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15 June, 2017

Closure, Censorship, Forgiveness, and the Cunning Fennec Fox

14 June 2017
2155 hrs



And here comes the Spiglet, who also needs iodine, but also, like people, do not produce their own vitamin C.  That means, by the Ghost of Davey Jones Locker release the kraken, they can get scurvy.  Yar!

Just want you to know, Patient Reader, The Fox has been through a lot this year.  

c Properfessor

I know, boohoo shut the fuck up you big bebbey.



It’s true.  I shouldn’t be so hard on myself.  I should kneel . . . nay; genuflect!  


Braise Cheeses, and be grateful for those austere memories you DO have.   Hmmm. 


Fuck you, you Fucking Fuck, you.  This is my muh’fuckin blog.  You don’t like what you read here, you piece of shit?  Get the fuck out.  Cry about it to your friends.  Maybe they will have the balls to read on, ya fucking twats . . .  Start your own blog and say the things that you wish I would say.  I shudder at the thought, you Fuck Sticks; Dick-squeezes, Squeezers of Dicks.

Except for you of course, Patient Reader.  Everyone knows you know what it’s like to feel heartbreak.  Why, I ask the Is, do we all have to feel the pain?

 c Properfessor


And since the Is knows I sense the answers, and since the Is knows we all suffer, how can one’s own heart not feel a missing ventricle; an itching ex-presence that, like everything else close to the heart, scuttles to unreachability under this or that rock.  The detritus of trying too hard or too little.  Never enough or never just right.  Never the right time of life, or time, or life.  Too much over too little and too little for everything you’ve got.  What price, peace of mind?  Take a Piece of my Mind!  If it’s not too dear.  We shall scrimp and save.



My mind is reeling.  They Who Reel It Know Why.
 
I'm exhausted.  Getting over the last few hiccups of the mania.  Thank nataS for Seroquel, pro re nata . . . Couldn’t-a dunn it without you.  Sandman’s first name is Seroquel. 

Oh!

Gotta tell you my thoughts about iodine.  I; atomic number 50; its attraction toward the thyroid gland (a radioactive isotope of iodine is used in the treatment of thyroid cancers), and sadly, or happily, over 2 billion people worldwide are iodine deficient.  And don’t have to be.  A certain intellectual development disability presents, blindness in children is almost certain, and it’s 100% preventable. 


DeBeers will steal Africa's resources, but to save 50,000 Ibo lives, no one flies in iodized salt.

Good job, guys.  Glad y’all have this handled.

I think about all of the elements, periodically.  Sometimes I’ll lay them all out on my table, and look at the first two.  H and He.   How fusing the first creates the second, and the light from our little white star.  


Whew!  That Fugger looks hot, today!

The heat we feel on our face as we point it toward Sol, is the energy released in that nuclear fusion.  The photons gleaming off the chrome on that Cadillac made a 30,000-year journey from the core of our sun to the surface, and then another 8+ minutes from there to here this, a single Astronomical Unit.


Someone mentioned iodine.  I tried an historian approach; a documentarian rather than trying to write satyr.  Ahem . . . Satire.  



Everyone knows there is a pan-demic of poorly written literature horning in on perfectly good humor, but it’s not just up to me to correct.  C’mon, man!  We all must stick together like week-old jockstraps in August.  


We must stand together and fix this and get over to the rest of our lives, or this will be the rest of our lives.  It behooves us to confront the Troll ‘Neath Yon Bridge. It really gets my goat.


Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to shoot congress?  


Idiots.  I don’t care if they were Republicans or not; you don’t get to hurt people!  Why won’t you just get that, people?

A gunman.  Shooter.  NRA noticeably absent . . .


Seriously?

They were all trying to run for cover, but couldn’t see because the irony was too thick.

It’s our fault, ladies and gentlemen.  Democracy is the worst form of government.  After all the others.

Don’t get mad at me.  Look it up.

Now . . .


18 June 2017
1150 hrs

Hello there, Patient Reader.  Welcome back; always good to see you.

In these Winding-Down Days, these scant and precious hours of almost being at my baseline are working their magic.  Magic.



Ugh.  I want so badly to jump back in to ripping the political scene . . . I mean, jebus, look at all the shit flying about around the world.  Mostly because our President runs the country like he ran his businesses: Into the Ground.



