Epilogue

And just like that an albatross has been lifted; blustery whirlwinds of my phlegmatic concern breeze through with wanton indifference, dispersing grains in eternal camouflage amongst the feeble dunes of the helpless.

. . . _ _ _ . . .        . . . _ _ _ . . .        . . . _ _ _ . . .        . . . _ _ _ . . .        . . . _ _ _ . . .        . . . _ _ _ . . .

Below are some outtakes, as it were, that possessed not back fierce enough to weather the composition process. You may detect certain phrasings or connections to the resultant narrations that happened to replace them in the cut. They are left exactly as sat at the bottom of my Word document; all grammatical, logistical, and typographical issues are shrapnel never to see surgery. I thought they might offer keen insight into my “artistic” process and otherwise underscore the outright lunacy that guides it. At the very least, I hope they inspire a few chortles. Enjoy:

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* Eternal props given to the next person to casually unsheathe this photo before the eyes of one inextricably locked within tightened grip of psychedelic trip. Years ago, after I first left him stunned by such an insidious maneuver, a friend of mine repeatedly returned the favor to an unsuspecting crowd of ravers at a massive outdoor event; calculatingly he brandished the same high resolution Takashi Murakami phone background image I snuck before his eyes, as they innocently brushed by. Nearly every last drugged up loon mirrored his developing reaction with uncanny similarity, submitting progressively more ensnared within the web of visual ambush before he or she could even question just what exactly was going on.



*And to, ostensibly, be smirking underneath such a dubious maskTherefore, it would it appear this man was made to adorn such a mask while under duress. He could actually be the victim of a hate crime. Did the blue Mexican lucha libre reject put somebody up to this? Just how deeply does this rabbit hole go?



*we call in M. Night Shaymalan When the dinosaurs invariably massacre the humans, the machines will learn invaluable lesson Then they should team up against the evil forces of a different set of cyborgs and learn an important lesson along the way – Josh writes good premises to things.



*Holy fuck, would someone kill that menacing pitched brass incessantly blaring away in my head has me on the brink of total cognitive shutdown. While sight of any new photo would customarily spur my neurons into aimless jockey for position like players vibrating across an electric football table, the menacing pitched brass blaring away in my head here, however, simply precludes any opportunity for neural shimmy. I am in catatonic musical trance and I know far too few bars to



*If those people were replaced with robots, one would invariably presume this a still from Terminator 4 or something, the one where the machines try to paradoxically alter that which, by definition, has already been etched in immutable time line. Although I guess that presupposes no string theory bullshit going on or something.



*Had I not, would what I’ve just squarely proposed as characterless and otherwise undistinguished have managed to coalesce in the favor and appreciation I ultimately rendered for it? Probably not. Would it fail to warrant any process of appraisal to begin with?



*The group of those boats appears to be awesome.



*you, prostrate, spine aligned with wall, seeking siesta during dog day of summer sans sombrero; you, a message in a bottle, coursing the seven seas, unwittingly washing up before the feet of another enrapt by the distant glimmers fortifying deserted shores; you, vainly needling those in need of a shift in slant, solely for the sake of confirming a confirmation bias no needling may ever mercifully mend; you, half-heartedly committed to the commitments conditional to cruxes craved, never conceivably commencing considering your heart is never considerably constant;

Beijing, China Part II

Okay, you see these sticks of incense? Rumor is, the more of them you ignite and draw together in collective billow, the greater the likelihood of your prayers, or some other nebulous construct I have never even bothered to rationalize explanation for, reaching fruition. To be perfectly honest, I’m not entirely sure whether divulging what I wished for while I lit mine will undermine the efficacy of this mumbo jumbo or not, although I’m confident someone out there could fanatically aver certain steadfast conviction, but I am just super dying to share this with someone. So, you know that girl who works at the steamed bun place down the road? You know, the one who whips up those chronic sweet potato mantou specialties. Yeah, well I totally begged the universe to link the two of us up in some sort of quirky unfolding of events we can each forever insist the other recounts whenever someone inquires into the genesis of our relationship. You think it will work?! Gosh, you just never know with this mumbo jumbo; it works in such mysterious ways…

Should I be turned on right now? This may as well be a male I’m looking at for all the facial construction might suggest; however, there’s just something about those rainbow shoulders that has me considering spending the next forty minutes ceaselessly opening new tabs in hot pursuit of the one and only porn which might provide fit backcloth for my current inexplicable erotic state. You just never know what entirely too specific, absurdly perverted fantasy my troubled mind will eventually settle upon. It’s like a depraved game of “Plinko” where the puck is guided by sundry unique pegs forged into distinctive shape by a lifetime of sexual deviance. So much so, that every now and again, that puck ploddingly negotiates those perils only to disappointingly flop at terminus with anticlimax – that is to say, I am even capable of failing at masturbation… forty minutes in the production. Of all the aberrant and knotty concerns the content of my character has raised up until this point, I fear this may be the most tragically revelatory. If one could only know just how opprobriously dejected a man sits, pants humiliatingly wrapped around ankles, staring at his flaccid penis, as he contemplates just how pitiful his wretched existence is.

