}} who would lust to list to a guy named Waldo? I asked…
This guy I know, Al, he says it contains references to mort-ifying experiences, AND those could boost our points made, so AI suggests I read: Ralph Waldo Emerson, from 2021-
If I know your sect, I anticipate your argument.
A man must consider what a blindman's-buff …
{*******, looks it up, it's like Marco Polo in a public pool}
he goes on
what a blindman's-buff is this game of conformity.
{ he assumes his audience is a we, We all play, back in his day, this game was considered religion, and
religion was some form
of Christianity, the rest were heathen,
in that game,
conformed religion was the only winning
peace time occupation,
which Blake bitten poets might imagine fitting into,
who knew?
at that time, now
the game is set, default mode
on cult startup,
first hook is, God called you because
you are like us a loser without hope, without help,
Tetzl, build me a tourist attraction,
make the Germans pay,
then
have all the ******* artists paint its walls
to prove each believes
the story the edifice shall tell.
{listen, she whispers, hear her first entreaty only once}
Now breathing is like expanding the game:
inspirational sci-psy-psi, know as we say we know,
we are those who know,  ecce ****,
-------- those evil inquisitors, were me -
-------no - I was Jaques De Molay,
sure, ri-ight,
and I'm Oscar Schindler, when he saves Anne Frank.
HEY
WE CAME TO EXPOSE A SHADOW...
so the seeds we sow
grow where hearing ears
cross reading eyes and all
the best ideas come in double

space-ing to allow for lines that wrap at the frame, fully phreakin' justified, on any screen with leading letting space be normal, thus limiting out of bounds imaginary
reasons
why lines come in expensive short lengths,
||
last issue of The New York Times composed using hot metal (2 July 1978) was titled
Farewell, Etaoin Shrdlu

|| the hot metal was lead. Like bullets, but letters.

In this medium, messages know
there are no valid reasons
for long justified lines and
space is not only there there
between lines that start at 10, to leave fixit room,
an ancient way of making room for right in wrong code.
Add a lin -oops line
Etaoin and Shrdlu and lorem ipsum, too
RW-if old waldo had been enabled,
as I am,
with mortally infinite paper
and ink visible to any eye,
Now Waldo, tell Seri to spread the word, y'back..
.
he may then
have written in my short line attention span,
concept upon concept
except ...
reception
falters…
WE LOST THE HOOK>
NOBODY KNOWS WHERE WALDO FITS THE PICTURE

Here's Waldo: 2021, with no ******* comments…
---------------------------
The objection to conforming
to usages that have become dead
to you
is,
that it scatters your force.
It loses your time and blurs the impression
of your character.
If you maintain a dead church,
contribute to a dead Bible-society,
vote with a great party
either for the government or against it,
spread your table like base housekeepers,
— under all these screens I have difficulty
to detect the precise man you are.
And, of course,
so much force is withdrawn
from your proper life.
But do your work,
and I shall know you.
Do your work,
and you shall reinforce yourself.
A man must consider
what a blindman's-buff is this game
of conformity.
If I know your sect,
I anticipate your argument.
I hear a preacher announce
for his text and topic the expediency
of one of the institutions of his church.
Do I not know beforehand that
not possibly
can he say
a new and spontaneous word?
Do I not know that,
with all this ostentation
of examining the grounds of the institution,
he will do no such thing?
Do I not know that he is pledged
to himself not
to look but
at one side,
— the permitted side,
not as a man, but as a parish minister?
He is a retained attorney,
and these airs of the bench
are the emptiest affectation.
Well,
most men have bound their eyes with one
or another handkerchief,
and attached themselves
to some one
of these communities
of opinion.
This conformity makes them not false
in a few particulars,
authors of a few lies,
but false in all particulars.
Their every truth is not quite true.
Their two is not the real two,
their four not the real four;
so that every word they say chagrins us,
and we know not where
to begin to set them right.
Meantime nature is not slow
to equip us in the prison-uniform
of the party
to which we adhere.
We come
to wear one cut
of face and figure,
and acquire
by degrees
the gentlest asinine expression. {;}

There is a mortifying experience in particular,
which does not fail
to wreak itself also
in the general history;
I mean
"the foolish face of praise,"
the forced smile which we put on
in company
where we do not feel
at ease
in answer
to conversation which does not interest us.
The muscles,
not spontaneously moved,
but moved
by a low usurping wilfulness,
grow tight
about the outline
of the face
with the most disagreeable sensation.
>

Why are they laughing at me?
I'm normal as they are
Who else could I be?
wishing only to remain somewhere far

Will they ever leave me be?
healing scar is rare as a falling star
Can I ever be free?
reachimg my life's goal like a formula one car

Wet blue velvet jacket in a cold winter night,
it freezes under the blue light of the moon
close to the watery eyes of the grieving knight

Dry fallen leaf gone in the howling wind,
carried around and unable to go elsewhere
under the fiery autumn sky in our minds

lofi hip hop decorates my brain
notebook formulaic and profane
anxiety seeps my malleable mind
latching onto anything it finds.

I’m certain that by now
The windows are all steamed.
There could be dust on my towel
But I sit here picking at my own seams.

The soap bottle is lying on the side
Watching with hatred from its huddle
As I stare at my hands and try to hide
My stomach with flannels and bubbles.

I squash the buds between my fingers
While hair clings to the skin of my back.
I scrub at the writing that still lingers
Faded to blue from black.

I remember only ink and tingling
And you smiling against a classroom blur
Our hands entwined, my concentration dwindling,
Who knows in what world we were?

I’m just scrubbing veins now the pen has gone.
I wonder why you even let me exist
In your world. Tell me, am I withered and worn?
If you kissed me- Ha would you ever kiss this?

I can still feel the ink prints etched into my skin.
Will they ever fade away?
No; the phantoms in the water always win
And I can’t help but listen to everything they say.

While they spent a couple years in college learning calculus, I was emotionally imbalanced and so behaviorally challenged.
When I was on meds and learning music, they were learning differential equations, linear algebra, and real analysis.
When I changed majors to philosophy of religion, they were reading hundreds of math papers from journals in grad school.
When I was getting a master's in criminal justice, taking my first statistics course, they were working on their dissertation.
When I was getting an electronics degree, they were getting published and doing research at universities.

After that I started studying physics, then math.
I struggle still to finish basic Calc 2&3 problems, and find it hard to get help with linear algebra.
All I know is that my trajectory is anything but common.
And the way I cover material would not be taught in most schools and universities.
It is more like the Montessori schools: I have an innate path to psychological development, and I act freely, supposedly creating my optimal way.