The Fractal Journal

1.3 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter One: The Cambridge Gable Scene (‘Gator is Waitin’)

1.4 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.4 – The Cambridge Gable Scene – (Horticulture)

1.5 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.5: ‘To Luckadoo Cove’

1.6 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.6 – ‘Is there anybody out there…’

1.7 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.7: ‘Jesse’

1.8 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.8: ‘Lungful of Bees’

1.9 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.9 – ‘Precedent’

2.0 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.0 -Calvinist Neuroses

2.1 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.1 – Mirage

2.2 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.2 – Estate Planning

2.3 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.3 – High Tech Summons

2.4 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.4 – Amazon Stonehenge

2.7 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.7 – Meeting 211

2.8 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.8 – Itinerary

2.9 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.9 – Fact and Fiction

2.10 Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.10 -Kaffeeklatsch

2.12 Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.12 – ‘One Pair’

2.13 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.13 – Reentry

2.14 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.14 – Phoenix

2.15 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.15 – Apollo and Dionysus

3.0 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.0 – Inherit the Wind

3.1 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.1 – Stardust

3.2 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.2 – Loyola

3.5 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.5 – Pensive

3.6 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.6 – Feijoada

3.7 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.7 – ‘Good food and good work…’

3.8 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.8 – A Good Egg

3.9 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.9 – Oregon Hill

3.10 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.10 – ‘Thick Bushes’

4.0 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 4.0 – No room at the Inn

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Ramble – Decisions, Meaning, and Craft (Vlog)

On May 15, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn Philosophy, Psychology, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Just another little impromptu where I yet again try to whittle down what it is that makes it all worthwhile. Or something to that effect…

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 4.0 – No room at the Inn

On May 15, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn Sketch of Sam Monroe, UncategorizedLeave a comment

“Welcome! Welcome to San Cristobal!” Professor Bohm boomed with the enthusiasm of a tour guide.

I blinked in the balmy saline breeze.

“Fantastic isn’t it. This place is magic! No wonder that the seed of genius that had germinated in England blossomed here!”

“Huh?”

“He’s talking about Darwin.” Chuck filled in the gap.

“Si. I love it. This is my absolute favorite place. It is…electric…do you not feel it! This is the birthplace of the whole Earth.”

“I thought that was Africa,” Schmidt said.

I grinned at his Teutonic literalism. Though it was interesting. Where did life begin? I doubted that it radiated from some central location. At least not wholly. No, it made much more sense that places like this, like the Galapagos, had spawned the great biochemical adventure that we call life.

These were volcanic islands. And there was the primordial basalt mystery whose embrace was so fertile, so fecund, in its implications. At the crossroads of sea, fire, and air there had sprung one of the most diverse litanies of flora and fauna on the face of the earth.

The stark sparseness of the landscape, the stones that jutted from the lapping ocean, and the rose-colored sky of an onsetting evening were indeed stirring.

“It is nice,” I said.

“More than nice now, I’m sure!” Leo teased. “You Americans, sometimes you are so loud, and sometimes you are so English.”
The weight of my bags was making itself more and more apparent. We had taxied to a pier from the airport. “I’m beat. When are we gonna get some grub and bunk down?”

“O! Very soon. But not so soon that you shouldn’t put down those bags.”

“What right here?”

“No. Come with me.”

We followed him past coils of rope and other nautical paraphernalia up the length of the pier.

“Ok, you can drop it.”

“Uh?”

Leo didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he bent down to open a cooler.

“Cerveja?”

I dropped my bags and eagerly reached for the crisp freshness nestled among melting cubes of ice. The label read Eisenbahn. I looked at Leo.

He extended a bottle opener.

“So is the hotel near here?” I asked, popping off the cap.

Leo laughed in his quiet way, “It’s coming.”