Gonna find my incense, gonna hold her tight, gonna grab some afternoon delight. My motto’s always been: when it’s right, it’s right. Why wait until the middle of a cold dark night, when I can light a bunch of this shit on fire and warm myself with the soothing heat of mumbo jumbo I’ve never even bothered to rationalize explanation for? Seriously, I’ve got enough of these bad boys to dispatch smoke signals so densely stretched, no supernatural being could fail to catch eventual sight of them. I mean, unless it were myopic or blind, or something, but that really wouldn’t make too much sense for a mystical entity - that much is obvious. What remains in question, however, is just how much of this shit I need to light in order to veer from the deterministic path a singularity carved out for me 13.8 billion years ago. You would think this clutch right here would do it, but again, this mumbo jumbo remains all too cryptic. Whatever, I’m just gonna blaze this shit up and strut my fucking stuff like the Statue of Liberty in “Ghostbusters II.” Look out inferior life and structures below, I’ve got some shit to destroy under the size 879 copper sandals I puritanically go about my exceptionally noteworthy existence with. Although, as I’ve just come to be reminded of Harold Ramis’ recent death, I think I might take pause for reflection instead, as he was ten times the person I could ever be… Wait - no, no, no, no, nooooo! I’ll just light some more incense and forget all about that. I am a unique snowflake. I see things from more crystalline perspectives than others. I am a pious man altruistically devoted to the well being of all, incapable of harboring ill will towards any. I have made no choice to be here, yet I will be rewarded as if I had; though, I require no such unimaginative motivation in order to continually place one size 879 foot in front of the other. Isn’t that right, me?

The girl in the background is underscoring her current whereabouts with a mobile update of her Facebook status. Ironically, those whereabouts ceased to surely exist the instant she elected to withdraw the phone that severed her from them.

Guess where I am? That’s right, the only manmade structure fool hearted, nationalistic imbeciles have persisted in stridently contending distinctly visible from outer space, despite irrefutable personal account and scientific principle thoroughly attesting otherwise. Sadly enough, it wasn’t until a fairly recent Chinese led mission to the moon corroborated what they were meagerly unwilling to admit, that the Chinese were finally prepared to drop their outrageously unsubstantiated claim to fame, suggesting the Great Wall of China the only erection discernible from outer space. In yet another exploit of misguided hubris, however, they have shifted towards a line of sophistry purporting distinguishability with an extremely powerful telescope from an orbit just outside of Earth’s atmosphere. Much like their initial claim to fame, these reports remain neither substantiated, nor worthy of deliberation to begin with. As a point of plainly unassailable fact, however, Chinese air pollution does, in fact, make its foul existence unmistakably evident from the great depths of outer space. So distinct does it manifest, that its contrast to the clouds and fog appear as if an iota of humility were surreptitiously dropped within the Chinese national conscience while all our backs were turned. We see you iota. Seriously China, this is the sort of abject grandstanding I would expect out of North Korea. Just as the world’s eyes rolled in response to Kim Jung-un’s “leaked” MS Paint rendering of tactical nuclear missile flight paths, so do they in the face of your fraudulent claims. Stupid…

You know what I like about this photo? That highly original sign I’ve formed with my fingers. Sure, here in the good ol’ USA we associate it with the notion of peace, however, the blokes across the pond from us throw it up whenever they’d like someone to know he should kindly fuck off. Given the haze of mixed sentiments towards China, my tireless prose persists in propagating yet further visible from outer space, the ambiguity of gestural interpretation here presents such a canny double entendre, Shakespeare would find himself otherwise compelled to plagiarize it - stolidly foregoing the potential damage this decision might levy upon reputation, as he throws the utmost prudent caution to the wind. So then, I’ll let you decide: am I showing China some love, or subversively lambasting? That might be the sort of open-ended DBQ item one finds on an AP History exam some day. If you happen to be one of my adolescent readers, consider yourself fortunate to have received this prognosticatory leg up from the rest of your peers. When the day of that exam comes, you’ll be more than adequately prepared to bullshit your way through whatever questions actually appear – you’ve learned from the best! Then, when you are ultimately accepted into a prestigious college, remember these words: the most important thing one can learn in school, is that the most important things cannot be learned in school. I must credit this, ever so slightly adapted quote, to Japanese author, Haruki Murakami. If you haven’t read any of his works, you should consider doing so; perhaps while you’re supposed to be studying for a class that some group of people, thinking it knows more than others, arbitrarily deemed requisite, despite invariably imparting neither short nor long-term provision for the chaotic currents radically governing your life. Trust me, one day, when you’ve inexplicably found yourself atop the Great Wall, you’ll thank me.

