excerpt from my journal…

9 June, 2017

Twenty minutes. I have twenty minutes to make an impression and I’m wasting it with this drivel. I’ll apologize now and get it over with, but I won’t promise that there won’t be more apologies as the text continues to unfold. And, to say the text will “unfold” is just convenient flowery talk for the idea that I am currently writing with no real goal in mind other than to fill up a page and kill the twenty minutes I originally mentioned.

WC12-001 27-1I am succeeding at both. I’ve got a paragraph written and I now only have 19 minutes to murder.

You may have noticed if you look at the divisions, the chapter headings, the markers in this document, that there are days missing. A good journalist, not necessarily a news writer, but merely one who at least claims to verb it along, as in one who journals, I would think would create an entry every day. Within every 24 hour period there would be written documentation, a document, some text, that would be associated with that calendared span of time.

(stop the clock – I want to go get a warmer on my coffee and taste the biscuits I pulled out of the oven about 30 minutes ago. Yes, they will be cold by now, or maybe tepid, the butter won’t melt through them, but they also won’t burn my sensitive mouth. And my mouth is sensitive. brb.)

Okay. I’m back. Sorry about that. Yes, the biscuit was tepid, but still tasty with a slathering of butter and some peanut butter that I made the other day.

What? You don’t make your own peanut butter? It’s really quite easy. I have one of those Ninja food processors. I buy jars of peanuts at the market when they’re on sale, usually one unsalted and the other dry roasted or lightly salted. I’ve used the “honey roasted” peanuts before and it’s a little too sweet for me, but still, it tastes mighty good. I’ll do it specifically if I am making some peanut butter for, say, my little sister, who likes such things. Anyway, regarding the making of peanut butter, I just dump two jars of on-sale peanuts from the market, usually 2 for $5, into the Ninja food processor, secure the lid, and turn it on crush. It takes, oh, about seven or eight minutes for it to get good and smooth. Then all I have to do is use a spatula, and sometimes my fingers, to transfer the peanut butter into a plastic container. Yeah, I should use glass. Maybe when I get to California I’ll get some glass containers. As for using my fingers to assist in the decanting of peanut butter from the Ninja to the storage unit, the blade gets kind of gunked up and it’s hard to scrape it clean without really getting in there with my fingers to get to every nook and cranny. The peanut butter is valuable and should not be wasted.

With that, I have achieved my goal. It is now 9 a.m. and twenty minutes past my start time. I’ve written a short piece which I will analyze before moving on to my next chore. Thank you for the privilege of your time and attention, and if you feel as though you’ve been cheated, well, I apologize.


There Was A Crow

I have been writing. I have been writing stories that I want to integrate into a larger story that chronicles a series of defining developments in the lives of a small group of characters. With each of these characters I find that there is something about a crow that resonates. I recall a line from Martin Scorsese’s film Kundun where the sister of the future Dalai Lama recalls the birth of her brother: ‘…there were crows.’ Yes. There will be crows.

There was a crow.

There Was A Crow.

©2016 Stuart Dummit

a pliable thing

To write sexually charged prose without being accused by sensible people of writing pornography. Sensible people don’t condemn sexual subject matter. It’s just blue. It’s just blue. 

Here is a slice of thought with references from James Joyce and Frank Herbert. Your thoughts and comments are welcome.


In Hand

Wooden hand holding wood.

That thing. That long, hard, supple, pliable, rough, sweet, salty, leaky thing. Yes. You know what I’m talking about. The totality of you. Long or tall, it changes with your orientation. You are pliable, yes. You bend but you retain your integrity. I swoon. I want to engulf. I want to consume. The flavors; raw salted nuts and caramel, umami of mushrooms and earthy earthly delight blooming like fleshy members growing from dark and moist and fecund recesses. Consume. Take in and transform for nourishment. Grow again and I will consume again; hot, creamy, searing juice of Sapho – my lips not stained red but my face turns it with the effort and exertion and the blood rushing to needed places. And what lips? My mind is accelerated past its norm, my thoughts do not speed but become it. I live a satisfied life in a jarring moment of thrusts and convulsions and involuntary contractions of the muscles of the abdominal floor. Pushing out the fluids, spitting them out like a viper and its venom, like a gun and its bullet, like pore and its sweat, a duct and its tear. Gobs of congealed goo, once hot, now tepid, cling to the sparse carpet of your belly. Would that it have found a darker warmer cavern to inhabit. That thing. That long, hard, supple, pliable, rough, sweet, salty, leaky, desirable thing. But no. I eat like Bloom with relish the organs. I wanted more, I got what you gave. Let me taste your tongue’s lubrication, let me feel the brush of your beard against mine. Let me let me please yes. Is that all? It would be hard for you to walk away since you never walked to. Left in silence with my own long, hard, supple, pliable – pliable until next time it might break.

