Dailys Project: Day 52

For friends following the Dailys Project, you may have noticed a slight gap. Im still making, but recently had some trouble getting things posted. I’ve also had some other projects taking time and attention. As such, Im going to do some cross pollination today, and offer as the Daily the first 15 pages of a work of experimental literature I’ve been writing. Currently, it sits about 50 pages and the original formatting is different from whats here on the blog; its creation is atypical to say the least. Presented here now for pleasure is the opening to “The Weary Man”.

The Weary Man

by Aaron Stewart Lewis Knapp

Struck wonder dumb and fumbling, it begins innocently enough with a slight tapping sound inside of self. Assured of duality by its tapping, the germ spreads into an addiction for phantasmal eye spaces of gods, demons, and math before numbers. Fred regains his sense of place as steps lead faithfully remembered to a place he has been before on many occasions through time and space, the store. Guided by gliding soles of Indonesian polymer, deprived now to the orangutan on site, every scar in its leather a bookmark of what was done in the service of Remus and Romulus…

Time wound back, he had been there before and the shoes show the proof. A path tread across wet and dry places leaving spaces to show what went before and what was marked to be taken away. He had to go to the store. The subjectified object~the objectified subject. He had to go to the store. Thread-bare at all times the correspondence between soul and ground, grinds down the molecules until ductility of air is revealed in a snap-pop-swixxle of the left foot, then the right to the swinging door wedging the threshold between yesterdays known and tomorrows maybe.

[Did she ever call him back?]

People pass by

things they do not know

Humans are not blind

it is willful

Selective sight

A Destiny of culminated choices stacked against chancə lead the trembling feeble fingers from the mouth to the lock. The shaft itself passes through many times, but is never considered as something holding space; rather something solid, full and unstirred, inside the tired comings and goings of daily utility. In and out, that is all. Fred remembers himself in game once again, aging flesh against a stellar backdrop.

A single particle of imagine. We all know the imagination when it grabs hold of us. Most times we don’t even notice it working. There is no theory or equation for it. You cannot be prescribed this remedy.

He watches people pass through many places unseen believing they are seeing. Everything is understanding nothing, itself. There, in the psalm of his hand is the direct, intra-factual time-line line-up up-swing. Such power was once welded at Hume, Hegel, and Hobbes who surreptitiously dropped it upon a tile floor of Italian terrazzo….the trifluoride of the developmental mental lattice which brought about a great hunger in Frederick the Lithuanian war debt was paid in eggs though the reason was soft boiled and now his stomach churned and turned the door knob. The day comes rushing in. Frederick Charles William aka Will-chuck Ricky reaches for his head and there finds the shopping isle of Naxos lingers. With the deep rouge of barbaresco spilt on the eve of the knights window AND Ariadne is asleep on his stoop… He dare not souse the Rákshasas, though he knows his fathers death was the result of Karma….

Knowing what you are

is knowing what you are not…

How you feel is altogether another matter.[post-hypnotic suggestion]

Abba graciously taking 3 steps to the top of the landing, and 7 steps down multiplied daily to 21 and thereby recalls the 8/13th‘s mentioned to him at Fibonacci’s request. He still did not have his money. The flutter of postal discards dislodging themselves just as the info-polymer of the footwhere sheds another epidermis on stone. A recent addition, a political ad featuring the gravy fed faces of local successes, is stuffed in his box as it waves its clip-art red, white, and blue spangled strangle-hold upon his attention. Catapulting the mind (read 7) 34 times faster than the electro-chemical force-multiplier of McKenna’s pro-bono advice… heard moments ago upon the shit-box, listening upon the post post-modern silicone sage, in hand, guiding the daytime awareness of all willing trans-humanists; providing dactyl satisfaction when the cigarettes simply will not satisfy; though for Redrick Bill, it’s still good enough. He lights the tip and is turned on again back into the fold of memory. He opens the door to the street without pause, only refurbished reflections.

He is just like everyone else. All eyes are focusing on the great NEW. Fred is reminded this by the passing of a delivery truck. The commercial highway is become his pleasure path. Some individuals, in divide, are extremely bellicose. Years of college, positive agitation, and a horde of envious water wolves conspire in the beautiful, new, homes of reception that blanket the nation. “It is only today that we have reached our goal!” still lingers as fallen echos. Here is shelter for man and beast. Evidence of tremendous shock is everywhere to be found; nothing more eloquent than the crater. They go back their ship rejoicing and praying for us; rough running in my last hour in the gathering darkness. Bedouins hope for buried treasure

Your light produces glory

A beacon guiding

a search

for a lost specialness passed through Mother’s blood.