I know I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, or the smog monster can even subject to question, but this shit just goes on and on forever. Just imagine the increasingly bitter acrimonious state a coerced, intensive slavery would demand one interminably fritter the rest of his life away wallowing within. Some motherfucker, not one shred better than you, capriciously decrees you dedicate the rest of your existence to the perilous task of fusing exceedingly heavy and unwieldy boulders together. Day in, day out, you burden the physical and emotional hardships of this vexingly absurd task; until, one day, calamity invariably claims your life, leaving you dead atop portion of partial construction, where you will ironically spend the rest of eternity, sealed within the stones subsequently stacked around you.

Near, far, wherever you are, I believe that the Great Wall does go on… Except of course from outer space – where even deprived of the smog monster lurking above it, it would remain unable to be seen. Though the disjointed ramblings I’ve curiously permitted to stand thus far would suggest otherwise, I don’t actually believe you can all read my mind, and, I suppose it’s about time I start composing like it. In which case, let me explain that the introduction of this narration was meant to be a parody of Celine Dion’s, “My Heart Will Go On,” better known as, “the shitty theme song to ‘Titanic’.” I’m not really sure why, as I can’t even say I’ve ever viewed the film in its entirety, but I feel as if I’ve heard that song far too many times, and yet, I had to Google the lyrics to see what came after the first line. If ever there stood sturdier testament to just how shitty Celine Dion is, I cannot properly say, nor reasonably imagine. I can identify exactly one of her songs and recite merely a line from it… and boy do I wish I could have it removed from my brain. That’s the kind of pestering memory item that would best justify undergoing surgical procedure offered in, “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.” Hollywood really needs to quit with this tired line of propaganda, ceaselessly insisting upon preposterous notion of ubiquitous true love, and produce a movie with some balls already. A movie we can all relate to. A movie where Josh opts to have his brain sliced open in order to forget five words from a Celine Dion song.

“Nando Mambo” is my tag name. Shhhh… Don’t tell anyone!

I couldn’t tell you why, but this image hurtles me into deep melancholic space. Actually, whom am I kidding? I’m incapable of experiencing emotional states predicated on sentience. Why I feel the need to perpetrate otherwise, and how this compulsion could possibly reconcile with the former sentence’s declaration, well, that might be something that ass is pondering right about now… the one in the picture - not me… Well, technically… oh, nevermind… Actually, you know what? Now that I truly think about it, technically, it’s probably a mule. In which case, consider my previously purported melancholy genuine. There’s just something about a mule casting his stare out into a polluted abyss atop the Great Wall that curiously imbues me with a mild emotional faculty an ass simply never could. That poor fella; what ever could someone be burdening him with up there? There’s nothing to do on the Great Wall, other than walk around for a bit and maybe take a planking photo or two. Are people really thirsting for mule rides across it? Wait a minute, consider me fucking parched, because I sure as fuck could do with a mule ride across it. Holy fucking shit, did you ever screw the pooch on this one Josh! Looks like we’ve got some fresh fodder to recurrently prod my brain from reaching sleep whenever it randomly deems necessary. Clear some space, “what would I do if I were rich?” and “how specifically I hate everything,” there’s a new kid in town – and it’s a mule. It’s too bad a kid is a baby goat, and not a baby mule, otherwise that might have been pretty awesome. What’s that? It wouldn’t? It would have been even more asinine?... Get it? Ass-inine… My work here is done.

Right. This sign is really going to deter some “blow acts” from happening. Get real China. And while we’re at it, consider yourself fortunate the cable car remained in order for the tenure of my passage, as, had it not, I can guaran-damn-tee you I would not have kept my head. As a matter of fact, you can be assured my frantic paroxysms would have infected each hapless passenger with the utmost trepidation, suffusing the carriage in an unmitigated deadly bedlam some astronaut with an extremely powerful telescope would have gotten a well-deserved kick out of.