1.1 (Intro) The Sketch of Sam Monroe

1.3 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter One: The Cambridge Gable Scene (‘Gator is Waitin’)

1.4 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.4 – The Cambridge Gable Scene – (Horticulture)

1.5 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.5: ‘To Luckadoo Cove’

1.6 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.6 – ‘Is there anybody out there…’

1.7 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.7: ‘Jesse’

1.8 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.8: ‘Lungful of Bees’

1.9 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.9 – ‘Precedent’

2.0 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.0 -Calvinist Neuroses

2.1 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.1 – Mirage

2.2 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.2 – Estate Planning

2.3 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.3 – High Tech Summons

2.4 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.4 – Amazon Stonehenge

2.7 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.7 – Meeting 211

2.8 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.8 – Itinerary

2.9 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.9 – Fact and Fiction

2.10 Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.10 -Kaffeeklatsch

2.12 Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.12 – ‘One Pair’

2.13 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.13 – Reentry

2.14 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.14 – Phoenix

2.15 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.15 – Apollo and Dionysus

3.0 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.0 – Inherit the Wind

3.1 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.1 – Stardust

3.2 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.2 – Loyola

3.5 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.5 – Pensive

3.6 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.6 – Feijoada

3.7 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.7 – ‘Good food and good work…’

3.8 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.8 – A Good Egg

3.9 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.9 – Oregon Hill

3.10 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.10 – ‘Thick Bushes’

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.10 – ‘Thick Bushes’

On May 10, 2018May 10, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn Sketch of Sam Monroe, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Image result for mato grosso

“Quick call Enya!” Sam exploded.

“Save all the whales, all the fucking whales…” Lucas enjoined.

We were in a large second story bedroom that had been converted into an office. In the center stood a cheap Ikea desk with a generous surface, across which were strewn aerial photographs.

“The area in question is a region of Brazil known as the Mato Grosso, which means thick bushes, though if you look at these photographs you can see that much of the area looks like Nebraska, due to deforestation.” This was the comment that had made my comrades burst into their little slapstick routine.

We were skeptical about the environmental industry that had hijacked an otherwise noble movement. Of course, we knew that deforestation of this magnitude was a legitimate concern. However, people have to eat, and who the hell are a bunch of latte-sipping first worlders to dictate a developing nation’s policies. Then again…This inner debate thumped away quietly in the background of my mind as I tried to understand exactly what all this Brazil business was about.

“Thick bushes?! Like in my dad’s porno stash?”

The NORP that had greeted us, an analyst named Mark held a palm to his forehead. “You work with these people?” The question was directed at Thornton.

“Mallum ingenium sine mixtura dimentiae fuit.”

“Come again?”

“It’s Seneca,” I said.

“Like the cigarettes?”

“Nah, he’s a Stoic, the phrase means ‘there is no great genius without an element of madness.’”

“Pfft…” Mark guffawed. “You aren’t mad, you’re just run of the mill assholes. Sophomoric little shits.”

“Sophmore year was my favorite,” Sam said.

“Enough.” Thornton interrupted. “Let’s get back to the matter at hand. We’re only here for another day.”

It was undeniable, we were on our way to Brazil, though rendered vivid through drama Hoyt’s proclamation of that trip, about a month prior now, was shaded with haze, like looking at an orchid through cellophane. I waited for clarification.

“As I said. This area is heavily deforested. It looks nothing like it did when Fawcett embarked on his final foray in ‘25. In recent years he’s been vindicated. There was a civilization there. Mounds, traces of roads, lots of pottery has been uncovered. Maybe it’s not El Dorado but it’s revolutionary alright.”

“Ok, so what does any of this have to do with us, with Hoyt and his limey uncle? I suspect the map he pilfered had something to do with this and it’s already been found. So let the eggheads mull it, yeah?”

“You anticipate way too much. No wonder you’re still a blue belt.” Thornton said.

“Ah yea! Now I’m game. Let’s go meet the fuckin’ Gracies.”

“Afraid that’s impossible.”

“Do they even live in Brazil?”

“Back to the matter at hand,” Thornton said firmly.

It was like sophomore year.

“About the matter at hand.” Lucas chimed in, assuming that Prussian coldness which ran much stronger in his father. “We’re not archeologists, or anthropologists, we’re…” he paused as the difficulty of defining PLATO loomed hurdle-like in the wake of his cross-examination. “…we’re ‘alchemical chaplains’ and I see nothing of either psychological or pharmacological interest there.”

“Nothing of pharmacological interest in the Amazon?” Mark asked, raising a disdainful eyebrow.

“We’re not field botanists, simply chemically sophisticated psychonauts, what’s the M.O?”

“Ah…here is where you will have to humor us…we have after all been very understanding with you…” Thornton said.

