Brothers and Sisters,
Bring it.
Sprinkle me with your best action, Boofredlay, that indeed is Jack's action bird, and he is way bringing that hog -- Blasting so "yeah" -- my day is complete you are a saint.
Outstanding! Pour three!
It's a killer cool exchange here -- fearless fire power of the mind is "the game" -- connection and questioning -- and "slam dancing with ones muse" it foundational.
That's how most "artists" start out -- "I want my own music and my own dance and my curvy muse to get it on with."
Sex and creativity are two sides of the same coin -- and the smart Jack see this and kicks no one out of his nest.
Bring that and pour a cold one (covert drug reference).
There is this one dude you run into on PBS from time to time -- some low tech teacher dude -- he's using a slide projector most of the time -- his name is Jim Campbell, or Joe Cammbello, or Joseph Chambell, and he's the Jack bird that wrote the book that GWL ripped off when he cobbled together the script for STAR WARS -- (George Lucas: the time traveling director -- able to travel back in time and fungus rape one of my favorite films -- please read agitated lines at close of this spool).
So, this Star Wars rip off book... a book titled something like, "the Hero of many masks" -- or "A thousand masks" -- I got hold of a copy of it, and I was checking out some of his action, and he presents the notion that you have a choice to either become a shoe cobbler like your old man, and make your next of kin all happy and validated....
Or, you can choose to leave your "Jack boring rule creating culture" behind, and venture out into this kind of "wilderness of personal freedom" where you can be free to really kick it all out and evolve and be proactively real, and bring it with gusto.
Leaving the lawnmower back home.
However, it will be dangerous, filled with scary Jack buck dangers and shadows -- and to your next of kin -- and your neighbors -- you will be seen as part of that danger once you go into that woods.
If you go there -- out into the wilderness -- many of the folks you left back on the boat will imagine that your entering into a freak dance of destruction -- or at least your willing to "play with fire" -- and to many, that seems unreasonable and quite Jack bird scary.
However, this is also very sexy -- the danger is often arousing to a person who does not dwells there... Curves dig this, as it reeks of power, and bring it action.
Man dudes dig it to, but they are scared to let it be brought on them -- they are all insecure and "I'm want my chicks to bow down, I don't dig the inverse" -- but in point of fact they do, they're just not man enough to own that action... I digress.
Others want that kind of sexiness in their lives -- but they can't go out there into the dark woods, and be exposed to all those dangers (but they do it in there dreams -- that's another story all together), and so they stand at the edge of the woods and say, "oh, man, I would have to be on drugs or something to go into that place..."
And by inversion, the person living and thriving out in that scary, sexy, creative incubator of a woods, must have taken drugs to have gotten themselves out there.
And for them, it's true -- and I so dig that -- respect it as a personal deal -- there is no malice in that kind of a perspective -- it's more a mirror then anything else -- it speaks of the person who makes such statements more then anything else... And I embrace that.
If you are an artist of any kind -- musician, poet, painter, etc. -- you will hear at some point in your life, "Yo, Blink Monkey, your action is so rad, you must be sucking a massive crack bowl, brother, pass that action over, I want a hit off that corn cob..." Or some such thing like that...
I guess at some point, it just gets a little old... But then again, everything old is new again if you look at it with passion.
Your girlfriend can be the hot "bring it on" Muse, if you reboot and look at that mouth, and think about how badly you want a bit... Inviter her to the Cat and the Fiddle for a highball and say, "enough with my repetitive construct of you, baby, to night I want you to tell me about your life out in the woods!"
"I know you've been out there, and I know it looked to me like you were on drugs, but it was really the killer pumps that allowed you access -- the little extra inch of exposed thigh, and your expression of your art and lust."
You want to buy that girl a drink.
This awesome forum, is the best I've encountered.
The people who slam here are more artists then passers by, and they all have heart, and creativity on their minds.
Sketch Up is a tool to an inner place -- a bridge to the woods -- and to our grand parents, it is a "digital drug," we are taking over and over.
Make a sandwich and ponder.
This forum is not "reality" -- communication here is a smoky mist that travels the "electro stream" to coil out from our computer screens just as far as we need it to extend for us to hit return, or the next arrow key.
I would hope that the mists of my communications linger, and penetrate deeper into the "woods" of the readers minds then the common Jack vocabulary of office water cooler niceties.
"Hey, bring it in here, between the trunks, I got some Jack action for us to explore," or something like that.
Posting action here is about hosing the muse, and "steam powering" a extraordinary erection -- that's the candle in my shadowy forest.
Durant "LSD" Hapke
%(#004040)[*Posted May 7 -- 2007
Unknowable Target,
Bring the high-tech methods, you funky thaumaturge of space battle.
Your action is on, a thing I orbit, a thing of interplanetary penetration, and lust.
I want your thought glands, your nuggets of inspiration.
That dude George Lucas is now such a pathetic writer director, that his latest three horrifying films actually created a rip in time allowing him to go back to 1977 and destroy the original STAR WARS film.
What clumps of junk.
And that dumb little kid he brought in to be slave boy? What kind of slave lives with is mom, and gets to make cool crap out of junk all day long?
The little wiggler should be living in a ditch covered with a steel grate, and there should be all manner of retched scum and villainy tapping there flu shanks onto his noggin.
No fun robots -- just dirt, and bugs.
Going.
Going on it.
And, film two, or was it three, when some day to be Darth Vader, spins himself out into the desert to find his mommy bags (why he left her there on sad planet for so long is a whirling bit of confusion as well, but smoke what you have, or bum one), and he goes all “I’m a blood lusting mad killer, I’ll eat your little brains, the brains in your dangling skin sacks,” on the sand people... Who cuts the action there? Who cuts away from Anicananny’s homicidal blood letting of the retched sand clan?
George “I once knew how to make a film” Lucas.
And how do the funk brother Jedi knights get to use the force to cheat that crazy flying bug gland man deal, out of the greasy slave boy kid crap.
That’s not killer, it’s stink hole.
Durant “I digress” Hapke*]