798 Art District – quite possibly the solitary hamlet for modern art and abstract expressionism dwelling amongst China’s great, artistically homogenous expanse. That proclamation is about as evidentially threadbare as anything I’ve ever put forth, though awesome locale to conclude my travels it remains. Unfortunately, our apportioned time here was egregiously limited to but an hour or so - just about long enough to leave the most scurried, superficial of scratches on the surface of this visually vitalizing alien terrain. You see, prior to this stop, we spent a couple of hours languidly shuffling through a jade factory and showroom, penciled in so whomever arranged this could receive a kickback when all of these middle-aged women in my group purchase a bunch of shitty jewelry devoid of any character. I seem to recall one such woman, vacantly trying on item after item, ending up with a jade bracelet stuck around her wrist. I believe it took several attendants and various lubricants before it could slide off and be returned to glass display case the woman never once fostered any earnest intention of permanently freeing bracelet from. Seriously women, let this serve as paradigm: stop trying shit on for the sake of trying shit on. Of all the ways one could spend minutes of her day, that will remain the stupidest - right beside fretting over the state of a shitty relationship you would have ended years ago were you not dreadfully acquiescent to fear of remaining but momentarily alone. Well, that or reading this blog. I suppose the official order would depend on just how many years one has already committed to the all too easily settled upon partner she will invariably go on to marry when pregnancy sort of douses what little spark of venture theretofore remained cowered dimly in the deepest recess of her mind and renders any fleeting chance for up-close and personal vision of this super sweet statue from ever conceivably occurring.

You see, this is the kind of shit I’m talking about. You’re not going to find anything so bizarrely delightfully playful in any other pocket of China, just more ambiguously homeless shirtless people – trust me, I checked. Now, just look at the concentration etched into this dude’s face… but more importantly, look at his deflated chest, pregnant belly, and sagging pink pants – that’s where shit’s at. This dude keeps it true playa for real. His credentials speak for themselves, incontestably warranting the free lifetime membership to Josh’s friendship club I have already gone ahead and granted. I suppose that could prove a colossal blunder though; he might just turn out to be one of “those” guys. You know, those ones that do annoying stuff, like, you know, conventional manifestations of any the stereotypical personalities their telltale body makeups might insinuate, kind of stuff. That sort of stuff is bad news. One really needs to keep his eye out for it. All the same, I find it hard to refrain from dusting off the welcome mat to my heart and waving this guy right on through for a tall glass of lemonade. Maybe I’ll even set up the badminton court in my, good half-acre or so of lawn, backyard and see if my man is down for a little semi-competitive sporting. Yep, just me and this dude, feigning indifference towards victory, pulling muscles in gratuitous acts of showmanship, working up a sweat, and slaking our thirst with some good ol’ fashioned, homegrown and squeezed US lemonade. For those keeping score at home: US: 234723850, China: 4*

* We both earned a point on that one

Just do not trust these guys… They look like they grew up in a grifter colony principally distinguished for its mastery of Three-card Monte. Nonetheless, temptation effortlessly grabs me by the scruff of the neck and compels me to take a closer look at just what exactly it is they’re hawking. Okay… Looks like a multitude of intriguing sew-on patches. I ain’t mad at that, not one bit. I kind of wish I played some Three-card Monte with these guys now, they seem all right. Wow Josh, that’s exactly how they get you - stupid. Remember, these dudes grew up in a grifter colony? Uhhh, that was just a simile asshole. Oh yeah. Man, stop doing this; they’re going to put us away. No they won’t, we’ll form a clandestine underground club predicated on anonymously engaging in savage bare-knuckle battle with other demented screwballs, who we will all effortlessly indoctrinate with anarchistic manifesto, before carrying out an array of increasingly destructive fanatical strikes, each inspiring more social upheaval than the previous. Eventually, we may even be able to wipe out the country’s credit history. Just do me a favor, when that day comes, promise you won’t shoot me in the face. Okay? Uhh, yeah man, I’m not gonna shoot you in the face. JUST SAY YOU PROMISE! Fucking hell man, settle down; I promise. Alright then… LET’S DO THIS!

Yeahhh, if we could somehow implant childhood memory of playing on this in my brain, I would have no choice but to put that Celine Dion requisite on ice for a few. This thing actually looks blatantly dangerous; the rungs proceed to the very top. Damn, I wanna rule up there though. Fuck Mount Olympus, Zeus clearly doesn’t know what’s up. Shit, throw a couple of plush pillows about like a 15th century Persian sultan’s harem, kick your feet up, and smirk forever indulgently, knowing damn well, there’s three velociraptor boldly stacked below you. After a bit of that, nefariously orchestrate unspeakable twists of misfortune just for the sheer whimsy or sadistic, petty vengeance of it, impregnate whomever I feel like inexorably condemning to yet nastier fates, and abandon the children without second thought until, one day, a general bad mood compels me to eternally torture them in perversely painstaking manner.