“Err…”

“First off, though there is much deforestation, there is still plenty of forest, and that map is…well like the rest of the mission…it will make sense in execution. Improvisation you see is key for developing the new dynamic the fresh ‘rod and staff’ that we’ve been trying to squeeze out…you’ll just have to piece the thing together as you go along.”

The rest of the evening was spent getting familiar with the topography of the region. The politics and culture of Cuiaba and a brief survival lecture. Which was going to be elaborated upon further when we landed.

I still wasn’t certain why we were meeting Leo in the Galapagos.

1.1 (Intro) The Sketch of Sam Monroe

1.3 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter One: The Cambridge Gable Scene (‘Gator is Waitin’)

1.4 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.4 – The Cambridge Gable Scene – (Horticulture)

1.5 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.5: ‘To Luckadoo Cove’

1.6 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.6 – ‘Is there anybody out there…’

1.7 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.7: ‘Jesse’

1.8 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.8: ‘Lungful of Bees’

1.9 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.9 – ‘Precedent’

2.0 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.0 -Calvinist Neuroses

2.1 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.1 – Mirage

2.2 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.2 – Estate Planning

2.3 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.3 – High Tech Summons

2.4 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.4 – Amazon Stonehenge

2.7 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.7 – Meeting 211

2.8 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.8 – Itinerary

2.9 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.9 – Fact and Fiction

2.10 Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.10 -Kaffeeklatsch

2.12 Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.12 – ‘One Pair’

2.13 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.13 – Reentry

2.14 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.14 – Phoenix

2.15 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.15 – Apollo and Dionysus

3.0 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.0 – Inherit the Wind

3.1 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.1 – Stardust

3.2 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.2 – Loyola

3.5 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.5 – Pensive

3.6 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.6 – Feijoada

3.7 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.7 – ‘Good food and good work…’

3.8 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.8 – A Good Egg

3.9 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.9 – Oregon Hill

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The King of Bohemia (Short Story)

On May 9, 2018May 9, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

3x4 inch Czech Republic Crest Sticker - decal coat of arms ...

The room was large with a staircase leading to an indoor balcony directly ahead of me. The crowd that milled about seemed enthused with giddy expectation.

I was uncertain about what this place was or why I was here.

The floors were marble. The paneling a rich heavy wood that may have been oak. Every member of the crowd was dressed in jazz-era garb, but after the European fashion, including myself.

A woman with neatly arranged hair and a long white glove tugged at my sleeve. Her hair was flaxen, but her eyes were brown, bright brown. They glowed with excitement despite the dim light of the chandelier.

“Isn’t this fantastic!” She exclaimed searching my features for a kindred response.

As I said. I had no recollection of what all this was. It was as if I’d awoken from a dream or into a dream. Like someone had flipped a switch and I’d assumed a new reality. Past and future seemed veiled. I could not penetrate them.

She must have caught my hesitation. Because her eyes began to dim, and a crestfallen, yet oddly threatening aspect overtook her delicate features. There was a definite air of danger. Not so much from her but from the air and the crowd. She was merely a pilot light.

“I can’t wait for it to start!” I exclaimed, trying as best I could to hide any note of affectation that may have slipped through.

“I know, I know! Every time it’s better and better!”

I felt another tug at my jacket. This time it was a man with a strong jaw and resolute eyes. He stood a head above me and was older. The shocks of white that streaked his hair when paired with rounded spectacles produced a stern and fatherly effect.

“Harry. Come here, Harry. Let me look at you.”

I turned around to face the novel conversation.

“Oh, dear. That’s no good. See how pallid you are. You must drink. Come on then!”

He wheeled round and led the way to a table that sat against the wall.

There was something about being called Harry that I really disliked. It wasn’t my name. Or at least shouldn’t be. But then again I remembered nothing. So maybe it was my name. But there was something beyond the possibility of mistaken identity gnawing at the periphery of my consciousness.
“See here. Look at it, look at how it sparkles, such a cheery thing, yes. Marvelous, we shall have you sorted out here and quick.” He said as he ladled some sort of soda from a crystal punch bowl into a port glass.

“Bottoms up.” It was more command than encouragement.

I hesitated. Something I was afraid to do though I didn’t know why. There was this overwhelming sense that questions were strictly forbidden. But, I had to know what was up.

