Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 9

Cribb Comment Prelude:

The following passage mentions the Tralfamadorians who are an alien race envisioned by the character Billy. Billy is a “shell-shocked” WWII veteran who believes this alien race has abducted him and transported him to a human zoo on their home world so they can observe his life and behavior. The Tralfamadorians see “time” differently than humans, observing the past, present, and future, all simultaneously, thus they do not understand the limited vision of time by human beings.

“Time” in this passage is probably truly better read as awareness. And the metaphor is actually describing the full potential of awareness that should be possessed by everyone (the Tralfamadorians) versus the actual awareness (the Earthlings) that is possessed by ninety-nine percent of the human race.


Cribb         2014


There was a lot that Billy said that was gibberish to the Tralfamadorians, too. They couldn’t imagine what time looked like to him. Billy had given up on explaining that. The guide outside had to explain as best he could.

The guide invited the crowd to imagine that they were looking across a desert at a mountain range on a day that was twinkling bright and clear. They could look at a peak or a bird or a cloud, at a stone right in front of them, or even down into a canyon behind them. But among them was this poor Earthling, and his head was encased in a steel sphere which he could never take off. There was only one eyehole through which he could look, and welded to that eyehole were six feet of pipe.

This was only the beginning of Billy’s miseries in the metaphor. He was also strapped to a steel lattice which was bolted to a flatcar on rails, and there was no way he could turn his head or touch the pipe. The far end of the pipe rested on a bi-pod which was also bolted to the flatcar. All Billy could see was the little dot at the end of the pipe. He didn’t know he was on a flatcar, didn’t even know there was anything peculiar about his situation.

The flatcar sometimes crept, sometimes went extremely fast, often stopped—went uphill, downhill, around curves, along straightways. Whatever poor Billy saw through the pipe, he had no choice but to say to himself, “That’s life.”



Kurt Vonnegut          1969

Love vs Sex 68


I like your pants around your feet…

and could that possibly…in the most remotest realms of improbability…..be properly nurturing to you and your soul…..could it be the primary thing that helps you to let go of your silly damn fight and regret and fear…..could it be the most natural and visceral act capable of allowing you to exhale from the holding of your breath….

and could it also be rewritten and bastardized and filled with bullying games of neurotic control…could it be used to further destabilize a diseased psyche…..to crush others….to kill the natural beauty of union and fucking…..to torment another because it will make you feel more in control and help you to ignore your own torment….could you block the proper sexual union offered by another with your own tricks because you were terrified of letting go and trusting another…..terrified of what might happen if you actually did so…

it could…

Love vs Sex 66


Starbuck was always a beautiful sexy creature and an Angel desired by almost everyone because of her energy and her drive…..that fact is undeniable…..even though she often felt lost and misunderstood and confused by what others sold to her as “love”. Starbuck was a true creature of the heavens and she fell into the trap of trying to live as a lesser creature and be “happy” by being appreciated for the most part by lesser creatures. She thought that was the answer, but it was her prison…they could not understand her beauty…,could not really appreciate it….so they rewrote her and ripped her wings off of her body….fractured her soul with clever tricks and control mechanisms to turn that beautiful Angel into a beast more like themselves. They told her she should be happy “living” like this, but she was not and she could never be.


Cribb         2014



Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 8

How Bizarre…

The issue is that almost no one….damn near no one, can say what they mean or what they want or what they need or what they truly desire. I used to believe this was simply an issue of people not wanting to appear vulnerable to others or maybe never having been fortunate enough to experience company that would actually listen and interact with such efforts of communication. For some reason, it also seemed or was assumed by me that these “glitches” of madness predominated by far the projected supposed positive behavior or statements of goodwill, empathy, and intention that others so easily proclaim as the gospel of their feelings and actions. In other words, I thought their disconnect with actuality and correlating their actions with their words was only directed at “sappy face painting or marketing of their image” to build their own image up for themselves or others (to combat insecurity), to pretend they were much much happier than they really were in truth (holding their breath and trying to get the tail to wag the dog), and attempting to comply with some ludicrous religious doctrine that had been imprinted (nurtured) unnaturally and tortuously upon their true natural order soul. But, I have come to understand that this same “almost no one” maintains this perpetual disconnect of reason and word throughout all behaviors, positive or negative, and the disconnect is not really between their mouth and their conscious thought, it is truly and profoundly between their Team Mouth and Conscious Thought versus their Team Subconscious. It is almost always easy to isolate and illustrate their empty and inconsistent words, and with a little effort you can explore and map out what they “really THINK they believe”….how their minds have falsely wrapped, packaged, and marketed to their conscious, almost reflexive thinking, a version of palatable reality that tends to be very inconsistent with their documentable subconscious behavior. This subconscious, typically cyclical, ultimate behavior (their cycle) tells the truth of their being. It is the reflection of the core of the given individual. You cannot…..simply cannot rely upon the overwhelming majority of people to express anything of true merit and intent through their gob-stoppers or even in their own accurate description of their own conscious thought. How fucking bizarre is that?….how fucking bizarre…..but you can bet your sweet, sweet ass it is supremely true.