I wish I took an intro to art course or two. Perhaps then, I might now be able to affectedly suggest some sort of profoundly manifold interpretation of this sculpture the world could soundly reference whenever summarily dismissing me a hopeless poseur. “We all know that art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize truth, at least the truth that is given us to understand.” I don’t believe there could exist any treatise capable of similarly elucidating what Picasso so pithily stated there. If you’re questioning just what exactly he was getting at, then you’ve already gleaned his point. I’ve always found discussions over the value of art, or just what defines art to begin with, to be silly forays into the needlessly pedantic – dogmatic pageantry at best. One must reflect on Picasso’s aphorism and forego any posturing. Take this body of work I have found myself ensnared within. I am several months in the creation and am yet to reveal much of what I have composed to anyone. While I truly desire the critical feedback (whatever it may be) one might offer having read this all, ultimately, what keep these fingers forever moving will never be predicated on such. These lies need only reveal truth to me. Should they ever reveal truth to you, consider yourself deceived.

I pledge allegiance to the flag of the People’s Republic of China. And to the republic for which it stands… Wait, that’s sort of redundant, isn’t it? One can’t pledge allegiance to a republic and then the republic for which it stands. Although, actually, this might just be a subtly inflammatory meta commentary on China… As if to say, we declare our loyalty to the admirable country you purport this to be, but really the one, censoring the Internet and refusing to admit the Great Wall is not visible from space, hiding beneath. I suppose, however, since they don’t use the American pledge of allegiance, this postulation is sort of academic. And good on you for that China; our pledge of allegiance is, ironically, just the sort of indoctrinating propaganda that I would expect from you. It’s absolutely criminal that recitation of The Pledge of Allegiance is a tradition allowed to perpetuate in our public schools. How we glorify “patriotism” in this country is SCARY - an all too obvious zeitgeist propagated by the sociopaths that persist in raping us of the “freedom” it protects. So, if you’re reading this kids, don’t pledge allegiance to a flag; nationalism is vile. Be proud of your country for what endears you to it and nothing more. You don’t want to find yourself involuntarily pledging allegiance to the republic nor the republic, for which it stands, do you?

Remind me not to ever fuck with this guy. Seriously, please do. I’ve been known to enter states of inebriation so deep that consideration towards physical prowess of those I playfully engage in sassy needling with tends to sit on the sidelines staring up at the rafters. I’ve made it this far conflagrating merely a few thorny incidents my friends righteously insisted on “rescuing” me from, however, I’m pretty sure the first slurred, snarky syllable I direct in this guy’s direction would find me in hospital bed, wrapped mummy-like in head-to-toe bandages, foot elevated with wire suspension. Does this arrangement actually exist, or is it just something my cartoon-addled brain conjures up? Holy shit, I just Google image searched, “hospital bed bandages” and nearly shat myself in a moment of clarity: I really need to curtail the sheer reckless behavior I regularly engage in. I do not need to be looking like any of these unfortunate monstrosities who, in all likelihood, didn’t even bear slightest responsibility for their calamities. I suppose it shouldn’t even require such an extreme consequence to mitigate my conduct so, and, at this point in life, the fragility of mind and body should present self-evidently, however, scrolling through people wrapped in head-to-toe bandages is what did it… far more impressing than the cartoons would have ever led me to believe. Wow, what a momentous day this is. I think I have, at last, seen the light – henceforth resolutely determined to treat my mind and body like the temples they are. The vibrant effluence of this soon to be harmony will glow so spectacularly bright, the world won’t help but bask in it. Gosh, I need to start mapping these lifestyle changes out. Let me just lick the tip of my pen and… *ding-dong* “Dominoes…” Sweet, pizza is here! I’ll just hit this spliff one more time before I go in… Anyway, what was I saying?

