This Part Is The Title

Unwanted optimism meets post-burn apprehension.
Reprehension? Ambivalence.
Pessimism fits like old coat.
Fear of the unknown has yet to be overpowered by the more powerful fear of the known.
There has yet to be a change I have accepted easily or, for that matter, wanted.
I don't sleep but I still have dreams, but I can't call them daydreams because it's nighttime.
Macular degeneration? I have perfect eyesight except on some occasions.
Must make choice between serious or poetical.
Must make choice between serious or poetical?
It isn't the drasticity, elasticity, the immanent and ultimate things that are the worst.
Things that loll gently from one thing to another, things that take time to happen, things that require work or effort or change or choice these are the worst things in the world these are the things the world is really made of this is what makes the world go round.


All of my carefully sculpted distractions are melting in the summer heat.
I don't like any of the new ones I've been offered this round.
I especially don't like the prospect of being given an entirely new hand.
This is a poker metaphor.

"Trouble with you is you don't do plenty night zazen especially when it's cold out, that's best, besides you should get married and have halfbreed babies, manuscripts, homespun blankets and mother's milk on your happy ragged mat floor like this one. Get yourself a hut house not too far from town, live cheap, go ball in the bars once in awhile, write and rumble in the hills and learn how to saw boards and talk to grandmas you damn fool, carry loads of wood for them, clap your hands at shrines, get supernatural favors, take flower-arrangement lessons and grow chrysanthemums by the door, and get married for krissakes, get a friendly smart sensitive human-being gal who don't give a shit for martinis every night and all that dumb white shit in the kitchen."

If you have ice cream I will give you some.

If you have no ice cream I will take it away from you.

This is an ice cream kōan.

That was a pun by Jack Kerouac.