Tales from the Stream World   (***Filler - Long***)

First casts into the stream world,
The angler points to his relative,
To the destiny at hand...

One of the finned-people,
Is making his way up for the better bubbles...

I watch all this,
From my stream-side meditation-rock,
With indifferent interest.

Plop!
The shiny, frilly thing lands in an enticing spot.


(Finned Person)
– Nope, not interested!
Not shiny and frilly enough
For me to risk my neck for...
Only the brightest are the tastiest!


The vicarious suspense is killing me...
To the point that I’m beginning to become distracted
From the awareness of my initial reference-frame in the universe.
This distraction would be a bad thing.

I can’t take it anymore.
I leave.


(The Narrator)
– But you still have one chapter left?
How could you leave without finishing the story?
Don’t you want to know how it ends?

(The Meditator)
– It ends when them squiggly things get upstream,
And another damnable nuisance pops out
Between the legs nine months later...

Had I stayed for the catch, what would I learn?
That the angler would be benevolently cruel,
And release the finned-person back to the stream,
Suggesting the lesson for him to fast next time,
And thus be fed by Invented Concepts alone?

Or would the finned-person be gutted and taken home,
His mass converted into a handful of kinetic energy
Spent pressing remote-control buttons?

Or would random mathematics intervene,
And the young angler lad be lured by the Finn girl,
Brightly flashing by on the jogging paths,

While the finned-person twists free of the line
And passes out, only to awake later,
Kilometers back, down in the lake?
And the stream-world cycle begins again?


So then I’m back onto the grass, walking,
Several feet awry from the Action Plan Trail.
An angry adult-citizen intercepts my course...
(likely a middle-aged landlord,
or a sub-trades foreman)


(Adult Citizen)
– Stick to the Trail!
It’s bad for the grass to always be walked on!

(The Meditator)
– What?! Is a man’s pants his home?
Is a fish only so, thinking it needs
A stream to climb to be whole?

(Adult Citizen)
– Well, if everyone walked on the grass,
And not the Trail, then there wouldn’t be any grass left...

(Meditator)
– But everyone doesn’t…
No one has the inclination to do so...
No one walks on the grass these days...
You don’t get laid doing that...

Even the little yappy dogs have given up on it...
They just poop right on the gravel!

Besides, if a neutrino bangs into a nitrate
Inside your brain to spark the remembrance
Of a sound into the shape of a word,
Then maybe my action here is just the spark
For the next mere evolutionary bonfire...

Actually, it will be more of a renewal,
More of a return to lost ways...

I imagine it’ll take us a good 1 to 1.5 billion years,
Before we remember how to walk off the Trail again...
At least 13 to 14 billion years to learn how
To conduct business without any Trademark Design.


I continued on, finally reaching my heritage-legislation abode.
I had acquired flowers along the way...
(real, wild ones)


(Zoroastrian Neighbour)
– Hallelujah man..! Hallelujah brother..!
Hey, how are you, man..?!
Flowers for the senorita..?
Are you in love senor..?

(The Meditator)
– Nope, just the changing of the vase...
But yes, I am in love with my Freedom,
Quite considerably, and incurably...
No meditation or medication can cure one
Of a conceptual illness of this sort...

I suppose it’s just a fad of bourgeoisie convenience,
To seek of flowers, and not further efficiency...

I suppose a handful of complete proteins,
And high-lineolic omega fats,
Would do a young lad much better,
Than a handful of pretty colors,
Probably full of bugs getting in my hair later...

I must confess my own convictions concerning
resource-use efficiency...

For instance, it was on my walks earlier,
Both on and off the grass,
When an angry homeowner accosted me...
I was on the street full of old trees,
And large manors (under heritage legislation)...
I had just thrown an empty plastic bag,
Into the municipal receptacle at the street corner...

He breached polite society protocol...
The scene played out something like this:


(Homeowner)
– You aren’t allowed to dump your residential garbage
In the public garbage cans!

(The Meditator)
– What!? Is a man’s pants, his home?
Is a fish only so, thinking it needs
A stream to climb to be whole?

(Homeowner)
– But I saw you earlier with that bag,
Full of rotting vegetables and stuff!
I should just call the police right now...

(The Meditator)
– What!? For the crime of composting,
Composting without a municipal license?

I doubt I have done much harm to the nearby ravine...
I highly doubt any certified-organic farms will be built
Within 100 meters of my bio-active dumping sites...
I doubt any genetically-modified disease-resistant species
Are going to pop up to conquer the local ecosystem...
Because, thank God, those store-bought fruits and vegetables,
Don’t come with seeds that work anyway!

(Homeowner)
– Well it doesn’t look nice..!
It probably smells..!
We don’t want to step into it..!
We don’t want our dogs getting into it..!

(The Meditator)
– No worries there...
No one steps off the Trail anyway...
Not even the dogs...

(Homeowner)
– Yeah, well, if everyone did what you are doing there, then the–

(The Meditator – cutting Homeowner off, mid-sentence)
– Oh no, don’t you even get me going on the,
“If everyone took a crap in the Ganges” argument..!
Not every river is the Ganges..!
This is the Gannie, not the Ganges!

And if everyone did what I was doing,
We would have less franchises in the world...

(Homeowner)
– What?! (pause)
Well, look at you! Your pants are full of rips and holes!
Aren’t you ashamed at yourself?

(The Meditator)
– Not at all. These rips and holes
Are genuinely real and customly unique...
I didn’t have to pay some snotty french
Professional coke-head to design them for me...

But that is your policy, right?
Send the horse off to the jelly factory
As soon as she trips over a rock..!
Don’t bother sitting down by her
With a bag of fresh oats and try to teach her
How to read metaphysical latin scripture!

In fact I’m quite ashamed,
To have to walk by your highly manicured front lawns...

Oh, the poor squirrels who have to run across them,
Stressfully exposed on the blankness, with little hope for cover!

And what does the great lawn of the front yard prove?
Immaculate Order? Nuclear Cover?

I just see lawn-maintenance as a ceaseless set of activities,
A waste of kinetic energy which could’ve been
Spent much better for the sake of the ape-apple tree...
Perhaps instead spent on pondering how to accelerate
A contingently-attached body of particles at rest
To velocities faster than the speed of light wavicles...

So the homeowner just left after that.
A victory perhaps?

(Zoroastrian Neighbour)
– You’re a very funny man, brother...

(The Meditator)
– But these flowers do have a use...
For if I were to ingest some palm-full of protein-guck,
I would only be adhering to the repetition,
Of an unsustainable method of propulsion...

These flowers remind of a more Perpetual Power...
It’s certainly good to have some bright colors in the room...
Reminds one of the necessity to burst Upstream,
In search of the Eternal Energy.

(Zoroastrian Neighbour)
– Hallelujah..!