Hey, nice childbearing hips you’re sportin’, J.C.! No need for any immaculate conception there, huh? Looks like you’ll have no trouble partially gestating however many aborted females it takes to eventually become blessed with a male child who can properly till the unforgiving soil you so questionably cling to. One sovereignly permitted child’s gotta look out for that paddy field when you’ve gone old and grey, and let’s face it, it’s not going to be any feeble-bodied girl. Honestly, with hips like those, I’m altogether mystified as to how you’ve even managed to preserve the arability of your plot this long. Sure, your flabby parlor tricks might be able to delude a couple of fools into believing the water they sip is wine, but there’s no ace large enough hidden up those sleeves to effectively tend to this exacting earth. Come on now, just how is it that you’ve been able to sustain things this long? Oh, not in the sharing mood are we? Perhaps a formal introduction to my ten dearest friends will sway you otherwise… *crack*

Errrr… Never mind homie, I was just playin’. You know how I like to clown around. For real though, we should kick it some time soon - come through and watch the game or something. I’ll throw a few burgers on the grill, you’ll turn a little water into wine, and we’ll escape the missus’ incessant pestering for a good minute. Seriously, you could do with a bit more recreation and caloric intake - really round out that frame and properly complement those manly hips of yours…

You won’t find similar tagging in China outside of this art district. Or maybe you will; who really knows whether these are pretexts I pivot from anymore? I sure don’t anyway. It’s a shame that graffiti lettering is so fundamentally difficult to distinguish, as I’d really like to know if those are Chinese characters or Roman. I’ve often wondered just how problematic correctly interpreting logographic language graffiti would be for a native reader of it. With over 80,000 Chinese characters already but subtly differentiated from each other, what havoc must a little artistic distortion render on translation? Just as the Chinese characters, all too many insipid gweilo tattoo across their body under false impressions that they read, “strength,” “karma,” “only God can judge me,” or some other such half-baked tripe, may be only mere slight strokes away from intended configurations yet invariably render ludicrously altered translations like “assface,” “gilded shopping cart,” or “second brother unicorn” instead, would Chinese graffiti lettering not then similarly suffer from its own according liability? Whomever bombed this piece coolly ambled away from it thinking he just emblazoned some weighty anti-establishment sentiment passing onlookers would unconsciously cogitate for the better part of the day, despite each one of these puzzled fellows deciphering contrarily - stringing together perceived diction into his or her own uniquely amalgamated gibberish. Next think you know, “the revolution will not be televised” has been construed, “sparkle evening moonlight dance” or “belly dragon shadow golden garden,” and the world just goes on about its day, never once generating a fervor for radical political assembly as the artist had envisioned. That’s some serious logographic language world problems right there. Nonetheless, I’m certain it has been issues like this that have accounted for the farcical naming of some of my most beloved Chinese-American restaurants over the years. Here’s looking at you, “Jogging Panda Jade Dumpling Fountain.”

Goddammit! How many fucking times do I have to choose a, “go green” paperless option for my online commercial transactions before one of these institutions actually heeds my selection? When I empty my mailbox, it should present me with nothing other than packages of frivolous items I can no longer even remember ordering or the occasional pleas from my alma maters to consider charitable contributions towards educational systems that, were I even able to sufficiently recall ever being enrolled within, I would ignore all the same – fuck those big businesses. Seriously, paper mail is tantamount to voicemail; don’t even bother composing it. If the crux of a matter can’t reach abstract in text message, then just keep calling until you tire of the fact that I never answer and leave a text impressing the weight of desired discourse. Nine times out of ten, that weight won’t tip the scales of my interest, however, so you’re probably best off just never attempting to contact me at all - through any channel really. I’m sorry, but it’s almost effectively impossible for one to ever contact me expecting a delightful reception, much less a response. This hermetical practice seeks not to breed contempt, it is nothing more than a declaration of my disinterest towards anything that doesn’t happen to be something I am currently engaged in or have made plans to engage in. To be fair, I suppose there isn’t even much purpose for title to my phone in the first place. Every now and then, however, the flashlight function does come through in the clutch and pretending to be engrossed in web-related bullshit, despite not possessing a data plan, whenever awkward scenario looms imminently is certainly standard strategic social protocol I tactically rely on at this point. Just the other weekend, in fact, I found myself so outright obliterated by whatever chemical grab bag I blindly snatched while heading out the door and making move to the club, that the simultaneous, overwhelming urgency to both vomit and shit while I was there, was outweighed only by my rapidly fading vision’s descent into altogether blindness. Had the club’s exit been but another foot or two from desperate retreat, I may have found myself in hospital bed, wrapped mummy-like in head-to-toe bandages, foot elevated with wire suspension. By the grace of Ahura Mazda, the great Zoroastrian creator, I managed to Daredevil my way through the black curtains separating me from the great outdoors, where the cold air powdered its hand before pimp-slapping me back into consciousness. I then sat down and collected myself over the course of the next five minutes, pretending to be engrossed in web-related bullshit on my phone all the while. During this pitiful pretext, I noted several missed calls, voicemails, and unanswered texts. Summarily, I dismissed them all. Never have I returned to address any. Don’t send me paper mail and don’t attempt cellular contact. It’s that simple.