Fred finds himself wondering how to measure the head without removing the head-cloth. The whole new world now looks covered in jungle. The celestial script had been defamed and Cornelius Agrippa still whines about it. To that matter he seems to be approaching.

The pooka in tow was very interested in Fred’s shoes, having once visited the shoe factory itself. The name upon introduction was Pwca….and it was at once most intregeud to relate with some anxiety that one of the factory’s large store rooms did not, in fact, have any room in it at all. The World and the Hanging Man also fill the entourage, no doubt on way to a birthday party, though the Tetramorphs had to be left at home for allergy reasons. Not wanting company of such report on such a small mid-sized city sidewalk, Fred regrets emerging from the visca piscis of his abode. Yearning to be ploughed back into ground he as is a corn dolly stuck in a gift shop.[post-hypnotic suggestion]

What I sought with feeble hands

in the dark

lay at her feet the entire time.

May I never search again for that which is already found.

When I am lost I now place trust in angels to light the path, And what did they want from him anyhow?…Fred mused to himself as the lady and her two companions carried on and on and on and on.

And on. At last he broke from the ordeal ordering them like orderly s to ordinate a new pathway by which he might go to the store. Acquiescing to his request, it stimulated his sexual re courses…like rivers of blood…but not today. He had an important matter back home to get back to as soon as possible and he no longer could be kind simply to listen….no time for fuckery.

He tipped his hat, and strode forth. Two he knew and one he did not. Though they bade him to tarry alone, still the thought of them lingered for the entire trip, henceforth untold, but unfolding…

Awoke gently to rain

Coffee at the country store

Hitched into town with a kind old man

The name was Sam

On his way to church

We gathered the others

And went together

To pray and celebrate

With each step, another remembrance of yesterdays ravens, when tomorrows hawks have yet to appear. The walk always unfolds and lends itself to the treatment of eras past, where the weary man may linger still…

That day closed on the lake

With friends

We shot guns

and went fishing

For a good day in deed.

A little remained of that day, but only if you looked for it. But it was there. Like the wind in his face. It was there. Fred William kept his pace, like his word, buttoning the buttons on his zipper to keep out the cold, though it tried the door again. The wind always carries time signatures. With attentive ear, listen:k

The little mana-kin reports favorable news from the realm of dysterpia. The king has allowed all gays to marry and the fingers of typing to lope off….Miss Chief tells us that the weather shall be deplorable, and refills are are in the back. Check back for more at 10

Instantaneous report the tinker of gnomes in the side work is an indication of conjunct contact. To cradle the contradiction is to bear the fruit of ages. Further care may need to be provided

Of_____________________________________

Fred just kept walking. He never let things like that derail him. In fact, you could say he was proud of his ability to ignore what was going on around him. Besides, he knew the way to the store just like like the back of his own hand. He readjusted his seat, and kept walking.

The store is a wonderful place. This thinks Fred as he is walking. The store is a wonderful place. There is something there I need. No doubt about it. Yep. The store is a wonderful place…

His thoughts drift hazily back to Babylon. Thats where he left the augurs’ staff. Perhaps he can buy another, Chronos would know where. Ever-present the king may be able to portend a favorable sail. The mer chants, the sirens calling into liquid death debt depth charge accounts, usury surly, they would know where to get one. Soon enough he would know. The store was in sight, coming over a hill like all the best things his ancestors dreamed of in one place. He could not forgive himself from the journey he took, only that he alone took it. How could any of this relate? He passes the houses full of families, the weary man strides by, outside grimly watching, and wondering if someone has a plan. Is there any direction to this other than the fact Fred need cigarettes at 2 am?[post-hypnotic suggestion]

Thats exactly the rough stuff generally found to which he is fond. So much breeding and competing and something has got to give or get. Anymore he doesn’t even question why he does it, he just does it. Has the world gone on auto-brew set for a strong Ecuador blend of transubstantiation flavor? The grind id is low, and may need cleaning. There is a rough patch of time coming in now, and like Phil Dick sensed, numerous nows are bleeding into each other. Its not a remembrance or a prophetic flavor, it is the number of times we’ve all prayed for something to break through and touch us….now

some thing Washes us, like the

Rain

It rains down

what was once

lifted up.