“Where’s the guest of honor?” I inquired. Forming what was the most innocuous sounding question I could muster. It did, after all, seem like we were waiting for something. Or rather someone. It did seem like expectation had been ratcheted up to fever pitch. So long as I didn’t ask who the guest was…

“He’ll appear in due time. Punctuality never fails in the House of Hours. But in the meantime, precisely for this reason, drink Harry! For God’s sake…DRINK!”

There was no resisting the command. I downed the silvery green sparkling liquid in a single swig. It wasn’t unpleasant. There was a strong, bracing sort of citrusy aspect, and a hint of gin.

Then I felt it. The effervescence seeped into my bones, into my very soul. I felt as one with every motion of every limb in the hall. Excitement overtook me. I too was ecstatic. I felt the urge to spring and dance.

“There’s a lad!” The tall stranger said, momentarily resting an iron grip on my right shoulder.

With this, he disappeared back into the foppish crowd. I didn’t follow.

“Lucy!” I exclaimed approaching the brown-eyed lady. “Let’s have a kiss, Lucy.”

She turned her face away rebuffing my advance with a light hand against my chest. As soon as she made contact something felt wrong.

“Not yet! Harry!” She giggled though with a tad of cold behind the mirth. “Have you forgotten the etiquette?”

“But you look so beautiful! I want to taste your sweet lips to hold you close to my heart.”

When I uttered the word heart I realized what had felt wrong. Though why or how I knew it was beyond me.

“Why hearts Harry? Why would we need such things as hearts when we have such fine spirits!” She said raising the sparkling port glass up to her lips and drinking.

I was confused again.

She looked at me and smiled coquettishly and with what seemed like a twinge of pity. Before I could say anything she gave me a quick peck on the cheek and disappeared into the crowd.

I stood for some minutes my mind racing. Though it felt like an eternity my frantic search was quickly interrupted.

One of the swing players had produced a comically medieval note. At this, all the revelers stood still. From somewhere on the balcony which was now to my left a loud and triumphant voice called out.

“His Majesty, the chief of alchemists, the king of Bohemia!”

From a great door directly opposite the balcony, there came a mellow creaking, as it swung open to reveal a beturbanned man of moderate stature.

He walked briskly and wordlessly into the silent crowd. Brushing shoulders, tapping elbows, nearly twirling round his congregants. All of whom were absolutely thrilled by his strange, fleeting, though purposeful caresses.

As he approached I grew yet more surprised. The turban sat atop an English face. The upturned nose, the stiff thin lip, and those peculiar broad cheeks. ‘Bohemia, more like Bristol.’ I thought to myself. ‘An Anglo with a turban has usurped Prague?’ I was on the verge of a giggle.

He flicked against me. It did feel good, sort of invigorating. But I felt that he had noted the inner slight I had just had at his expense.

Because he stopped and eyed me cooly with pale blue eyes which were no longer friendly.
“We’ve got a spy, my friends!”

He pulled a mirror from behind my lapel. In the brief moment that my eye rested on the smooth glass surface, I beheld a revolting sight. All the pretty gentry that were gathered round were rotted. Flesh sunken into bones, denuded sinews, they were all cadavers!

I ran and pulled down a drape. The mirror was huge and all the circumspectly attired ghouls got a good look at exactly what they were. This sent them into a panic.

“Cover it up, o God cover it up!” A woman shrieked between frightened sobs.

“Why do we have those damned things in the first place!”

“It’s alright, it’s alright.” The ‘king’ proclaimed as he produced an evil looking ceremonial saber from the sheath at his side.

Before I could respond he had run me through. As I lay bleeding on the shockingly cold marble he knelt down and dipped his finger in my dwindling life force.

With this crimson ink, he wrote upon the horror holding mirror a number of characters which I was surprised to find intelligible.

‘Ad va el ho ata.’ The syllables sang out in my brain.

With this, he redrew the drape and the last thing I heard was his triumph.

“We’re gonna revel forever! This perfect moment! This house in time. Its timbers so strong! And stronger with each prayer. His angels can’t hold us. They can’t hold us. No. We won’t bleed out into the inky stars to be rewrapped by His whim! Michael is bound!”

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1982 – The Button – Doodle n’ Skit

On May 9, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

John: But what?

Gus: But what, what?

John: What does it do?

Gus: It’s the button…

John: I can see that.