A dude who went to a military academy, and he doesn’t know you don’t do a ten-year-old’s peepee dance while the National Anthem is playing.  I mean . . . what the fuck?  Yeah, this is the America for which my old man waded through Agent Orange.



Agent Orange.  Maybe that’s Moscow’s handle for Trump.

But I don’t want to drone on about that sort of thing.  People suck, and some suck harder than others.

So, Politics is out.  As is Religion . . . for now . . . can you believe what a long break I have given the Mormons and the other Xians?  and what does that leave?  Everything else, of course!

Been listening to some music.  Old school.  The Alan Parsons Project.  



 Little River Band.  



Wings.  



Steely Dan, 



a band named after a dildo.  



Can’t go wrong.  My Old School.

Arvo Part’s tintinnabuli has been a fascinating listen.  I particularly enjoy Cantus in Memoriam Benjamin Britten.  The glockenspiel and cellos, they haunt me.

Not the piano and sax of The Year of the Cat, say, but c’mon . . . this is an Estonian who grew up in a Soviet-bloc country.

I’ve listened to some Al Stewart, speaking of The Year of the Cat, but strangely not that song.  Midnight Rocks, Time Passages, and Song on the Radio.


Don’t Answer Me, by the Alan Parsons Project, has a similar sax-and-piano collaboration.  But I bring up only music from the ‘70's and 80’s.  

In a post, post-posting that I took down because it was ugly, mean, and passive-aggressive to the point where I regressed into That Guy.  Hasn’t been seen in years.  Whereas I should have been sticking to the music instead of what I did instead.

And now it’s 19 June, and I still haven’t said what needs saying.  Self-censorship?  Is that what’s happening?  Patient Reader, that’s probably the biggest problem when some folks know the True Identity of The Cunning Fennec Fox.  ‘was that about me? that Sunna Vabitch Fox . . . asshole . . .’

I know, Patient Reader, Right the fuck?  Really, right now?  I must self-censor?   here’s the problem: There are people whose feelings I don’t want to hurt.  

Crazy, right?  The Fox has actual concerns about the consequences of the things he says?  Ohmigod!  But only when it comes to persons.  Remember, Patient Reader: People Suck.  Pick a handful of persons and stick close. 

I have things to say, so Fuck that, Patient Reader!  The scumbags out there who have no idea what they do as they wander through their shit-stained lives thinking that moving ideas from here to there for eight hours a day makes them worth a fuck?  That they come home from these places and smack a bitch or kick a kid or drown a bag o’ kittens . . . or put cigarettes out on that 14-year-old Korean boy duct-taped up in the closet, you sick fuck.

Or they vote against the American people.  Republicans who vote RED because ObamaCare sucks.  Thank their filthy Bubba God that they’ll still have the Affordable Care Act when they repeal ObamaCare.  Geniuses.

Do I give enough of a furry fist-fuck to self-censor around the lowest common denominator of stupidity among these bipedal, carbon-based life forms?  Nah.

Do I give a fuzzy ratzass if I offend people who murder the children of others so we can pay Texaco for keeping my Suburban’s gas bill less than $4 a gallon?  They’re just kids, people!  They’re noisy and sticky.  Republicans don’t mind, though.  They just hand them off to the nanny/servant side-piece, right?  I know how you Repubs work; you don’t use bookmarks because you prefer your pages bent over.

And I don’t even have a Suburban!

I could drive somewhere nearby . . . say, The Beanery, to meet an old friend, but I could walk to there from here, too.  

Depending on the friend, might go ten, twelve blocks, to see them.

I want to say a friend is now back to square one.  He doesn’t know what love really is.  I mean really really know.  And he isn’t angry or bitter when he says it.  It’s fully understood.  

He’s relieved, in a way; the inability to disappoint in yet another way would be too much to bear.

Names don’t matter, though.  Do they?  I mean, they certainly don’t matter when I write about Shmarla and Shmanielle and well . . . you know so many others.

  Yet there are names that no one gets to know.  The names of those closest to me.  Those names are mine.

“But jesus, Mr. Fox,” (or Mr. F, for nostalgia’s sake . . . wee Britain, and all) I can hear some of you idiot fucks out there thinking.  “You tell us everything else, and we don’t know who you are, anyway . . .” and blah blah FUCKING blah . . .  jebus the Heist.  You guys are right!  I should really . . . oh, I dunno . . . hmmm . . . tell you to go fuck yourselves?  Sure, you superficial weasel Banker Barons and Big Pharma whores and Real Estate cocksuckers.  You POS fascists out there who profit from the violence toward one and from and by your own selves, you nationalist-socialist goose-stepping skinhead racist punk motherfuck- . . . bitches . . . Go.  Fuck.  Thyself.