The water puddles,

the water washes away.

It covers.

It reveals.

It muddies

It clears

Through the ages the high mountain

is brought low to nourish

the roots of the field.

Lifting up what once came down

HE was there…finally. Fore ages the store has beckoned men from the distant lands, across deserts and mountains, all are drawn like puddles to the water-shed. The Store. Whereby we know the true

Worth of a Man versus the claims about the big bang, evolution, consciousness, and other equally as important facets on faith that there is someone wiser, with credentials, and they know the truth better than us.

(Fred readjusted himself for public consumption and reached for the door)((This always happens))

By what value do we determine the worth of a man?

Is it intrinsic?

His value set unchanging

from that day of birth? WHAT IF HE SMOKES

Does it grow as he does? SO WHAT!?

Or diminish as poor choices mount?

Simply put, institutional science homogenizes the human being; it disregards the novelty of experience, and ultimately produces a population entirely dependent on authority.

All this crowded Fred. All he needed was cigarettes, and some coffee. Everyone always wants to push so much drama about “eat right” and “sleep rite” can go and fuck off….If man is currency,

then what is the value of his exchange? Fred wanted to know.

How does the world cash out the investment? What was he going to do with those thousands of Camel dollars he had saved? He even had his friends collecting them…If all men are born equal

Do they all die equal?

How can a man rise above?

Fred walked into the store. It was Daniel’s shift. He liked Daniel. He could tell that they both enjoyed some similar pirate relax stuff….there was a relation there o\f things best left unsaid…

How can a man’s heart be made bankrupt?

Impoverished in soul?

How many times may he start over?

If he rises above the station of birth is he worth more than the quiet, simple man…

Who remains steadfast in the labors of his father? (He liked Daniel because he could tell Daniel believed)

If a man’s life produces many words

does he shine brighter than he who humbly keeps his truth?

Take two packs of Camel filters.”Fred managed to emit from his mouth. “How you doing tonight, sir?”

And if born static in worth,

then what is the true reckoning of the wise and the fool?

Oh, I’m doing alright. Just ready for this night to be over.” Daniel replied as he turnedinstinctually to get the cigarettes. This was a routine they both knew, loved, and took with all seriousness of a Shakespearean drama. “You say two packs?”

Is dust worth more if it comes to rest on gold than gravestones?

Yeah, two packs.”

By what value do we determine the worth of man?

Sym-bi-o-sis: Having obtained what he sought, Fred turned towards home. A bridge had been established, a durable bridge over which goods and services flowed. The orders of the modern polity where given the due regards, and fellowship again poured over the pay counter of the ever-all-present store.

He said goodnight, turned, and walked out the door… “well…There is no great set of commandments for either the shamanic or artistic processes. Instead they are modes of behavior in support of a highly possessive nature.”

~Will-chuck Ricky 1878

from Treasure Island.

Fred greeted the threshold again, to gain, with the same reverence, with some reluctance of love for an everyday object to stand for a transcendental notion, the everyday extraordinary that happens just by walking through a door.

Always unsearchable in his precreation, Fred assembles himself upon exit from the store, knowing damn full well eyes will be upon him. Yes, this one, Fredrick Von Whielhem, both the veering stares of steering cars and the vagabond nonchalant crocodile tears…he had better keep his composure, fore ne’er A-DO-WELL does stay here! With that he tarried on, away, away from the store and its lights, once glowing to welcome, now beaming to show the poor bastards bad taste…

He always took the shortest route, though not all ways, fore sometimes he took the prettiest path, and that, tonight, is how he went. The temperature is 45°(some say 44°, though it feels more like 41°,tbh:) humidity 62% with winds of 7 miles/hour.

It blows out of the SW

It was time for a cigarette…or was it? The “1st one from the pack”& “Just got a new pack” vibe is strong, but so is the “fresh coffee and a cigarette” back at the house. Both are equally appealing to the rough skinned knee jerk high jack jump boots pussy boss like him. He would wait for home. “Do both!” and plenty of nights he would, esp if feeling rotten and self loathing…

Not tonight however. Fred reasoned for the coffee. Everyone with that “eat right” “sleep right” shit can fuck off. Fred liked coffee and his steps kept him coming towards it. Or was it the other way around?