Gus: It’s not that… but the…

John: ‘The’ what?

Gus: The button.

1982

Yea. It’s not the height of wit but I had fun doodling it out. Since there seem to be some parallels between today and the early eighties I felt it funny to dabble in nostalgia I’ve heard rather than lived.

Also, doodling is a great way to take your mind off an injury.

The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.9 – Oregon Hill

On May 9, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn Sketch of Sam Monroe, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Image result for oregon hill richmond north

“In the ghetto! The ghetto…” Sam sang out distunefully as we rounded a corner. Before us stood an arcane array of tarnished two-story homes, whose quaint porches seemed deceptively inviting. Like a lure for fools.

We’d been to Richmond many times but had never been this far north. The cities opulence, its position as headquarters for such dubious necessities as a Federal Reserve bank, stood in stark contrast to what met our eyes.

We’d heard about Oregon Hill largely through jokes in the rich sprinkling of yuppie-hipster bars, that littered the city proper like so many turds from some self-important cosmic hen. None of us were averse to the working class, because we had come from the working class but gnosis was also the reason that we avoided the area, even as we grimaced at the casual disdain of our foppish company.

I wondered why Thornton had decided to hole up here rather than the usual backroom of some shop. Apparently, he, Hoyt, and whoever else had decided to rough it had been out here during our two weeks of ‘lent.’

“Hey kid!” I heard somebody call in our direction.

I wheeled around. Standing on a porch a few paces off was a man with matted blonde hair that ran haphazardly over a pockmarked face.

“Hey, I know you’ve got a cigarette on ya.”

“Sorry don’t smoke.”

The expression fell. “Aww fuck!” He turned on his heel, walked through a door, and slammed it shut.

“In the ghetto! The ghetto!” Sam’s song resumed with even greater vigor.

I looked at the number on my cell phone screen. 286 A, we were two houses away.

As we ascended the creaky steps of 20th-century revival, a deep nostalgia, carried by the musty odor of well-used wood, overwhelmed me. I’d spent many evenings on such porches, sitting on their swings, leafing through whatever I could get my mitts on, embraced by magnolia scents, and serenaded by cicadas. That was a lifetime ago.

A brisk, broad shoulder, man with the air of a heavily armed boy scout greeted us with a business like, “Baird and company?”

“Nah, I’m Robin Hood, he’s little John, and the others are my merry band of thieves.”

“He told me you were an asshole…” The overgrown boy scout muttered as he stepped aside.

We entered.

1.1 (Intro) The Sketch of Sam Monroe

1.3 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter One: The Cambridge Gable Scene (‘Gator is Waitin’)

1.4 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.4 – The Cambridge Gable Scene – (Horticulture)

1.5 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.5: ‘To Luckadoo Cove’

1.6 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.6 – ‘Is there anybody out there…’

1.7 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.7: ‘Jesse’

1.8 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.8: ‘Lungful of Bees’

1.9 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 1.9 – ‘Precedent’

2.0 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.0 -Calvinist Neuroses

2.1 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.1 – Mirage

2.2 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.2 – Estate Planning

2.3 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.3 – High Tech Summons

2.4 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.4 – Amazon Stonehenge

2.7 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.7 – Meeting 211

2.8 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.8 – Itinerary

2.9 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.9 – Fact and Fiction

2.10 Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.10 -Kaffeeklatsch

2.12 Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.12 – ‘One Pair’

2.13 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.13 – Reentry

2.14 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.14 – Phoenix

2.15 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 2.15 – Apollo and Dionysus

3.0 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.0 – Inherit the Wind

3.1 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.1 – Stardust

3.2 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.2 – Loyola

3.5 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.5 – Pensive

3.6 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.6 – Feijoada

3.7 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.7 – ‘Good food and good work…’

3.8 The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.8 – A Good Egg

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Musings on Fate

On May 7, 2018May 8, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn Philosophy, UncategorizedLeave a comment

I didn’t even feel it. It was a perfect storm of can’t be bothered. Such a rich and vibrant symphony of haphazard bric-a-brac…culminating in the scalpel-like edge of a broken mirror finding its coda as it collided with my calf.

It was but a minor tickle, that instructed my eyes to gaze at the deep red bubbling well which had emerged.