©2016 Stuart Dummit


October 11 was National Coming Out Day. Kind of a big deal for some. Here’s what I posted on Facebook and Google+. 


Me coming out to my best friend, Max. He seemed to take it well.

Okay. Really. If you folks haven’t realized that I’m a guy that likes guys, you haven’t been paying attention. That being said, “coming out” is one of the most reality renting things I’ve ever gone through, and it’s always a work in progress. People of my generation and from similarly non-cosmopolitan areas had few if any role models, making the process more confusing, alienating and horrifying, despite being ultimately liberating and transformative. Today, with social media and a more inclusive social landscape, things are getting better, but that doesn’t mean realizing that you are gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender is any easier. Friends and families still abandon their own when realization and self acceptance blooms in a person. So to “come out of the closet” is still a pivotal experience in many people’s lives. It impacts everyone in the person’s personal sphere and rearranges how that person navigates through life. It can be painful. It can be alienating. It can be needlessly permeated with guilt, grief, and fear. Do not take it lightly; embrace it, celebrate it, treat it with respect and a sense of wonder. What you are witness to is nothing less than a self generated transformation that can elevate that person to a wonderful new place or it can lead to isolation and malignant sadness. Do not take it lightly but support it with your heart, your spirit, your love, your words and actions. National Coming Out Day – we celebrate it for a reason. Everyone can join in. Admit to yourself and then to your world a truth about yourself no matter how mundane or radical. Embrace your individuality, realize that you’re still a part of a community, and allow yourself to accept yourself and others for all that makes you, You, and You, one of Us.


Pitney Purfoy’s Problem

Without too much effort the ludicrous lackey lined the tub with wax and honey, thinking all the while that what he was doing wasn’t wasteful but wished-for. Ah, the musings of a marshmallowed minion without mind or manner attuned to his business!

longing, lonNeocubist Portrait Reconfiguredging for a purpose beside the one his mother taught him

longing, longing for a purpose other than the one his father aspired to

Pitney Purfoy waddled away from the tub and picked his nose in the process. He had picked it from a chart on the wall in his hall that very same day, but had decided it did not suit him, so he picked another then another then another, only to find each one was clogged and second rate, despite the aquiline lines and sharp and noble profile. Purfoy didn’t want to hear anything about it from his mates, so he turned his head when he picked and flicked the clog into the air from behind his back. No one will see, no one will know.

I tell you what, he said, laughing at his own untold joke, next time I’ll pick one that requires less picking! Too much work, I say!

Purfoy you old such and such! Did you get that there tub lined with the tacks and money?

Tax and money? Thought you said wax and honey! Those two go together just as well if not better, Boss. And where am I supposed to get the tax and money anyways? Ain’t it something I don’t got? Like couth and grammar?

The Boss man, who was called Bob or Bellicose Bob by those who didn’t know him scratched the top of his hairless head and shook the waddle of his neck.

By gum you’re right there Purfoy! You’re right and I’m left here wondering what I was thinking. Apparently I wasn’t and that ain’t never a good thing. Never a good thing!

Poor Purfoy stood there, wanting to pick his nose again, clogged as it was, but with Bellicose Bob standing right there, scratching his own pate, confused by the pointlessness of the process, he was too self conscious. Instead he pondered his longings and those of his parents. Had he exchanged his for theirs? Mayhaps, he thought, mayhaps. Then he envisioned flicking the clog if he allowed himself to pick it, and it landing in BB’s pocket or even in his eye. He laughed and sniffed, but not well because of the clog, then lowered his head and drew a booger shaped squiggle in the dirt with the toe of his boot.

Bob was still wondering where his mind had gone wrong when Pitney Purfoy’s pantomime popped and he rolled on his side to see the clock face, with no nose to speak of, alarming him as to the hour and minute of the half day of morning.

I had better cook the coffee and pour it down fast without scorching my tongue and searing my throat and get me to my job lest my dream become meme and I lose my mindless mind.

His toes reached for the floor and found the rug and its dust and particles of decay and eased his weight onto his left foot and then his right. Padding padding padding he went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. He popped a stale gum drop from the counter into his mouth and rolled it from side to side, dissolving the minicubes of sugar that protected the flavored gelatin beneath. Lime. Limey. Ought to have tea instead. But that would require lemon. Faster though but not as good. Coffee it is.

While the water in the kettle made psychic contact with the flames on the other side of the aluminum and copper wall, Purfoy padded into the hallway and considered the chart there.

Which one today? Long and straight? Short and broad, sharp and pointed, dull and cavernous? Who knows what criterion to use in such an important business.

Close your eyes and grab one, affix it with care and, sniff sniff sniff! Just the smell of the cooking coffee is enough to wake a boy up. Hurrah!

