Bundyism

"So you think I'm a loser? Just because I have a stinkin' job that I hate? A family that doesn't respect me? A whole city that curses the day I was born? Well, that may mean "loser" to you, but let me tell you something. Every morning when I wake up I know it's not going to be any better until I go back to sleep again. So I get up, have my watered down Tang and still-frozen pop tart, get in my car with no upholstery, no gas and six more payments, to fight traffic just for the privilege of putting cheap shoes on the cloven hooves of people like you. I'll never play football like I thought I would. I'll never know the touch of a beautiful woman. And I'll never again know the joy of driving without a bag on my head. But I'm not a loser. 'Cause despite it all, me and every other guy who will never be what he wanted to be, are still out there being what we don't wanna be, forty hours a week for life. And the fact that I haven't put a gun in my mouth, you pudding of a woman, makes me a winner!"

the only way i can seemingly come to grips with life being awesome is accepting the fact that life sucks dick.

Love Silence Surrounds Love Sounds by G.P Abraham

Beyond love songs is a love silence and this is where all love songs arise from. A song not being silence is being something and in being something there is a proof to prove what it is not. In the proof from the nightingale call, the dark night still dominates the ground and that ground is the silence for all to arrive to the call. Love songs are a violation of silence and all violations of silence are nothing more than a longing, a lamenting, for that silence to return again. The Eden silence.

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Girl, don't you know you're so beautiful
I wanna give all my love to you, girl

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Words of “mine” and “my”—there is this preferred sense of belonging rather than longing… all “love songs” should be “longing songs”. If a “my love” is given and is accepted then the gift pervades both participants and it no longer is a “mine” or “yours” but a moment of silence, song ends, nothing left to call for, or long for. Nightingale becomes dark night.

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right here right now, I got somebody who loves me for me, got somebody who loves me for me,

The idea of “me” as “ME” and as if there is such a Other that knows “me” before I even know “me” is phenomenal to say the least. But, to say the least is a way of knowing beyond the “love song” or the “longing song”. To say the least is moving towards “love silence”.

In deciphering lyrics to form a ground for the “longing song” is tedious, because longing is deficient in syntactical words because it is saturated in feelings. And in that sense, silence is broken by a moan or a howl which lays the interruption for words to form. Hence, feeling brought forth a OM or a howl or a moan out of pure violation of silence.

I'll stay with you through the ups and the downs
Oh I'll stay with you when no one else is around

Love songs prove the impossibility of love. But, it is silence, that brings about the possibility. This idea of “staying power” is a “other form”. The satellite orbits of commitals and the reverse (permiscuity) are found with in the degrees of “staying power”. The commitals involved in love making for that singular “one night standing” is a commital of “standing power” or “staying power”. It is the same energy of the wedding anniverseries. The wager anniversery in which the bet of “staying power” was placed is of the same wager of “standing power”. Though “one night standing power” is a wager or wedding of possible venerial or a procreative venture, they have the same impetus “to-belong”. Both leave their birth mark against the already present something that broke the silence.

I wondered all this time 'bout how you been
and I hoped by chance, I'd see you once again

The fact that a song is there proves that love is not there. A song always announces a “not yet” and in that “not yet” the possibility for a “longing song”, “love song”, and “a grasping song” is fortified. A “grasping song” interrupts what is already “at hand”. So, BEYOND A LOVE SONG IS A LOVE SILENCE.

Proving the point “falling in love” is fallacious in its directional momentum. For if it is really love it would be a rebound out away from the earth. LEVITY.

The Hill by Alfonso Ferlenghetti

It is all moving. I highly recommend you find a hill, a mountain, a giant plain, desert, or anything of the sort; the moment the location is found, walk directly towards it. Get close. Real close. Look with the right kind of eyes. Look at it move. All of it in such grace and harmony. We are apart of this, not just observers. Look at the movement, the life. Get even closer. Listen to the sounds. Birds may be chirping, bugs may be chatting, or maybe just the wind, for it is alive too. Don’t believe me? Movement. Swirls, strokes, singularity. This is how the word truly appears. This is the journey…

One foot in front of the other

The sounds begins, which fades into another noise

One idea after another

White noise, then nothing but a hum. Repeat. Repetative.

Just the hum

One foot in front of the other

I’ll get there.

Tree by Alfonzo Ferlinghetti

I.

There we were again
in the same spot as usual. Another weeknight,
parked out of the spotlight glow of the street lamps.
Sitting in that silver car;
making our own sparks
that brighten up our interior.
Blowing clouds of smoke at the stained windshield.
I sit and wonder.
   
Time passes (as it tends to do)
with smoke gathering in the car as if it is a warm fog
coming in off some coast,
but it is not our coast.
This isn’t a fresh, cooling fog,
nor is it something to keep the warmth in--like a thick, gray quilt.
The fog is making the sparks more illuminated,
but only within the confines of the vehicle.
And maybe,
just maybe, t
he fog was clouding our minds.
   
My company rolled down his window.
It seems like a jet stream has cleared
the fog away.
Where were the Weathermen when you needed them?
Now all that is left
is the glowing ember of his stoge.
   
Now that my sight was clear,
I could see through the window.
A block away,
right in the center of my sight was a
lone
tree.
Stuck in a rock and concrete prison,
not unlike prisons we have all made
for ourselves.
This tree,
this poor bastard is stuck.
   

II.

Don’t forget the tree. That damned thing sits there every day, not moving. It can’t move. Where would it go if it could? Far away from these cars, I bet. Surrounded by fake rocks, concrete, and asphalt. That tree has to desire a good stretch, let those roots and branches do their thing. Instead, the poor bastard sits like an inmate on death row-- living in solitude. At least the inmate has an end in sight. Maybe the tree feels solace in the idea that once it meets its demise, so will all the structures around it.