Either way, he didn’t care. “Oh those steps carry me home..” Fred whistled it often even though he has never heard it, and it may possibly not exist. Not until now. It was that song that he liked to whistle, and its the whistling to that song that he likes, that he likes so much, to whistle. He whistles “mustering wombats woozy over yonder shores…” and “Those rabid teen age whore mongers….”, doing so at the schuman resonance, whistling around 3 Hz and extending to 60 Hz. Fred likes the elf that helps. It helps him while he whistles. The fundamental mode is a standing wave in the Earth. Ear. Art. Heart. Hearth. Her. Earth. Either way, he didn’t care because cigarettes and coffee were back at the house anyways.

In the night, he strides alone, the weary man, and though child does mock and school mistress heckle, the weary man makes no word

against which they may assemble. He steadies his gaze upon gold symbiosis to which all true lovers partake, dividing whom may dine and whom is forsake. The kettle boils over, and the breads are all a puff. There’s ready-made butter, and cream. Dream deliciously lavishly loud, loving every ever-expanding retail space…Fred steps boldly into the oncoming light of a Ford sedan. It strikes his body and he is sent tumbling into the air like a doll, landing in a most undignified manner. At least that’s what Fredrick imagines as the car goes past. Present, FUTURE. He often wonders if the random imaginings of his own death are in fact true glimpses into alternate timeliness from which he narrowly escapes? Does he die? He couldn’t remember having done so before. Where do these ideas come from.. that blow in as a wind with no heritage nor promise to pay? What the hell are you supposed to do with that? The car continues down the road and Fred shrugs it off, just as he always does when the wholly divine loving OTHER seeks to commune with him through the medium of thought. Calculations within a bio-chemical processor. The same processor that causes a minor twitch and readjustment in Fred’s body at the moment he consciously divorces that thought. The one that wants its god-damn coffee and cigarettes. Yeah. THAT one. Regardless, he knew St. Nicholas to be the patron saint of both boys and thieves so he guarded his thoughts accordingly. God once told him to “Trust no one”. And he did. Twice.

Now, home is looming in the view finder of his mind, the horizon always revealing in a manner that is con sensually agreed upon. Still he labors his steps home, though its shape may change with the age. Still he labors his hands to build up a worthy foundation upon which the elder child-king may find recess. Some call it home. Fred was going home, and he knew it by the Pavlovian reaction to use the bathroom which stirred inspiration within him. The necessary nigredo.

For the first time in ages he looked up to the Nothing1 in the stars, and cast himself there adrift in the unknown ether of mystery, captured for a moment in the black everywhere all present. The geometries reveal themselves to the eye of the most tender. He cries for joy but dare not show it in a world where the satellite watches. Between him and his God now stands an orbital mass. He realizes then and there his children will never be born. Not once, nor ever again. He winces as the stars continue to twinkle. Lost in the electronic waves are those burdened with the task and talent to choreograph and scry yet another apocalypse. He yearned to hear Nero fiddle. He wanted to relax. Stars. Home.

He fixed his gaze on the door way so familiar. He thought of all the versions of himself that walked through that door in any given year, day, moment, decade, of time. He knew himself by the marks left on the door way through the years, like the worn leather of his shoes. His soul borne the brand. He rode for the brand, and would die for the brand. All those years through the eye-glasses of a fool bent on knowledge too rich for him….let him drink up and have a toast. Like a coronation in reverse, a bride flipped for room and board, he enters the weary-eyed and weathered hallways that snugly fit him as the vaginal walls of a lover, their time spent together a fact of actual location….to her he came into. To there he entered, again, those hallowed hollow halls that he first spied in the sleep-light. It was the architecture of a dream.

Years ago, while driving into town for the first time, Fred had seen a man coming out those stairs and thought “I think I want to live here”

It is every indication he saw himself come out the door way years ago, and he still greets himself home everyday. He sees the possible future faces of himself in the reflected glass of the street-side door and says quietly, humbly to himself….I live here.

1Optional Chronology Shift to Chapter II

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