I realized two days after the end before the beginning and upon subsequent completion the end was the beginning is the end. Words man, words say things, they open up a world of indefinite reality set upon vinyl to a record player of life. A side, B side, each has its qualities and each has its way of being. Can the tortoise shell glasses redeem the sacrificial lamb from its wrongs upon the hill of judgment? Can a semi-religious statement be made to seem like one come from the mouth of a non-believer? Mark off the prices of idiosyncratic Black Friday stores, raid them for their wares, for their solutions to ancient living. Turn statements and maxims on their heads and understand than going forth, that moving is preferable to standing still. Relativity doesn't apply here Einstein, understand this kind of statement too is funny because it confronts an expression. Understand wordplay might be more important than understanding, that the Black Forest contains secrets of mythological understanding set upon a pedestal of nothingness and lies. Understand that saying you are mighty fine and being mighty fine are one in the same. There is no lie at play here. The cliché goes that people always lie when they say “I'm fine” but in this case you should speak it truly. You are fine. You are alive. You are fine. You breathe. You are fine. You can eat a calzone and send that motherfucker down your throat, through your digestive tract and enjoy the crap out of it.
Understand that being this in debt, that spending these cold nights and short rides that feel like infinity at the life store is a good idea. They have a fine selection of coats this time of year and a coat is precisely what is needed to protect yourself from the frigid air. Understand the deeper implications of that statement. Understand that discount furniture is a sham, yet it is worthwhile at the same time. Understand I have no clue what I am talking about. You should be able to see right through me, through the cult of personality in which I worship myself. See through the cult of personality that everyone has about themselves, no man is humble. No man is an unintentional martyr. No man, no woman is the lamb. They are all the zebra and few morph into lions. The lions do not move the world. History is for the zebra they told me. Understand what that means, because I don't. Be adept with the mind, be sound in spirit, and vivacious in body. Be not the ideal of what I want. In fact, better that you are the opposite. Better that you try to convince yourself you can make it on your own and this rubs off on me. That we go our separate ways and eventually never see each other again. I will flee to Seattle. I will flee to Portland. I will become the South. You will become the corrector of my geography. Proctor the test of determinacy while I stand back in chaos and squander around in my propensity to incorporate the words “striding, mode, and forth” in all writings. Understand my spell check doesn't believe in calzones, that putting this up for people to read won't change anything even though I think it will. Understand that “meta” thinking is precisely what is needed now to counteract the consequences of whiskey. Understand scotch on the rocks is a man's drink and anyone who can drink it authentically is in fact a man and not a boy. Understand that carrying a pipe, a lighter, an emergency cigarette defines manhood, not physical brawn or ability to intimidate. Intimidate by presence, by continued existence in the face of stares and adversity, in the face of the alternative goth kids trying to convert you to melancholy and depression is a waste of time. Understand that writing half a sentence that comes from nowhere and ending that sentence is. Understand that forgetfulness is not equated with being a being about being. Prefer to be while to be be. To Do is to Be. To Be is to Do. Do Be Do Be Do. Sinatra is a god, he is the man of men. The fedora is his crown and the stage is his throne, the microphone is his scepter. This writing is about him, it is about Dean Martin, Hemingway, Bukowski, Lebowski, for they are all in the same camp. They are all men. Dean Martin is because of his swag. Hemingway because of his beard and because he lived by a lighthouse so he could find his way home while drunk. Bukowski is because he had the courage to voice who he was and lay all things bare in self introspection and he was an old dirty bastard ass motherfucker sonofabitch. Lebowski is because he IS “the dude.” Understand that understanding understanding is not understanding anything real or finite about understanding. This is what I want from you. This is not what I want from you. This is just a mindset. A snapshot and it too will fade in eight minutes when I stand in the coffee shop, waiting for a turkey club, which is the holy grail of hating humanity close while loving it at a distance.