Except for you, Patient Reader.  Everyone knows that y’all think Trump, et al, are, well, a basket of deplorables.  

Everyone knows that you all, in your infinite detection of bullshit, you have the uncanny ability to understand that even Foxes have borders, and the things we hold most important, the Cared-Abouts in our lives, well . . . sometimes they can be ours, even while they’re not.  And you know that i would rather lose a limb than have anyone be censored for any reason.  Especially me.  

It will happen, self-censorship, from time to time, but only when it helps another.  And it's not like you're going to miss something you never saw in the first place, right?

Anyway, Patient Reader.  It’s time to sign off. 

Until next time, I remain your faithful,


Cunning Fennec Fox



There’s a light in a room full of words for which she missed; 


12 June, 2017

Fixing the Past and the Cunning Fennec Fox

12 June 2017
Circa 0820 hrs

Good Day, Patient Reader

I apologize, but the Intertubes isn't allowing me to add pics, just now.  I'll try later, perhaps.  Sorry for the inconvenience. 

Boy . . . I gotta say, these reunions are surreal.   But that’s OK.  Bosch.  Dali.  Jefferson Airplane.  The Revolver album.   My dad walking our dog in a lime-green jumpsuit. Yup.  No lie.  I can handle surreal.  Is that all you got, Is?  Shit.  I better not tempt fate!  Never mind, Is.  I have a full plate right now.

Oh, the bowling-ball rolling and Preakness-running racing thoughts.  The Chattering Monkeys are loving this.  

The changes have brought me happiness, nonetheless.  I need these people in my life, and I think I’m starting to deserve them.

Friends that get me.  Get what I’m saying.  Pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down.  Sniffin’ of what I’m squeezin’ out.  You get the picture.

  Ever miss a mind?  Ever find it again?  I’m not talking about your own mind.  That’s a given.  With me, anyway.  I mean someone else’s mind.  I have.  Think I’ll take it for granted?  There’s no way.  I am different . . . changed.  Sweet instead of bitter.  Sometimes.  I want this mind in my life because it’s an understanding one.  It’s brilliant and it needs to shine.  Like the sun.  That sun sure is hot, today.  Right, Patient Reader?

Patient Reader.  Jebus.  If you only knew what the fuck was going on inside and outside of my brain right now.  First, I'm finding a way out of this 9-week manic phase, and boy, could I use the break.   I swear to gods that things truly get strange in my mania.  Very strange.  Suddenly it becomes The Fox Show, and I sing and dance and tell jokes to my one-person audience:  my roommate.  Poor, poor roommate.

Secondly, I dealt with most of May’s surprises, all of them, in fact, while under the influence of my own brain chemistry.  Bad brain . . . BAD!

The mind is, after all, a terrible thing.  

Just terrible.

The enemy is, of course, time.  So very little of it, and too packed a life to organize it appropriately.  So, we pass through our lives, pointing our solemn faces toward the future.  We grin and bear it and can ask no more of ourselves than survival.  We need to do this, but dammit, maybe tomorrow.  I'm tired or I hurt or the something needs something instead.  Feel me, Patient Reader?  

Before we know it, we run out of tomorrows.  And we realize What the Fuck?  Why do we have all these fucking regrets?  Why are we more sad than happy when we review our lives?  Why did we make decisions that harmed us, mentally or physically or emotionally?  Why did I do this instead of that?  Why did I abandon my people . . . why was I abandoned?  

I could go on, but why?  You all know what I am saying, right?  I don’t believe there is a soul on the planet that doesn't have a single regret, despite the encouragement for “No Regrets.”  

“No Fear” is more applicable.  Thinking about the next hand or foothold on El Cap’s north face.  A little bit of fear, but you’re forced to stay focused.  No Fear.  Climbing a frozen waterfall front-pointing and ice-axing your way to the top, trying to keep what’s in your bowels and bladder in your bowels and bladder.  Again . . . Focus.

OK, so I used two examples of Fear of Climbing.  But it’s a fear brought on yourself, so either you must fix it, or the person belaying you must fix it. 

