The Sheaves

I don’t even want to write the sheaves.  Minnesota’s kicking ass right now.  That’s a lie.  I didn’t check.  No.  It isn’t a lie.  I have ESP, so, I just know anyway.  But, I will turn it on.  Soon.  This says 5:36 PM; I am in the other location, but again, soon, I am going to take the silver house key off my key chain, taking away the “real”, or, “original” nickle-and-dime operation—I always live in places where you must turn sideways to let someone pass—little rat warrens.

The sheaves are a license plate with Xs and Ks such that you need not read them to enter them into the log.  They look like sheaves of wheat—or, that ridiculous Farnsworth movie with the “family”—originally a Canadian Ben Cartwright grift stolen by the writers of Bonanza, sticks in a bundle being harder to break, telephone books being torn in half by strong men, toothpaste being hard to get all out of the tube.

The movie, I Don’t Know the Name of the Movie (1986), has the old saw of “I was a sniper”, and he wanted to get a radioman or an officer.  I found a radioman in the dirt.  he had been stepped on, so, his arm was disconnected, and upon closer inspection, he was fatally wounded by being broken in half.  That’s a good sniper shot right there.  He is on top of the blackboard.  I recall a need to transfer the information onb the blackboard to a paint document, since it had Caryl Chessman’s father’s name on it, Serl, misspelled but it’s there.  I study Psi.

The other day I wrote about a confluence with Deadhead flags in OB; I was again in OB today.  This did not happen there, this happens as I am driving here.  Everything here is getting ship-shape.  How to make a meth lab or a duck blind, I am always plotting.  This time, you are plunging down a cross-gutter in your car, and you sneer at the driver waiting, and this one had a Jersey plate, and a Springsteen song came on, The Dark Side, followed by, Your Eyes, a methworthy song, due to the incessant grinding of a high-pitched little sound in it.  The lyric, “the noise, the heat” is very methemetic.  and, these ESP things, confluences, cannot be dug up and hauled away; they depend upon an observer.

This magician of the internet, composite, can do one thing with the left hand and one thing with the right, but it is as if there is knowledge about the one put into the other, but the one hasn’t happened yet.  That’s all it has to do.  I don’t know but I suspect the internet.  It could also be something writers have always experienced.  I have only had readers on the internet.  I need to hear from writers, but, they might disguise it by calling it their “muse”, and I can’t work with disguises.

I am going to take a luck thing and try “organic laboratory techniques” on Google.  That’s a forum sorely needed.  There are so many forelorn ideas which do work.  Like, what is the absolute minimum heart of a piece of apparatus?  All else could be built around, like, the rotating, vapor-passing motorized part of a flash evaporator.



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