Posts Tagged ‘Houston’

Magnets In The Broader Sense


09 Oct

I. Natural Selection

pushing this open paranoia preamble where effing ironies
can't compete with the steady parade of divas shoving crass
the beacon sass into wry faces of fly America as she crumbles
to her skin-colored knees looking for go daddy go
off to the beach, down to the shore

a petty officer's bargain to famous quotes,
paper or plastic quotas, plug and play devices
siphoned off the highlander's lovely terms
proud to be schooled in urban hubris,
strutting around in those Great Empty Legs
economic theory gone sour like rainy day
toadstools, some mediocre rite before curfew,
lured, groped, incensed, kept begging for more,
ever more frequently without the usual flutter
traffic, those thousand and one Persian tales
leaning heavily upon the elocutionist's shoe
preaching a diet of polish sausages, juicy gossip...

can you see it, it's easy if you try
but at least Europe the Lesser no longer
wails on about tiny hotdog explosions on the 4th
scaling the absence of Mr. Monroe's lost doctrine
ashen Cuba defies, cruel Afghanistan survives—

and, "oh say can you see..."
former glory of Beirut the Paris of the Middle East
as fully capitalized revelation or just so much
a simple pound of flesh among many,
endangered pigeons dancing in purple brows of Khomeini
like sweaters on cockring girls we used to marry just to swing
her father from that melting forest we knew how to follow
like a good rule when it mattered,
for a price of a ticket,

recorded here as burning sheep to shake down the nations.

Biblical floods of panic warriors aching to march
took to taking of old hills and dry dales and still shots to defend
scrubbing magnets, the brass armory, and roving ideals, as older ones
of each become unavailable or unrenewable.

II. Magnifying Glass

every newsroom model doffing designer eyewear,
tagged uranium flags smiling at cleanup observations
under broad bold Houston Intercontinental airport sky
trapped in a bursting bubble of imaginary fairness,
my engineer's transit crushed under huge rubber wheels
never a clean coordinate again to appeal to concrete
surfaces from which I am paid to observe the observers,
pay next to nothing, right next to it...

several beautiful women in pumps, hatred their mouths
furiously debate merits of slick, shiny Chinese silk
patches hand-sewn by able and ready prisoners
air-tight, dignified, aeronautical,
flattering our formal fighters,
interpreters of the return.

ruling class black and white pictures
we'd inhaled from life-sized magazines
before television, world travel and Hollywood
reign we satirized as classical opulence, overindulgence
not really a part of the walking around psyche
approach until we grasped the greasy ugly truth
of one hundred, even four hundred years
of transitory inviolate stain

not until milk delivery stopped clinking
milk racing down our collective chins
came bearing key genetic histories
measuring keen the Iron City past
from racy cornerstones Sumerians
squatted, calculated, mined

not that I buy all that much of it,
I rise to salute smile I once borrowed
(pencil between my teeth, eraser in my fist)
kept in a bedside jar pennies on the dollar
until fly frazzled razorback of ancestry
finally perished for lack of direct proof,
a better argument or soil worth the rank
as the living finally earned
the promises of death...

battery mates compost
fly-away pinstripes stripped down
same doubt history frequently changes to maybe
survivors service armies stinking of fashion
fifteen full and pepsident minutes

until xeroxed Andy Warhol coughs
in grave confirming active swindle
revived from sandlot grassed over
during Cleveland riots & responsibilities
firm peaches along the tracks in Willacoochee,
DuPont-Lucent layoffs starched to hostility
class warriors storming erudite Berkeley
taking cues, La Crosse teachers' unions
grudge pound Corpus Christi, signaling
Vincennes railroad men to echo Window
Rock tattoo artists, as Boise sheep
herders with aim to build
skyscrapers all the way
to Times Beach the Almighty isotope,
spackle bromides of oil and water pipelines

stealing from filthy poor to give to filthy rich,
and save our uncle from Law of Spic and Span
finally put to its rightful use.

[ Washington DC, 2013 ]

Three Engineers Named Rounthwaite


19 Apr

engineer

The Engineer's Case

samplex

Date: Sat, 19 Apr 1997 11:56:21

I apologize for the intrusion, but after stumbling across the name, I was wondering whether you are the George Rounthwaite, formerly of Houston, TX, a surveyor (engineer), or are you perhaps his son, Robert, whom I knew to be living and working in the Redmond area?

I am the former Richard Nix, now Gabriel Thy, living in Washington, DC, but I won't bore you with sentiments except to wish you good health and fine purpose. If you are not this Rounthwaite clan, I apologize again.

Part Two...

Yes, that is the same Robert I knew as a young boy of 8-9 way back in the late 70s. His father, George, whom I consider one of three post-parental mentors of my early 20s had a debilitating stroke about five years ago, and from what I gather over a couple of very awkward phone conversations and a short jumbled letter he is still reluctantly estranged from the family he loves very much. When I saw your name on one of the Internet Registers (I forget which, already, sorry), I was hoping on a long shot that George had relocated to Washington in the care of his son Robert, who does indeed work for Mister Bill, and had embraced the Net. It's been about eighteen months since I last talked to him. My sin. I'm afraid I have few comforting words in my vocabulary. Thanks for your offer of locating Robert's phone number, but I think I must decline your generosity. I have not seen Robert, or George for that matter, since 1980, and frankly I would find a cold call to him rather unnerving, not to mention how he might feel. I am much more comfortable with E-mail in certain, well no, MOST situations, and realizing the Rounthwaite family unit as somewhat in ill-repair, I hesitate to step in.