This guy’s pretty cool with that newsboy cap, wife-beater, casual smoke, and classic detached repose. Why is it that no one in China seems to be able to present himself similarly? Seriously, you’ve seen my photos, where is anyone that doesn’t perpetrate hallmarks of stereotypical fashion and conduct? Are they all hanging out in lightly flooded underpasses or something? Not exactly my top choice for surreptitious loitering, I mean, this guy’s right sock must be saturated to critical capacity. That sort of calms a bit of the cool winds lifting his sails. Sure, he’s got the look down stone cold, but as soon as he advances mere step away from his post up, that soggy sock will slosh so palpably distinct, no attempt to play it off will mask just how truly vexed this singular sensation has him. Wet socks homie - there’s no escaping the schadenfreude anyone within your immediate vicinity will indulge in. Probably should have thought about that before you decided to kick it down there. I’m sure there were enough telltale indications that this ground possessed structural and environmental proclivity for puddle accumulation, but you just couldn’t resist that leaning pipe, could you? So what’s the plan now? Wait until the sun penetrates the dense smog monster above and evaporates the scummy slops you’ve so shrewdly submerged one foot in? I have a feeling you’ll lose feeling in the other leg by then – if evaporation even remains biologically feasible to begin with. So what then?... The silent treatment, eh? Well, guess what. Two can play at that game. And you know what? I can just take leave freely and spontaneously return whenever desire to relish in your continual plight should hit me. And what’s truly wretched is, you’ll still be here; sock uniformly saturated, hardly a muscle moved, if any, because… well, because you’re graffiti street art… Holy fucking shit Josh, what has become of you? Have you really spent the last three months of your life addressing fictional scenarios inspired by myriad photos? You have, haven’t you? You were supposed to prudently regulate this time to allow for the meticulous mapping of immediate lifestyle changes best treating body and soul like the temples they are. Instead, just yesterday, you spent a good half hour lying prostrate on the bathroom floor, face splayed out on the cool tile, before your neurons decided to stop indiscriminately firing off like guns at a Mexican wedding and you regained just enough strength to claw your way back atop the throne to finish wiping your ass. This blog has nearly killed out. You realize that, right? Even now, two hours remain before you must ready yourself for the first day of the workweek, and yet, your fingers move as if possessed by psychopathic spirits. And for what? Seriously, can you tell me? What drives you so? Go on, tell me: what drives you so…

I’m back. Though previously figured implausible, I’ve managed to permit a considerably extended sabbatical from the composition of this blog – an unprecedented, protracted intermission, ostensibly propagated by life’s myriad cumbersome distractions coalescing yet more chaotically than ever; although, I would concede a voluntary election for respite partially accountable as well. After all, the literary cape and cowl must, in fact, be aired out from time to time in order to make way for real life. You see, a lot has been going on. A lot is always going on. Most recently, though, it just seems like a whole lot has been going on. Now that the dust has been brushed off this blog, I could certainly annotate these manifold diversions with ardent pleasure and distinct aplomb, significantly clarifying the murky outline of my character in the elaboration; however, a condensed rundown befitting of this limited platform would ultimately proffer undue short shrift. Ergo, I am sorry, but you will just have to wait for the novel. No tongue-in-cheek - a novel will follow. Patience... For now, cape and cowl call once more; defenseless to their siren song, I remain. Suited up, initial advance from retirement traces path…

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867-5309. 867-5309 – not the numbers associated with this art district, though, altogether none too distant from them either. Coincidentally enough, they also happen to make up the title of an 80s one-hit-wonder performed by Tommy Tutone! Try dialing and asking for Jenny. It will be a hoot – I promise. If you happen to get through to her, do me a favor and let her know, “The crow flies easterly with the shepherd’s flock.” She’ll understand. Just kidding, that’s not even Jenny’s number; it’s actually the number for “Nintendo’s Power Line!” Just when you thought defeating Mike Tyson in “Punch Out” was a lost cause, Josh comes through in the clutch baby! Now you see that, that’s the sort of altruistic gesture Jenny always appreciated. Oh Jenny - we could have had it all… We could have split the atom with a rubber mallet for how powerful our collective bond was. The mere sweet nothings whispered between our ears could have seen the oceans part. Our soft caressing lips could have set the world ablaze in the resultant shower of sparks sent forth. Oh Jenny, just imagine… imagine you and me, together everlasting – traipsing through the scorched cinders of everything less important. If only… if only our respective families embroiled not in eternal acrimonious feud! If only visage were to ever be espied outside of perilous clandestine rendezvous! If only our public union invited not certain fatality! Oh what cruel fate hast doth rendered us star-crossed so? Oh what wicked creator, bereft even of slightest modicum of remorse, would dare conspire in the calculation of such atrocity?*


* Ahura Mazda, the great Zoroastrian creator would.