©2016 Stuart Dummit

Regarding the Inevitability of Reflexion (a fragment)

What is it that I believe?

I believe that I exist in as much as I think about myself and I think about things outside of my self. That I remember from one moment to the next, from one day to the next and back again that I have thought about myself and things outside of my self is as much an indicator that I exist as anything. There is no proof other than my own perception that anything inside or outside of myself “is,” so there is no accepting nor denying of it except through my acknowledgement of it. I do. I choose to believe that I exist. That is all that I can do and it is all that is necessary.

I believe in limits. There are boundaries to everything that I perceive. Even when I turn my attention to the infinite, it becomes finite in my perception because I am incapable of understanding or knowing intrinsically anything that has no limits. It is by virtue of limits that I am able to define things. By limiting any thing, idea, notion, concept, corporal substance or ephemeral miasmic nebula, I am able to say to myself, “this thing is this, but not that.” It becomes a part of a magnificently complex venn diagram, labeled circles and polygons inscribed on paper illustrating inclusion and exclusion, shared and non-shared qualities, boundaries and bleeds. Even the bleed, in its analog existence, has an area that includes and excludes it.

I believe in the coexistence of analog and digital measurements. I believe that there are measurements other than these and that I am not able to perceive them. This leads me to:

I believe there are things other than myself that exist independently from me. On some undefined level of existence or perception all things may, in fact, be connected and constitute a very different foundation for being perceived (not an “exists or does not exist” paradigm,) but that is outside of my current purview.


from Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey.

I believe in the existence of a higher power. To call this thing a god, or God, would be easy but would be incorrect. By giving it a name or category diminishes the work I have done in trying to understand this phenomenon and all too easily allows an element that I’ve addressed earlier to crush my current understanding of it; this higher power exists in a state where limits as I perceive them, do not exist. This thing cannot be a part of my venn diagram since it cannot be contained within a circle or polygon, anything outside of the mark creating that circle or polygon would not be included in my understanding of the higher power and thus disqualified – inclusion and exclusion are not qualities inherent to it. The problem, of course, is that inclusion and exclusion are things, and the higher power contains all things, either real or as potential, then they must be a part of it, or It. I can make a further case for this paradox if I speak to a notion that the higher power is somehow “self aware.” This would be for some a required quality of a god or God, but I wonder if this, for me (or us) lofty state of being is, to this god or God or higher power or Higher Power something so trivial that its presence or absence is irrelevant. Perhaps, and hopefully, the awareness of the meta-intelligence is so much more than can be imagined that to it or It, such awareness is petty and unheeded, much like any force of will required to maintain ones own presence. For some reason I just thought of Alice in the garden near the beginning of Through the Looking-Glass when she becomes aware that to stand still on the chess board she must move, and to move, she must stand still. Such is the dynamic of my imagined mind.

I believe that everything that I have thought or written up until this point could be, might be, should be, probably is, but might not be, completely or in some major or minor part, wrong.

I believe that swimming in the earth trumps walking on water.

I believe both that the only thing within my current perception is now, and that all things, all moments in time exist simultaneously.

This and the last three assertions of what I believe are like imperfections in the glass that constitutes the support for a mirror that I gaze into from the side, oblique, with no understanding of directionality or concept of tangential-ness.

Based on the construct I have created, or has been created for me, or simply that I find myself in, this episode of thinking about what I believe and do not believe, and the subsequent attempts to elucidate and validate them, is part of the inevitability mentioned in the title of this essay…

[At this point I stopped writing. I am certain that I had more to say, more to explore and write about, but for some reason I didn’t finish. Perhaps it was time to go to work, or the pot was over boiling, or there was a knock at the door. That last option, I can say with canny certainty, did not happen. This is not a bad bit of exploration, though not fully formed, and I question its ability to survive on its own, though I am moved to let it go into the wilds and see how it fares.]

©2016 Stuart Dummit

Did you hear the one about…

Did you hear the one about the homeless person who was carrying a sign saying “Will work for Food,” and Donald Trump walked by and asked what he could do to help, and the homeless person said, “If I could just work for a few hours for minimum wage, I’d have enough to buy my daughter something to eat.” And Trump said, “Here – go get your daughter and the rest of your family and we’ll get you cleaned up, get you a good meal, a place to live, and we’ll help you find a full time job that pays a living wage.” And the homeless person said, “Thank you, but why are you doing this?” And Trump said, “Because we’re all human, and life doesn’t always offer everyone the same opportunities, so as someone who has been lucky in life, I know that it is my responsibility to help my brothers and sisters in any way that I can.” Did you hear that story? No? Well, that makes sense, because it would never happen.

©2016 Stuart Dummit Fair usage permitted.