But what happens when the danger comes from outside of you?  What then?  How do you prepare for an attack from a cute, fuzzy bunny?  Whip out the Holy Hand Grenade?  A crucifix and some garlic?  Nickelback?

Nothing good is down this road . . . what’s that shiny thing over there?  Shall we explore it?  Splendid!

You know what?  Never mind, Patient Reader.  Seems I have run out of that time shit I wrote about up there.  Time Flies.  I was going to say tempus fugit, but I understand that is incorrect, now. 

Broken Tardises.  Brilliant.  How would you use it once it’s been fixed?  Therein lies the Your Real Self.  Think about it. 

I shall return, soon.  Thank you for your patient reading, Patient Reader.  See you on the radio.  

Until then I faithfully remain your,


Cunning Fennec Fox

06 June, 2017

Singularity and the Cunning Fennec Fox

6 June 2017


Good Day, Patient Reader!


And patient you are!  Just a couple of words in two years?  I know!


Well . . . a lot has been going on . . .

“What?” you may be asking yourself.  Or not.  But it’s a lot!


Shall I press on?  Splendid!

There is a reason why we do the things we do.  Some of us do things because we fear punishment and hope for reward.  


Some of us do things because the Id or Is demands these things be done.  Anyway, you get the point: We Do Shit Because Whatever.  Agreed?

Decisions made in one’s youth are not the most sagacious.  What’s that you say?  Thank you, Commander Obvious?


That said, we can extrapolate further and deduce that decisions made at this stage of prefrontal cortical development are not necessarily the same decisions we would make say, in our thirties and forties.  Fuck it; we made those decisions back there and it’s too late to do anything about it.  Or is it?  Things outside of my control are things I shouldn’t stress over . . . right?  I mean, I know you’ve seen me type it before, Wonderfully Patient Reader.

But there are some things that are within my control.  I can choose to try not repeating those mistakes of my youth . . . right? (even though sometimes the very best things come from chaos and catastrophe).  And I can choose to want to right the things I can, if there is a way.  Is there always a way?

I can choose to be sorry, even ashamed of the things I have done-  What Hath Fox Wrought?  I can choose to see the terrible me on the horizon and send the flotillas to do battle.  I can feel the rush of adrenaline and stop myself from recklessly hurting someone . . . especially me if that rush calls for rock climbing without harness or belay.  Especially that.



I can choose to listen and to be alarmed when I bandy about ideas that HAVE to work . . . WILL work, as long as I build a ramp or get a running start.  

-If either of these preparations are required, please stop me from whatever I’m doing.-



Knock the 10mm rope and Eros jelly out of my hand (hey . . . you never know what’s gonna happen) if the plan calls for both a running start AND the construction of a ramp . . . just shoot me and save the world the news cycle.

Where was I?  Oh, yeah . . . choices . . . decisions . . . opting . . . karma . . . you know; if y’all worry about such things.

But to eschew the Darkness, must one have one of these reasons to Do the Right Thing?  What of the atheists among us?  Have we no reason to feel bad about the acts of our pasts?  I mean, I have no fear of divine reward. Or wrath, for that matter.  So, god ain’t getting’ me.  Conversely, I have no fear of Old Nick, that Great Red Dragon . . . because fuck you, mythology doesn’t scare me.

And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world: he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him. 


And yet there are so many things that need the forgiveness of others.  What recourse against Gehenna have I?  Well, damn it, some things just need doing because it’s the right and decent thing to do.  And don’t start with all that jesus bullshit- most of you Xians are so UN-christ-like it would be funny if you weren’t such hypocritical racist fucks.  No wonder most of you are Republicans, too.  Just ask jesus about feeding the poor and free health care.  Yeah, free health care.  How much did he charge to throw Legion into the swine?  What did he bill Blue Christ Blue Shill when he cured the blind?  “Take up thy bed, and walk! . . . but drop a C-note in the grail on your way out.”

Jesus the Socialist.



Any of you would be lucky for just a sip of Eden, and then you might know the difference between Right and Wrong, and maybe remember how fucking hard it is to feel good!

Ungrateful sunza bidges.  Except for you, Patient Reader.  Your gratitude is immeasurable.

But in my mania, I digress.  YOU try keeping a blog going when you have 10,000 chattering monkeys in your cranium.  Can’t be done.  Try it.  Get Bipolar Disorder and see what that’s like!  See?  Digression!