Cribb         2014

My First Two Times 6

She was half my age….half…..when we met for the first time. Her mother had been a long time client and she had spoken with me previously about her daughters inquisitive interest in possibly pursuing a doctorate in veterinarian medicine. I don’t really remember this mom’s specific description of her daughter. I am sure it contained some healthy pride and a concern for her daughter to continue down a nurturing and proper path, no matter where it might specifically lead. I do know that this mother had mentioned to me that her daughter was extremely intelligent and that she had been plagued by some very harsh demons earlier in her life. Her daughter….this young woman, had somehow survived those almost unsurmountable demons and as part of that survival, had enrolled into Georgia Tech a year or so earlier than the norm to help stimulate and engage and satiate her intellectual curiosity and awareness. Mom had simply asked me to allow her daughter to volunteer at my hospital for a little while so she could get a better understanding and feel for the factual reality of the practice of veterinary medicine.

Who really knows how much of my memory is or is not clouded with romantic delusion or perhaps tainted by overriding lascivious lust, masked as something other than itself, but I always attempt and have always attempted my best to be honest with myself, and this is what I remember to be most true. My first memorable glance at her recorded the image of a beautiful, vibrant, youthful, energetic creature. This creature, immediately captivating to my attention in a rare way that I find almost impossible to ignore, seemed to stand slightly taller in height than most women. Perhaps it was just her posture that elicited that perception in my mind or maybe it was an accurate objective observation due to the elegant combination of her physical parameters coupled with her tenacious will that raised her frame to its, shall I say, commanding height. She had a thick, dark, dreamy, and untamed mane that swept this way and that, teasing her shoulders…and my eyes on a perpetual basis. It was a mane that you simply wanted to be entangled within forever. The margins of her lips reached wide, but not unpleasantly so…..and their width complimented their moderate thickness, forming the mouth of a regal queen or a sultry jazz singer or a feral warrior princess or an intoxicated mischievous nymph or a well respected professional who could articulate her expect opinion with eloquent empathy. A few soft freckles seemed to dance like gentle embers from cheek to cheek as they rose and fell across the bridge of her nose and her eyes shone with a sparkle that thirsted to shine forevermore with all of the wonder and amazement present in every little thing that crossed the field of her vision. At the same time, those eyes also revealed an uncommon ferociousness and tenacity which lurked just below their shinning reflection. And deeper still, if you knew how to search for it, you could see her vehemently conquering and productive, but oh so self-endangering, dark-sided secondary core reactor which had been ignited and remained fueled by the fierce flames of her deepest pain and agony and fear and spite. A mighty hellion cohabited within the shadows of the exuberant angel in this mercurial lady of the fay. Her attire of that first moment of contact and what I remember to be her default norm was a comfortable, close fitting cotton shirt flanked by a tight fitting, light weight black hoodie with both of its sleeves pulled up to her mid fore arms. Jeans covered her lower half and her feet normally donned running shoes or Keens. The overall form of her body was fairly skinny, but it was definitely decorated with very pleasant and noticeable curves of sumptuous sustenance in the regions of her chest, hips, and ass.

To be continued…

Cribb          2014


Love vs Sex 65 and Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 7

Kat is sitting alone, nibbling the very last vegan oat cookie. Her face is drawn. I wonder what she thinks of Gerritszoon’s immortal words.

“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s not good enough.” Her eyes are dark and downcast. “He was so talented, and he still died.”

“Everybody dies—”

“This is enough for you? He left us a note, Clay. He left us a note.” She shouts it, and an oat crumb comes shooting off her lips. Oliver Grone glances over from the ANTHROPOLOGY shelves, eyebrows raised. Kat looks down at her shoes. Quietly, she says, “Don’t call that immortality.”

“But what if this is the best part of him?” I say. I’m composing this theory in real-time: “What if, you know—what if hanging out with Griffo Gerritszoon wasn’t always that great? What if he was weird and dreamy? What if the best part of him was the shapes he could make with metal? That part of him is immortal. It’s as immortal as anything’s going to get.”

She shakes her head, sighs, and leans into me a little, pushing the last bits of the cookie into her mouth. I found the old knowledge, the OK, that we’d been looking for, but she doesn’t like what it has to say. Kat Potente will keep searching.

After a moment, she pulls back, takes a sharp breath, and lifts herself up. “Thanks for inviting me,” she says. “See you around.” She shrugs her blazer, waves goodbye, and heads for the door.


Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore

Robin Sloan          2012