the little Argentine is back

As the darkness that shall render the visibility opaque quietly moves across the horizon, I make quiet plans. Perhaps in its wake, it will leave behind something similar to the smell that arises from the ground after a storm. That smell of earth and water, of sensibility. Perhaps.

I’m excited. I dream of the East now. I know that I shall tread the lands of the East sooner than I shalll those of the West; and by treading I mean to reside. The West is a queer amalgamation of the tribal and the individual, of vapid rapidity and asphyxiating stagnation. It bridges East and South perfectly. Yet I know that I will forever dream of the West and by the West I mean the Northwest. Ah blessed land of magick and verdure; only in such lands could quos alios nos nomies pagani appellamus worship Julian (Julian the Apostate). He is our hero, our savior, our messiah … our human benefactor. As a child growing up, I had no heroes, no-one to look up to. Socrates is not my hero; Xenophon vitiated my opinion. I do not possess the vitiated taste of the surfeited lover. Unlike that insipid failure of the Akademia Ioannes, never shall from my lips drop such unheard of absurdity as, “All I know is that I love Socrates!” If heroes I must have, then Julian I predicate as a being worthy of my admiration and felicitation. He is not only a symbol of an Idéa but the actualization.

The Project is back on track. I am not excited about this occurrence but I am releaved. The uncertainty is over. Now is the time to foment my artistic side. Though I know that I shall not be able to produce a script or anything that one can run through one’s fingers, I shall feed that thing and by thing I do not mean thing in the sense of prágma, but that which communes or partakes with the Intellect. Huh? You have to be a Johnnie to understand this bit. I’m sorry. Actually I’m not sorry!

The magick is back. I’m going skydiving from the moon in less than two weeks. I’m stoked. Of course there will be photos, lots of photos!