I woke up and watched the light bounce around as I like to—a gallon of honey would be kind of perfect next to the window . . . What if by mutually compelling forces of chance and reason (chaos is order seeking itself, and vice versa, someone told me that) it turns out that although AstrologyGuy pulled it outa his ass he stumbled into some weird truth of blessing traveling creation via portals of honey pots? (What if even AstrologyGuy has P-on-the-end-Woman pussywhipped?) Things I know for sure: honey doesn’t rot, it would look good near a window of light, that I upend the bottle of it straight into my mouth on a regular basis, that it’s good especially with peanut butter, that it heals wounds, that I’m buying two gallon glass jars of it today and sending one to my father. And that with the cranky storm (wooow) of the last few days breaking up in my head finally, my first thoughts today were of ‘highest values’.

V.1 Freedom is a Necessary Burden. I have been thinking about this a lot recently in regards to work, for instance. DmS looks for work, a mournful process. I have been barely able to do it in my life, waged work with hours quantifiable in that way. In fact, most of the people most closely related to me by blood and closest to me by choice and emotional attachment—these people are for the most part organically biologically spiritually intellectually instinctively intuitively allergic to selling their time. They’ll give it away. They’ll piss it away. But if you try to buy it off them, forget it. Some have chosen poverty. Some, like me, have wiggled themselves into a lifestyle of fixity wherein automatic deposits and withdrawals take care of themselves, as if for the most part money doesn’t even exist—don’t want anything beyond the means of that fixity and you never have to think about it hardly until the car breaks down. Some have looked for work that transcends its day in social value and is as a result of course a fraction of lucrative. Then there are the (sometimes lunatic) businesses, “pet sitting and interior design”, junked snowmobiles compiled into one working and sold, hell maybe a bridge of swizzle fucking sticks from one end of nowhere to the other, just not 9-5 of tasks with no inherent value of being interesting. Or death (off and on). So be it.

I am looking forward to more opportunities to think about this Value 1 in all terms, not just the personal where it is most difficult to apply in ideal balance. P-on-the-End. All the women in my life so far whom I’ve gotten to take that personality test and tell me, they’re all J-on-the-End of the same string of mine except for that difference. Once I sprayed the tub with Scrubbing Bubbles and realized that the clean-smell had to be actually a physical substance, molecules of whatever, little tiny beings going into me via my nose, and the thought freaked me out. Feelings are like that. Invisible, but of a substance that is measurable, but not easily so. Intuition is a name for one method of measurement. Some are slower to add things up than others. But they get there, and maybe the time it took them (P) cements their judgments. Add in V.1 and the Get Offa Me backlash . . . well let’s just say you can take a swing at somebody so hard it knocks you on your own ass too. For xmas, I’d like to be able to keep my ass up off the ground with the cold seeping in.

bill (always good) evans – when I fall in love
marit bergman – my love (timberlake cover—can’t believe it’s good but it is)