learnings from naked

This author yesterday went with his Finnish sauna buddies to Gunnison beach in Sandy Hook, New Jersey. While there, he saw many interesting sights and a few beautiful women. One of them, a buxom brunette who spent most of the day sunning herself a few spots down from their vintage tent, had a majestic bust, a thigh-gap, and a fully shaved, delicately-formed whispering eye; she once smiled at whorphan as they had passed each other at the gate, and made eye contact with him again upon his return from visiting the restrooms, but he never approached her, for reasons unknown. Another young lady, this one at the beach with her boyfriend, was a most attractively skinny lady whose perfectly-shaped breasts were at least size DD. Dark of hair, wide of mouth, and sparkling of eye, this skinny maiden at first went swimming with her privates covered but then came back with her crotch revealed, widely set hips showcasing a seductive gap into which one could easily slide an 2-inch-wide, hardback book.

Among the more interesting sights were the various types of penises, some adorned with rings and bands and holders and piercings, others so small and shrunken into the pelvic floor as to resemble little more than nubby, pink traffic cones. In evidence on both sexes present were all types of landscaping, from cleanly shorn to full 80's bush, from landing-strip to pubic tuft, from month-old patch of natty pubes to the broad expanse of waxed and shiny dick-skin. The single men were wont to parade from one end of the naked beach to the​ other, looking hungrily into the eyes of any other man who might glance their way, but for the most pat the homosexuals respected this author's sexual preference and left him in peace.

It has been too long since this author had swam naked. Oh, the speed and ease of it! Much speedier and much easier than trying to swim in a pair of baggy nylon trunks, he was able to shoot through the cooling Atlantic waters in the manner of a newborn seal pup, flashing about in the briny surf with a few strong pulls of his arms, moving a dozen feet or more with each foaming stroke. And then he was back up and out of Poseidon's grasp, a dozen sets of eyes tracking his every move back to the tent, lingering and watchful glances appraising and judging. Would he go back to this place? If given the opportunity to, yes, he would, but next time with a pair of sunglasses and enough courage to approach the wily dames.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥

on temporal bleed-through

I didn't see much of it, just a short commercial, but a famous brown man on the TV asked if we humans were truly masters of our own domain or if we were merely puppets reacting to signals bleeding across the spatial-temporal interface. I have asked myself this question many times, mostly when trying to avoid taking blame for my own actions or when doing something that upset someone else or caused him or her harm, thinking: 'Why the bells did I just do that, knowing what I did beforehand about the associated repercussions, about how much it would hurt, about the negative attention it would bring?' It is comforting in a way to think that the strictly linear fashion of the time-space-continuum that I was told to believe in is not so strict as it may seem, that forces from the future reach back sometimes into the present to pluck on a heart-string or fill one with fear, to wake up a driver or short out a light, to spark inspiration or obscure a thought. On some level, I believe that my memories are not so much exact sensory recordings of things I experienced in the past but rather rifts in the fabric of space-time that allow me to glimpse other worlds dynamic and complete in and of themselves. To me this idea is all the more reason to step back from the rat-race and cultivate within my bosoms such clarity and sensitivity that I might be able to sense when the future is calling and, instead of reacting blindly to its dictates, to choose instead what I know to be right, what I know to be Truthful and blessed and virtuous. Oh, if I could only just stay strong, keep up this good work, and see my duty to the end. Aho.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥

on getting drilled

For the past ten years, I have endured pain stemming from a number of cavities. Year after year, the caries would grow bigger, creeping ever deeper into the center of my molars, sharp flashes of wince-inducing pain shooting ever more frequently throughout my nervous system. The damage accelerated in 2005 when I moved to Los Angeles and got caught up in the Hollywood bar scene, evaporating into anything-goes partying and the sure-I'll-do-those type of decision making. (“Hey let me just go home real quick and grab my toothbrush,” is not something one is prone to say before embaring on a week-long bender.) Since coming into some cash late in the last century, I kept telling myself: “You have to get your teeth fixed; you have to get your teeth fixed,” but rather than take care of my chompers, I chose to self-medicate and travel to Thailand for three weeks. Finally, though, last week, I bit the bullet (ha!) and placed a call to my local budget dentist, who within two days and for one quarter of the cost of my plane ticket to balmy Siam drilled out the rotten cores of my teeth, swabbed in some medication, filled the holes with durable epoxy, performed a thorough cleaning, and sent me on my way. Oh what joy to be able to chew once more! By refusing to take care of myself and my teeth, I was self-mutilating, and I shall not soon repeat these offenses. Aho.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥

courage to trash

For the last couple of weeks, this author has been reopening and sorting through the piles of boxes left behind by his deceased parents. This is the third time he is handling the detritus; the first time was shortly upon becoming an orphan after his father's death, when he had put every loose thing in the house into boxes in preparation for selling the place; and the second time was two years after the old drinker had ceased breathing, when it seemed likely that both of his siblings would acquiesce to jettisoning the property. He is glad that he is going back through the boxes, now, four years later, because he has gained the courage to get rid of stuff that has a bit of sentimental but no great monetary value. A dozen years have passed since his mother died, and he has finally reached a point where he is OK with throwing out most of the trinkets she might have ever touched, most of the papers she might have handle; they have lost the binding pull of grief, the sharp edge of loss. Finally, he is able to differentiate between things that are superfluous and those that really matter, such as her drawings and paintings, her wood-block prints and hand-knitted shawls. Oh, but where to put all this valuable stuff once it has been separated from the chaff and this house is no longer ours? Does it get shoved into a storage locker or into the basement of someone else's house? These are questions for another time. For whatever it's worth , this author has done his part in the painful process, said his goodbyes, and sorted out those few things he would truly like to hold onto; now, it is up to the others to take the time to repeat the sorting process on their own, to look through these trifling treasures, to take what things they want, and to burn or toss the rest. Catharsis lies in letting go, in clearing out the cluttered mind, in saying clearly Yes or No, and dealing with what's left behind. Aho.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥

on velocipedists' tools

Avé, dear reader, & welcome. Come, let's explore the tools of a velocipedist. Her most basic elements are the following: a stout and fearless heart, that central muscle primed and pumping proudly, pulsating without palpitation betwixt her gently heaving breasts; fed by her blood and quickened with the hot action of honest labor are her brains, which analyze, sort, and weigh the options facing her before commanding her body to tilt this way or that, to zig or zag, to shift gears down or up, or to abandon her smog-sled altogether and roll tumbling onto the nearest patch of grass; then come her senses – mostly those of hearing and sight – with which she takes in the landscapes flashing by, which feed her brains and give them data to chew on and react to. On the periphery lie other elements, lesser but by no means indispensable, namely: a loud, no-handed whistle; a quick, sharp shout; a firm pair of close-toed shoes; a kit containing all the tools she might need to fix her wire-donkey on the fly; an ankle cuff to tie her pants away from the whirring links of chain; a helmet or other such protection for her cranium; patches of reflective material prominently placed to make her presence known at night; and lights to cut a swath through the shadows' gathering and alert others to her hurtling passage. With these few tools the smog-sledder transects the phaltscape (asphalt landscape) silently and cleanly, skimming across the planet's surface using only the food in her guts as fuel, discretely voided wastes her only measurable exhaust. So come, now, my hearties, and grab you bike, partake of its wonders, there's so much you'll like.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥

Immortal Technique -- Point of No Return

on falling short

This past Thor's day, I watched a North Korean propaganda video (see here.) Similar to other videos leaked from behind the bamboo curtain, this one was crudely cut together from pirated media; it featured a man explaining the ills of capitalism (his face was blurred out) and the methods by which our Western society keeps us numbed and tuned out to the world around us. I consider myself to be a forward-thinking individual who works hard to counter the incessant lure of materialism, who educates himself through non-US news sources (such as RT.com and AlAribiya.com), who does more than most other people he knows to eat well and avoid processed foods, and who does his part to combat terrorism and protect our natural environment by not driving a car but rather moving himself around on a bicycle. The video referenced above, however – even though it was a low-budget hodgepodge originating in a place the government of the United States says we must fear and mistrust, it made a lot of sense to me; upon watching it, I knew that in my efforts I was falling short, that I was just as much a puppet of this country's capitalistic overlords as my fellow Americans who engage in constant and shameless consumerism. This knowledge waned until I started trolling on tumblr, mesmerized by image upon image of tanned and buxom beauties, whereupon it returned full-force. I sat there in shame, looked upon the shamefulness of my ways, vowed to do better, performed a Death Meditation, and started the healing process anew. Aho.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