Hey you!

Yes, yes you.

You with the ineffable peculiarity of soul forged in the embers of a life distinctly incomprehensible even to yourself; you, equally vexed by inherent incapacity to ever truly know another as reciprocal inability to ever truly be understood; you, deconstructed and subject to unique interpretations as unique as the subjects deconstructing you; you, second guessing your second guesses primarily; you, lying to yourself each and every day all the while assessing all the world liars; you, trapped in a box with infinite exits each infinitely closer than they would appear but further than that which is closest; you, no better, no worse than anyone, except perhaps that someone; you, placed here without consultation, now tasked to forever consult; you, a product of variables varied from the variables themselves; you, building land bridge after land bridge, though an island remained eternal; you, a victim of selfish culmination, struggling to reconcile how this all culminates; you, a self-professed something or other one or another professes contrarily; you, with mind chaotically tormented by more than one could ever glean first grip of; you, on a crash course for calamity claiming casualty conspicuously considered conquest; you, never once placing foot in front of the other without calculated consideration, never entirely certain consideration can be freely calculated, nor if this is even worth considering; you, a juggler’s juggler, stupefied in standstill, slackjawed and enslaved to the ever distorting motion blur; you, persistently burning the candle at both ends, to ends meritorious contingent on one’s lens; you, a rebel without a cause, for how can there be cause, if all beseech applause?; you, a hack hacking away at hacks, grinding your axe in wanton attack; you, camouflaging fragility, forgotten or forefront, for fear of fellowship forging altogether at once; you, shamefully deriving all too similar solace from the struggles of the interloping and the dearly close; you, doth protesting too much whilst doing too little; you, doth protesting too little whilst doing too much; you, condemned by law to plagiarize, plagued by perpetual pretenses purporting otherwise; you, a figment of your own imagination or somebody else’s; you, an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object, never once stopping, never once moving, every waking moment of every single day; you with perversions predominantly presenting painfully perverse, though pardoned paling to the plenary perversion of this preeminent predicament predicating their very possibilities; you, eventually exhuming more flaws from capital achievements than the virtues that qualified such exalted stature to begin with; you, everything and nothing to everyone and no one; you, merely a construct whose suspect title to true experience is corroborated only by the hollow confirmation a voice inside your head incessantly echoes from wall to wall; you, interminably engaged in array of battle so big and so small, no caped crusader would welcome confrontation of any; you, analytically critiquing Sisyphus’ form despite conceding his perseverance a virtue further from your grasp than the grapevines overhead Tantalus; you, smugly sustaining a superiority complex superior to all you’ve supposed yourself superior to; you, a poor player thrumming tune untold to a throng of tinnitus; you, ruminating whether our relative blip on the radar of this universe spells out our insignificance or if simply spelling this out certifies otherwise; you, basking in the glow of a spotlight secured into position prior to all that is previous; you, sharp as a tack, pinned against the wall all the more for it; you, reviled and revered for a recalcitrance rendering reality a real pain in the ass; you, never brooking the blues until the belief birthed them, now bitterly bemoaning a blunder like no other; you, know what you did; you, unaware of all consequences; you, left out bare in the relentless rain, brandishing but umbrella invariably inverting and lips incredulously entrusted to do otherwise; you, hot on the trail of that pot of gold while the rainbow extends from posterior; you, humorously in harmony with the chaos cryptically concealing the humor snickering beneath all; you, confirming pen, tongue, and look dwarf sword capacity to cleave each time reflection returns half the person once believed; you, bitter despite better and knowing better; you, obsessing over the trivial to the eyes of another obsessing over the trivial to the eyes of another; you, categorically plodding plan B’s path as plan A’s path was never part of the plan, for plan B’s plainly proven perceptively; you, slave to corporation any way you slice it, from sentience to service to suggested donation; you, in this for the whimper, never a fanfare, for no fanfare could sound so loudly the limelight you are living in would appear to luster less; you, a once in an eternity opportunity sadly squandered for sure, should you not stretch to the stars and settle, whether those wings are wax, or weathered for all; you, 46 chromosomes of potential significance, a mosaic we will never know or understand, spun out and streaming lost to these majestic streams; you, that’s right you; you dear reader… well, you are alright.