the planets, mark twain and the umbo box collide

the hiss….i haven’t spoken about it in a while.
it hadn’t voluminated until lately. that might be a word, to me.
there is a series of small red dots underneath it on the computer screen meaning, “i beg to differ.”
these past days seem to have a veil drawn over it.
it might be what i’ve heard called “a rough patch,” though specifically speaking, the high-watermark of low-feeling can find no specific grasp….such is a forest in darkness.
a branch in the eye is a branch in the eye. yeowch.
in one of my journeys out to gateway last week, i found this deep-seated
ache. it was in the car with me as i drove out there. i’ve not been able to distinguish if it has to do with any single issue, though i’d bet dollars to donuts that it’s mortality-based.

when i walked on the beach with maxx, i thought about aneurysms.
a few days earlier, i spoke with a friend about how aneurysms are humanity’s express bus to the eighth electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth dimension. since writing this and perhaps earlier, this subject has ceased to matter but it’s part of that day’s history.
a while later, i went to floyd bennett field and walked the length of a runway.
i found another number as i walked the length of the big 24 runway and mused about aneurysms while maxx ran around in ever-widening circles.
aneurysms – they’re tied to a neurosurgery from almost a half-century ago when doctor thomas matthew said yes at coney island hospital on january 22nd, 1962. since then, when there’s weather that exhibits the right mixture of cool-dampness, the outline of the metal plate in my head seems to “redefine itself.”
it reminds me of its existence and potential.
for all i know, i can go like….bang, zoom.
thank you, jackie gleason.
it’s a guilty pleasure.
it’s also the big casino’s way of saying, “i beg to differ.”

so, to review;
one, six, BIG six, twelve, fifteen, nineteen, twenty-four, BIG twenty-four and thirty-three. that’s nine runway numbers at floyd bennett field.
are you reading this PBS?

the notion of being on the galactic take-off platform makes me a little dizzy.
it’s the headiness of the subject matter or a sugar buzz from the cake i just had.
but i digress…
my digital camera has ceased to function.
i tell myself that the camera’s brain had an aneurysm.
i rouse it by turning on the power button.
when it’s fully “on,” a yellow triangle appears in the center of the screen with an exclamation point inside and these words below, “Turn the power off and on again.”
i’ve done this again and again this past week to no avail.
it’s a miniature, circular argument where nothing ever happens.
i’ve felt like an idiot at times, trying different approaches to doing the same thing.
it’s like kicking the car tire when the starter goes.
is this where i segue’ to the world economy?
sure, why not.
we’re gassing up a car that has four flat tires and a blown starter.
we’re dialing up the “movie” command on the american digital camera that, after booting up, tells you to “turn it off and turn it on again.”

in 1974 i wrote a sci-fi story about a thing called the umbo box and learned thirty-something years later that the grifting lizards from mars and that eduardo ciannelli-sounding guy who looks like omar sharif were behind it.
there’s a lot more information regarding the umbo box AND the grifting lizards from mars further back here.
the story i wrote in 1974 was stored in a cedar chest that my friend sold to some real estate lady in atlanta, georgia who threw them in the garbage. oh well.
it was a whodunit about an idiot-stooge president who killed a woman in a drunk rage in newark, new jersey some thirty years earlier when he was a derelict, before being groomed by corporate interests to become a political candidate and eventually president of the united states.
the name of the fictional president was omar pemminbach.
the protagonist was the son of the victim who grows up to be a brilliant mathematician and physicist who proves that if you hit anything in the right place, it’ll fall down.
he would find out through chance, luck and childhood memories that he was part of the extraordinary math of something as intricate as the math he unlocked and would go about trying to unravel the mystery.
in his travels he would find out about the umbo box.
i would not know for a quarter of a century that what i was writing was planted in my head by a laughing lizard who thought it would be a hoot to have a human plot out the grifting lizards’ plan for gastronomic adventures on this planet for the next century.
humans in the food business vary their menus every few years. the lizards from mars work on longer-range dining plans.
the name of the book was “tap, tap,” but that was a long while ago.

i don’t know what anything is anymore.
understanding the umbo box took the wind out of my human sails after my last conversation with that lizard guy who reminded me about it when i saw him last and he waved the new york times at me.
my head is swimming and my heart is empty.
i trust this is a temporary condition.

but this matter is, at best, a minor inconvenience.

mark twain’s autobiography is out.
i feel it’s time for me to revisit mister clemons.

i appreciate that he made specific instructions to not publish it till a hundred years passed. i appreciate that he had nagging dislikes about himself. misery loves company.
i don’t doubt that my aneurystic moments last week had somethings to do with my wavering quality as a human being.
there are a series of little red dots underneath that word just like, “voluminated” had at the beginning of this writing but then as now, this word works just fine with me.
it was also me bargaining with the green-felt tables for a trade.
tonight, at around eleven pm, i walked outside and stood in front of the building where i live.
a sensation i never felt before in my life began to run through me.
it was like energy, as if it was a sheet of skin, was being drawn from and away from my body.
it emanated from back of my person as a vibration that moved from the back of my feet at the heels and the tips of my fingers worked in concert and traveled up the back of my legs and arms, up my spine, up and up and through my head, exiting out the front of me, as if through my eyes.
i stood motionless and a little confused wondering “what is this??”
i asked myself if this is the prelude to eternity’s blast-off or a seduction of timelessness associated with one so close i can almost taste “her.” that was the information of the impression. that was the news my cells told me. that was the hard drive’s conclusion;
or was it just a part of me leaving, going out there, in and around the eighth-electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth dimension, looking for my rendezvous.

or was it a prayer my hard drive fashioned to shed a few trillion spare electrons to jumpstart her dreams.

the “hiss” is louder than ever.

About stephen trimboli

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One Response to the planets, mark twain and the umbo box collide

  1. Pingback: Goodbye Blue Monday » Blog Archive » the umbo box; i’ll do my best to remind me

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