I ascended the steep brick steps in a state of disbelief, blood flowing forth with the liberality of a Dublin tap.

‘Cold water.’ I fought my way past my curious pitador and turned on the shower. The stinging drops revealing the unsavory fact that I could see my fat.

I dialed my friend. Then realizing the full gravity of my situation dialed 911 and arranged for an ambulance.

The EMT’s and the doctor were good. I was transported, cleaned, and stitched in a reasonable span with only the minor sting of the local being the chief pain. Despite this, I do not savor the bills that are to come.

Economic and political kvetching can be addressed later if at all. For now that I have some time I feel it fitting to engage in some musings on fate.

Mirrors are famously unlucky. This fact coupled with that of the wound looking like an eye makes me wonder.

I’d often gazed at myself in that mirror tracking the progress of my calisthenic pursuits. Inspecting my expressions, whitling out weaknesses, evaluating flaw in carriage. Meditating on all the decisions that rendered me thus and so in these moments of reflection.

The mirror had been on my bedroom door. It had broken from too many forceful swings open. I’d taken it down and placed it outside near some trash cans, some number of weeks prior. I placed the shards on a coffee table that I’d picked up gypsy style from a rubbish heap on a midnight street corner. I’d discovered that the thing was too moldy for acquisition by the light of the following day. Had it not been placed just so by my trash cans and had I not taken only a half-hearted precaution, by merely making certain the shards weren’t vertical, I may not be in my present predicament.

The hustle to tidy up before Sunday company and the Monday grind…

All these things coming together as a strand of fate.

The eye-like shape of the laceration mirrors implications with inner sight, tease me with metaphysical implications.

Had I spent too much time cultivating my body…a body the insides of which were now revealed to be bloody strings and fat…

No.

A robust metaphysic requires a strong physique.

This was a lightning Memento Mori for which I am both grateful and annoyed.

A thing that contextualizes me in the great stream of ‘this is here, and that is there, and I am in its midst.’

Even as time is lost, a timeliness is gained. One of those strange nullifications…

Neither good nor bad as far as mortal ken extends.

Such is the breath of fate.

Gimp Chronicles – Mirrors and Doom

On May 7, 2018May 8, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

I might post a pic of the mishap just to let it sink in. How damn dangerous broken mirrors can be.

The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 3.8 – A Good Egg

On May 4, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn Sketch of Sam Monroe, UncategorizedLeave a comment

People like Leo always made me reevaluate my line of work. He was so genuinely thrilled by every nook and cranny of the ‘forgotten borough;’ Waxing on and on about the architecture of the Conference House where Lord Howe had met with Franklin to unsuccessfully negotiate a peace treaty.

I didn’t at all feel like herding him. Thornton’s shepherding analogies never sat well with me. But if not us, then who…the fundamentalists, the Chicoms, the Muslims? Jeffersonian transparency, actual education, reason, the enlightenment these appealed to few.

It was when I actually met one of those few, one of the good eggs, that I felt awkward in my own shoes. At times I would see myself as a stooped, homunculus like thing, stood at the center of my chest. I’d quickly snap out of this when I recalled the hospital.

Resources man. Resources were everything. You could have the best metaphysic, the best philosophy, and the best men and still without resources… Christ himself felt the need to multiply fishes. Unfortunately such magic was unavailable. Maybe that’s what he meant by you will do greater things than these. Doing more with less is definitely a hard magic. And hard magic is what PLATO was all about.

It’s funny that most folk don’t quite grasp how much of a Statist the Plato described by Aristotle was. The Republic, that thing led by ‘philosopher kings,’ was the very definition of oligarchy.

This hubris was what we practiced. The kings we served did not walk in the public square, they may well be philosophers, but they were covert statesmen. While awry in detail the various conspiracy theories of popular imagination weren’t without a kernel of truth.

This project was named after a white-paper written by a devout acolyte of Bernays, in the early 70’s. Thornton had an eye for acronyms. The paper’s title read – ‘Practical Liberty – An Alchemy Towards Order.’ It consisted of equal parts quasi-masonic bric-a-brac, pharmacology, dubious neuroscience, and new age-tinged anthropology.

Practical Liberty An Alchemy Towards Order – Plato. The wise should rule. The philosophy really did fit Plato’s ‘Republic.’ Though there was a technocratic twist. The wisdom must remain secret.

