A Clear, Detached Head

galaxy 2     Masses of unintended consequences, a sub-category of mistakes, which as we all know by now, or should, are the third most basic building blocks of the multiverse, after figure-eights and contradictions, continue to expand at a rate so much grander than r>g that a new category of the soporific formulas that humans embrace and deploy so lovingly may be required, leading to the buildup of some stellar fucking momentum before the next big bang arrives.

Like, duh.


That is one of those indisputable facts that you can absolutely put in your pipe and smoke, which means you’d better fucking believe it, a fact that is as pure and perfectly right as right should be. Facts that are purely facts have been around since an ordinary plain day has been long, for which I for one am grateful.  That way, I know just where to look.  That means no more stinky piles of bourgeois bullshit to step unexpectedly into at every corner. And no dipshits are allowed to just go prancing around willy-nilly anymore, making silly shit up and getting away with it like in the olden days, not with the unpaid Internet at work that sprouts so many cold, hard facts to correct mistakes in thinking.


We’re all beneficiaries of this largesse.  I know I am. I even received a nice congratulatory message recently via the e-mail on my infallible Internet from the very considerate government of Iran.  They wanted me to know that they would be following me from now on.

It just makes the most good fucking sense to me when I am able to hold on to what I know, no sweat involved that reeks of indecision. What other sensible conclusion can there be? The lowest common denominator of a belief system where it helps to stay on your knees and know nothing? My firm belief is I have discovered from my close and personal experience that transportation by way of crawling on knees is a painful way to go.


There are still those, however, many of the same old usual suspects hanging on so unattractively in their same old state of desiccation for what seems like forever and a month of tortuous church Sundays, who call it a mere growth spurt. Seriously? These are the same dudes and dudettes who are still waiting for the gala Hollywood Boulevard comeback of one of those freaky cartoon characters sporting a mask, a robe, and a mangy gray stubble, who walks on water in the ghost written self-help manuals marketed to illiterates. What’s next? Crack a few wise jokes and leap a tall building in a single bound? As if.


Look at the evidence with a clear, detached, head. Look at the tears running down the street.


The tawny owl maintains that copious quantities of good humor help to balance out all of those tears, like acid abutting alkali in the gutter, which allows virtually any species to better survive in the marathon run.  It’s even true of owls, who are above running. That is the important reason why he laughs his ass off at the many opportunities that arise in my immediate vicinity, seemingly without fail, whenever I act funny in such a natural, organic way. I don’t mind, though. It’s all for a good cause. Explosive ass gases are a cause we should all be able to get behind. In addition, he reminds me that there are many complexities to be beheld beyond my woefully limited straight line of sight. Though some of those gases may be inert.

“But,” I have often replied, not defensively I insist, but as a means in the direction of an end, sort of, “I’m not trying to be this way on purpose.”

“A good one,” he laughed. I repeated, “But…”

“I could try, dude,” he said, “to feel a tiny smidgen of the pain you hold so close, kinetically that is, and strictly for experimental purposes, if it didn’t give me such a nagging headache, plus an equally strong desire to eat a juicy mouse, regurgitate, and take a restful nap.  I know you can’t help but talk that puerile claptrap about all the shit that’s invisible to you down there while I’m up here looking right at it.”

I said, “Uh…”

He said, “That’s right.”

I said, “But, don’t you think it’s possible that I might be learning how to compensate for my lack of sharp vision with other means. Sort of.”

He said, “Sure, what have you got to work with?”

I said, “I said ‘possible’.  And ‘sort of’.”

“Your lack of taste,” he continued, “your lack of smell, feel?”

“Well, I really didn’t mean to imply I have anything specific in mind.”

He was already starting to laugh his ass off as he said, “I can see that.”


It’s hard when a wise bird with such big eyes and claws can see into your head and read your mind so effectively.  I say that in the general not the specific sense. But, still.

With greater emphasis this time, and a potential impact as well, as if I sincerely knew and firmly meant what I was saying, I said, “Uh…”


I have been vividly experiencing a byproduct from one unintended consequence recently due to not only no known mistake of my own, but due to a lack of evidence of any mistake occurring at all, a negative added to a negative, which can never be positive, at least down here in the dirt on the ground, in the absence of any of the rising consciousness that invariably ensues as the tawny flies high above.  And no, I am not referring to the early morning incident in which that scraggly lone gull shit on my head at Rio Del Mar Beach. I know for a fact that was no mistake, and not for the first time.

rio del mar

This time, when it came, loud and intrusive and uncalled for, the knock on the door caught me by surprise, more or less. Sort of.


The hefty Deputy Sheriff of Santa Cruz County who was very familiar to me said, “Sir.”

I said, “I’ve asked you not to call me that.”

He said, “Noted.”

I said, “I don’t know how many times I’ve asked.”

He said, “Roger that.  I have a summons for you to appear in Court.”

I said, “Why you?”

He said, “It’s not up to me, sir.”

I said, “I know it’s not up to me.”

He said, “I was in the neighborhood.”

“I don’t think you’re even on duty.”

“As a career professional, I’ve learned how it pays off to volunteer.”

“How much does it pay?”

“You’ve been served, sir. Have a nice day.”

As it turned out, I was being sued by the techno-yuppie dweeb who lives next door to me and rides in the upright position atop his John Deere lawn mower on an obsessive-compulsive basis when not commuting manically to Silicon Valley in order to subjugate the emerging one world mass market and simultaneously appease his porcelain wife who enables her venal white cat to murder beautiful birds.

FACT:     The marauding scorpion wreaking his havoc in the Santa Cruz Mountains had       inflicted bodily harm to members of the extended dweeb family twenty three times on their own flawlessly mowed lawn, which clearly was nowhere to hide, including six excruciating times on his very own personal thigh. The shortest member of his family, at just under forty three inches, had resorted to defensive public thumb sucking, along with whining, not acceptable.

FACT:     I lived amid tall, untrimmed trees, oaks, pines, redwoods, eucalyptus, and madrones, large bushes and shrubs, sheer cliffs with steep drop-offs, and native plants growing unattended and wild with stickers and thorns that contained poison aplenty. And yet I had yet to be stung. There were large, hard rocks that dated to the Stone Age. Many of those unattended plants were categorized as out and out weeds. There was no smooth lawn.  I failed to own a lawn mower. And yet I had yet to be stung. There was dirt all over. Shit, too.  There was shit from rabbits, skunks, bobcats, blue jays, gophers, deer, mice, quail, hummingbirds, turkeys, coyotes. Everywhere I roamed was somewhere to hide. The shit from turkeys seemed to never go away. A marauding scorpion could hang out at will. Sure, I itched from a few poisons but where were the stings?

Even though by that time I was more than fed up with all the fucking facts shoved up into my face, I started to prepare my defense.  I made a chart with a red felt tip pen.  I listed the issues. I added lines with a green felt tip pen. I filled in some hollow dots with a glowing yellow. I connected dots to lines. Colors in some cases merged. Briefly, that satisfied. Then I thought, what the fuck.  It was not a question. It seemed to come from nowhere. The colors were turning muddy.  I stared with nothing special in mind. Then I thought its opposite, whatever that might be. Then, I thought better of it. I thought, no, not that, either.  I would never reveal my role as a traitor to my species in the war against human enablers of venal cats who murder beautiful birds. Anything but that.

I thought, again, uh.

I immediately blamed the infallible Internet.  Too much shit is known by too many dweebs to keep contained forever.

I repeated, uh.

Finally, I concluded that the best and only long term solution was to keep hiding. There could be no mistake about it.




About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
This entry was posted in animals and birds, culture, fiction, humor, writing, wtf and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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