Rosenbush Café

eXisTenTiaLNihLisT searches for substance rather than style with a profane flourish for taste buds in the abyss

“We hear what pleases us without listening and talk incessantly never listening to logical conclusions and we doubt our vision even when face to face with the mischievous sprite of destiny grinning malevolently at us with knowledge of our worthlessness.” henry b. rosenbush

Five minutes of cogitation, three more to discover the best possible use of convolution and finally five more minutes to write a quote, destined to not become part of the sentient lexicon of famous quotations.

Intentionally.

September was demanding and nefariously acted stage play with too much William Shakespeare, not enough Harold Pinter, and Dashiell Hammett nowhere in sight.

There would be no classically theme score. No Theremin with haunting refraines of voiced madness and hatred as the skyline collapses into the parallax of deception. Somewhere in the musical cosmos, Lev Sergeivich Termen aka Léon Theremin, is pleased with the celestial accompaniments of humming night owl’s memories of better times.

There horde of characters, each requiring frontal lobotomy, rear projected anal penetration and spontaneous combustion rather than burial were relentlessly film noir femme fatales in drag.

Writing is a lonely art, many say, and most likely because they are lonely artists. Thinking, more believably, is the loneliest art. Mental masturbation spewing carnivorous imagery onto the keyboard leaving a sticky elucidation that may offend anyone outside the cranial hemispheres. Writing is tedious while fascinating to undertake. For every person who says, “I am envious of you because I cannot write” I reply with my only trepidation of honesty: “You will always be the best you and second best someone else.”

Everyone is capable of greatness as easily as insignificance in their brief existence.

I cannot sculpt, paint or snap profound photographs. I am lousy at mathematics but understand check book balancing; I do not excel at history anymore because it is so revisionist and edited for content so often it is easier to build, with my inventive mind, an atom smasher annihilate the rhetoric and artificial records.

As a solitary figure of speech, my solemnity is inter-spatially ensnared by myriad problematic scions; arthritis and a long ago spinal trauma have begun limiting my handwriting and typing dexterity with excruciating pain imitating television commercials where the elderly cannot open a can of soup unless paramedical-induced therapy is applied. I have known for years this day would arrive. I dreaded the reality that my one genuine talent would be curtailed or nearer closing stages of the final act. I finally began to accept that so long as my mind was unfettered by veracity the interior writer would survive even if trapped in a temporal warp of inspiration with fear the voice was silenced on the periphery of the third dimension.

Hear and see and not believe
Speech impediments disguise, deceive
Imaginary histories spinning unremittingly around
Atoms of ideas whirl unbound

Why do we talk? What do we talk about, and when, and to what purposeful conclusion?

The humanoid loves to talk but rarely listens. The beast of civilization devours compassion and voids itself without digestion leaving behind a splotch of lifeless dogma. To hear some say ‘man’ is more intelligent than any other life form is, euphemistically, superciliousness at the highest mountain peak of egotism. Every living being is intelligent and because they cannot communicate in verbal syntaxes of English or Spanish or sentient language is a blessing.

Birds sing romantic ballads, whales weep death sonnets, and spiders’ enclose their lovers in silk while giraffes gaze at the sky, feeding on the highest leaves and pondering beyond our snobbery without condescension.

One does not need to live in the Serengeti to see life unprejudiced by morals, ethics, corruption, xenophobia and distrust.

Predator, prey, alive then caught; food for sustenance, not for thought.

Strong survives and the weak perish and balance resumes.

The carbon based upright whirligig cannot conceive of not being the most impressive being. Technology has blinded rational thinking so often, at least until the ether goes down, the cell phone has no bars, or the power goes off in the dead of winter. Mother Nature has the extraordinary expertise of incorporating the natural and unnatural worlds flawlessly. As more eco-systems are destroyed, eventually destining the whirligigs to extinction, the other creatures – we are creatures, too, we just wear clothes, comfortable shoes and emphasize our importance by tattooing the bucolic terrains with signage just so future archeologists from Alpha Centauri will know we were here like Kilroy.

Communication Breakdown is more than a great song by Led Zeppelin; it is a consequence of having vocal cords unattached to intellect.

What follows are several quotes that have remained in the life form primordial’s reptilian brain and will outlast every living carbon based oxygen destroyer on this third from the sun orb:

“Don’t walk in front of me, I may not follow; don’t walk behind me, I may not lead; walk beside me, and just be my friend.” — Albert Camus

“The word love has by no means the same sense for both sexes, and this is one cause of the serious misunderstandings that divide them.” — Simone de Beauvoir

“Love is like an hourglass, with the heart filling up as the brain empties.” — Jules Renard

“A true friend stabs you in the front.”

and

“America is the only country that went from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between.” — Oscar Wilde

Destiny Prefers Privatizing Inspiration by sealing the Mouth with Epoxy; at least for a fortnight.

Welcome all to the “last chance” section where authors go to die and their books are half-priced and destined for recycling as parade confetti. I plan to join this autonomous collective unconscious therefore no sarcasm towards writers who knew their subjects for prose would not make any best seller list but wrote onwards and outwards sans marketability.

The Dictionary of Knots
The Dictionary of Quilting Techniques
The Palates Directory
50 Worst Dates Than Yours
The One: Finding Soul Mate Love and Making It Last

Mouth Glued Shut; Man Dies Happily Soundless

My persona non Ex Nil has been wrestling with hallucinatory esotery in mindscapes of death sans rebirth and while it may be disquieting to some it is an expected product of stress and chronic insomnia. Day time specters have been dominating since late May and over the past four months nightmares, at the rate of three a night, have morphed into a daytime demonology of millenniums past.

Weekend grocery list includes: Kat fud, kat litter, milk, water, bread, red fire ant killer, paper towels, toilet paper, incense and peppermints, air conditioning filters and epoxy.

Monks can take a vow of silence so why the fuck cannot I attain higher mental confidence when even when silent someone elicits an open jaw esthetic?

I take my vow of 75 Quietude and pledge to Goddesses of Pointless Verbalization to curb my inclination to speak, to articulate iconic resonance towards hearing-impaired mentalities and to appreciate the taste of tranquility for seventy percent of each cycle of light and darkenss.

Shhhhh.