“Globalization has been thrust upon us. We are dealing with massive complexity. Management of resources and the populations that depend on it is a precarious business. Need I remind any of those present, of the Malthusian fears of the fifties and sixties? The public is largely unaware of the green revolution. The thing that fed continents. Those that do.. demonize it. The thing has many flaws. But without it what?

We are the shepherds. We guide them to water. Then they spit it up. How are we to make them drink? I think it most fortuitous that such a free-spirited culture has emerged in recent years. This neo-shamanism must be molded into a new faith. For it is not reason that guides the human animal, nor theology, no it is faith and instinct. The reason a mere afterthought. So my dearest brothers we must take up the staff.”

“O! Pizza! Excellent. I will tell them that I have had the genuine stuff. With the thin crust.”

My reverie was interrupted as we passed some place called ‘Napolis.’

We went inside, ordered our slices, and sat at some small tables enjoying the cheesy fare. The others were all talkative. Despite the cheery surroundings and delicious eats, I was decidedly blue. My self-critical funk ran deeper than I thought.

Then I remembered her…

Right after I finished college, then A school, I was sent to Bolivia for some arcane reason. Something that was officially about playing world police with some druglords but ended up being sabotage of…well I’m not sure what.

I really don’t care to remember the details. Save one, which I can’t forget anyway.

Dysentery is fairly common in many places of the world. We all know about it but few see it up close.

I was on patrol in some hilly shithole and almost killed the woman. She’d run into me from a back alley screaming in Spanish.

“That’s a great way to catch the wrong end of Gerber…” O’Shea muttered darkly.

She had said something about her girl…but it was too hurried, the accent too different from Mexican, I looked at my interpreter.

“O fucking hell,” he said. “We can’t help everyone. Why don’t they take care of their own? Why the fuck…”

“Huh?”

“Her kid is shitting itself to death, and the hospital won’t admit her.”

“Jesus.”

The woman was inconsolable.

“What does she want us to do about it?”

“She says that they’ll listen to us.” Eddy, the interpreter chuckled. “Basically she wants us to bully them into doing their job.”

“I’m game,” I said.

“Eh, look Baird…” O’Shea our commanding officer launched into that Celtic side-stepping that I’d hated so much in my father. “There’s probably a good reason for it, we don’t want to alienate the locals. I’m with you in spirit. But alienating the locals is bad ju-ju.”

I grinned my disdain. “Fuck it,” I said.

I turned to the woman. “Vamos!” She disappeared into one of the low roofed clay building to our right.

“I don’t think you understand me…I’m ordering you to keep to our primary objectives.”

I was twenty-two, I’d been sneaking little bumps of the cocaine that we’d confiscated…strong, wired, and programmed by billions of years of evolution to serve distressed females…there was no deterring me. Certainly not via O’Shea’s authority even if was backed by the United States Navy and the extra thirty pounds of muscle he had on me.

“Go suck McNamara’s flaccid cock, ya fuckin dickless, conformist…paddy prick,” I said wryly grinning.

I was surprised by his reaction. He returned my grin with one of his own, shaking his giant head. “Don’t do it, Baird.”

“You can fuckin’ court-martial me.”

The woman reappeared holding a young girl of four or five years old. The smell was horrible.

“You’re gonna regret it,” O’Shea said.

I ignored him. “Vamos!” I said pointing in the direction of the local hospital.

She led the way with just me and a reluctant Eddy in tow.

The girl died.

The doctor who spoke excellent English was actually a pretty decent guy. There was an issue of class here. Water was hard to come by in the village. This girl and her family were very low on the totem pole, the moneyed classes came first by necessity, hospitals need funding. There was also so much of it…it was an epidemic…all sorts of things…

There was really nothing he could do. He tried to rehydrate her. Normally hydration works, but this case was severe. Antibiotics were needed…But there weren’t enough antibiotics.

I still remember her two large dark, beautiful eyes, looking in sheer pleading fear and pain at us as she kept defecating and crying.

All this. Because of a lack of resources. Resources did exist. But intelligent management of those resources was sorely lacking. Everybody was too busy showing off the tidiness of their fucking lawns.

Suddenly, I didn’t feel any remorse at all about PLATO.

“This is great fucking pizza!”

1.1 (Intro) The Sketch of Sam Monroe