 Ok, ok . . . there're only two . . . but they're scary!  They've got these Yuuuge fangs!  I mean . . . look a' all the bones!! 

Pardon me while I Cleese.

So, what does one do? Well, in my case, I have been fortunate enough for persons in my past to have suddenly reappeared.  I say fortunate not because we are all Sudden Buddies, but fortunate in that I can apologize for the way they were treated.  The way I treated them.  I did terrible things.  Things that I can apologize for and I can try to be the best me in their lives.  Not a lot, but it’s all I can do.  Regret and Not Harm.  Primum Non Nocere.

Not many people get this sort of chance.

These are important people in my life, not only because I love them (Yes, The Cunning Fennec Fox knows how to love; just outta practice, is all) but because they have given me a chance to say, “I’m Sorry.”

But Dammit, Patient Reader!  That’s STILL all I can do.  It’s up to them to see, to judge its truthfulness, and to forgive.  I have no control over that.  And it beats the hell out of one-way communication.  Like this, I just realized.



So, to you who have brought new and old and blinding light to me:


I hate the pain I caused and felt.  I regret any decisions that I made that caused years of speculation and confusion and hatred and all vitriol that comes with being wronged by someone who should only do right by you.

I apologize for succumbing to my own powerful fears and acting rashly when confronted by them.  I am truly very sorry for all the bullshit.  Nothing that years of painful and expensive therapy can’t fix.  Right?


There is a time and a place for levity.  Since this is my blog, fuck you, I get to be levitacious until I bust at the seams.  Im sooooo levitacious, my neologisms are erect.


All the bullshit, Mona Lisa’s and Mad Hatters.  All of it.

Turn around and say, "good morning" to the night.

OK . . . enough of the gushy-mushy and let’s get on with the ranting commentary that you all pay for so dearly.  Patient Patient Reader.

So . . . shall I get on with it?  Splendid!



Trump.  Jesus.  Whose bizarre and surrealistic idea is this?  I mean, he couldn’t have gotten elected unless some nefarious chicanery (Al Michaels, not Chuck McGill) took place.  That he had help from external forces to get elected is common knowledge, much as I have a love/hate with oxymorons.

Well, we all know that Trump did have help from his comrades. 


Who knew that Joseph McCarthy would be right so many years later?  Russian operatives in the Federal Government!  Commie Pinko Swine abound!


Jesus.  If Sen. McCarthy hadn’t drunk himself to death, he’d be drinking himself to death.  If we had more people like him, we’d have less people like him.

Now he’s going to tweet live during Comey’s testimony before congress.  So glad that the dignity of the Office has remained intact.  Now before all you goat-fucking rednecks start bringing up President Clinton, let’s all try to keep focus and see really where adultery begins and ends, and see what sins are committed, rules are broken, and laws peed upon.  Hey, it’s presidential if it involves urine and hookers, man.  Dribblin' like the NBA


Then Kathy Griffith gets in trouble for showing a bodiless effigy of a head.  A sitting president’s head.  Yeah.  Secret Service LIKES that shit.  Shows initiative.  And she’s surprised there was a backlash?  Kathy Who the Fuck, anyway.  I laughed with her in the nineties.


Mania manic maniac and the Cunning Fennec Fox


Therapy says I'm adjusting well.  Good Job, Me.  However, Therapy also tells me to keep coming.  SO, what the fuck do they know?  Except you, of course, Patient Reader; you always know
. . . you know?

Al Green . . . the Texas democrat,



not the funky funkmaster; my bro with a ‘fro.


That Al Green is putting a motion into play to impeach the president.  And if it wasn’t flagged before, the Cunning Fennec Fox has been flagged now! 


So many ways the Gummint spies on us.  But of course, we all know that the aluminum foil hats help deflect the cosmic rays DARPA is pouring into the fabric of space-time like a shameful stain in the bedlinens . . .



naughty naughty bedlinens!  Besides, spanking you won’t be enjoyable, bedlinens.  Not for me.  I’d fret that your thousand thread-count might start to pill under the force of the blows.  

Spanking Bedlinens?  C’mon . . .  you always wanted to, and theres always a reason to . . .

COSMIC RAYS!  yip and woot!!!


Anyway, it’s pill line, and I must hide this laptop somewhere so the aides and orderlies don’t find it and rat me out. 

Until next time, Patient Reader

I am and always shall remain,

The Cunning Fennec Fox