

Abnormally Processed

Hi, Captain Lieutenant.  I bet you did not just realize that you were piloting reality and space and time dimensions with Orby here, a galactic messenger come to speak with you.

Hi there.  My name is Orby, I am a galactic messenger come to speak with you.  Seeing as how we have the ability to alter our software and genetics, we have determined that due to our mutation matrix, in which a large factor of knowables are utilized in calculation of data, that we will open trade with your dimension.

From here on, you should start to see and feel some credits coming your way.  We hope you enjoy, and many prosperous evenings to thee, as it seems we should say since we’re translating the signals you’re putting out all the time.

Ciao.

Bull****

Somebody mentions on one of the various social platforms that I am playing role of bull in china shop on that swearing and curse words are bad, and who really still does that in this day and age.  What a great thing to say.  We shouldn’t use terribly passionate words in mixed company.  When I use curse words in my work, I feel like I am alienating people I do not wish to alienate.

Fuck.

It’s not that I’m proclaiming that cursing is good, I’m proclaiming there is no other word to use but a curse word.  “Use a different word in place of a bad word!” a non-psychotic voice in my head says.

Yes, of course.  Buttersticks, I’ll say, when it’s time to proclaim a curse.  Fizzlewax, broad spectrum cable, dice boards  !!?! ! !?! !!  AR AHGGH

Most people understand and can agree on what words are taboo.

This is why I use one of those.  They are dedicated to that role.