Actually the whole tale goes on for some twenty or so pages in an unpublished novel sitting on my harddrive, as secretly as if it had never been written, because naturally, being of sound mind and not merely out for kicks, there were contributing facts both prior to and after the utterances and the writing of the name, as you might imagine, but since I hardly dare bore you with those details at this point in our communication, I’ll just say thanks for asking…
It was astonishingly difficult even talking to George. Fourteen years had passed before I called him out of the blue back in 1995. You see, old friend George is a hardcore Christian fundamentalist, a very bright, very well-educated man who sought to please God more than the most stringent theology can ever permit. The very passion of health and fitness, George suffered his stroke rather prematurely while still in his early to mid-fifties. It is my perception, not without hints of validation, that his intensity for religion finally cracked both his family ties and his physical well-being. It's a very sad tale of which I was hoping a reunion had overcome...

As for the name change operation, it's quite a long story, but the short version is that after a period of twenty months or so of uttering on a whim to strangers in Corpus Christi TX whenever I was being introduced that"...my name is Richard Spalding Nix, but I'm in the process of a name change operation," the deed was finally accomplished on November 13, 1983 in Atlanta when I wrote the line in a poem that "I took the name Gabriel Thy...", a day that also happened to be my mother's birthday, whatever that has to do with anything. It was only three days later, after going back to edit the poem that I actually noticed the line for the first time. "Eureka!" I shouted, and the rest is history. Actually the whole tale goes on for some twenty or so pages in an unpublished novel sitting on my harddrive, as secretly as if it had never been written, because naturally, being of sound mind and not merely out for kicks, there were contributing facts both prior to and after the utterances and the writing of the name, as you might imagine, but since I hardly dare bore you with those details at this point in our communication, I'll just say thanks for asking...

Yes, Gabriel Thy is my legal name now, since 1984. Being the creative sort who tries to live by the strength of his words (failing miserably of course), while sporting this nasty habit of trying to coerce others to live up to their own, I took the plunge and made it official. But life goes on, under any name, and any banner, and it's a damned shame God is such a mysterious force in the histories of man, offering much consolation and pomposity to so many and so much pain, so much confusion to so many others without rhyme or reason to sift out the differences...

GT

Whatever's Left Of Rounthwaite Gnaws At This Map Of Houston


20 Apr

surveyors

You Said I Was Born To Be A Surveyor

samplex

Thirteen years! In and of itself thirteen years even to my 38 year old mind does not seem like such a long time, but when I am reminded of the numerous changes I have spent on the road a whole lot louder than I was then, and now that some of your own changes have been plugged into the equation, I am smacked with emotion. After several eager dialings over the course of these years to metropolitan Houston directory assistance to confirm that you still maintained a telephone in the area, I finally found the courage to ring you up, facing whatever destiny our two paths had reckoned. Certainly delighted I did, reassured by your innate friendliness, although I must admit. I never expected news of a debilitating cerebral stroke nor the loss of your Christian wife to another man. Unsure of your own willingness to presently discuss with someone of my distance these two very personal issues, I will not press for details, but whatever strikes your fancy within your own comfort levels and timing.

Even as I hastily type out this preamble to what shall certainly evolve into a lengthy dispatch, because my own natural stimulus leaves no stone unturned, no ambiguity unanalyzed, no shadow unembraced, once I discover them hiding under a rock, a leaf, a building, a field of arguments no man has ever built and they came running, particularly after all these years of silence and personal migrations, reconfigurations, makeovers, retooling—I feel my language in this letter will never wholly match in faithfulness my spirit to explain those matters of choice which simply cannot be explained with tiring the reader. Some say I never get to the point. As an old journeyman land surveyor I celebrate the line—the line made of up infinite points, intersecting points, points of curvature, end points, beginning points, random points, topological points, non-existent points, hidden points, blocked points, coordinate points, and error, accumulative error. I take advantage of this knowledge.

Beyond outward appearances, inward cesspools, or the algebra of faith, it is easy to admit that my flesh has never been able to trigger its own comfortable purposes; my pawning gnawing spirit—yearning forcefully toward some sort of systematic success never quite available however carefully transcribed to me in secret languages beyond the scope of others, even my devoted wife’s stunted curiosity—still rages against my body proving an easily recognizable quantum that the body has spent a lifetime stifling the spirit and the spirit a lifetime of trying to void the body.

That is to say, the cult of love, as it instructs and subsequently withers (or puddles) the individual psyche into parasitic perversions symptomatic of or fluid to a basic yet unraveling (diluted) meaning of life, is the story of the self-replicating worm colony feeding upon the cold marbleizing carcass representing the association between love and death gone untold. Mostly.
But this isn’t news in any language. Thousands of years and millions of minds have conspired to convert the eternal rites of passage into a mere truism dried of all meaning. My life I’m afraid has been a testament to the inflexible conflict between passion and indifference, the conflict of the lion and the lamb residing within the same skeletal savannah, of the need to know versus the need to forgive and forget, escaping numbers only to falter along ruinous paths maximizing the storms of an irregular personality marking the forehead with faith while resisting the queues of metaphorical Babylonia which seem to know only what molten men of the hour can teach and respect solely on a statistical curve.

Trajectory failure, one chapter at a time, as only a man of unquenchable thirst can survive is not only an interesting sentence, it does not erect imaginary fences either. The apparent loss of God the Waterbearer is rank speculation and dog tired dogma, the two strong vices which still snarl my flesh, and its façade like immeasurable strands of thread wrapped around a burning man, yet they still engage and tempt me into feeling justified in rejecting what’s leftover of love's devices, the word itself having degenerated into merely another cultural pathos. That is to say, the cult of love, as it instructs and subsequently withers (or puddles) the individual psyche into parasitic perversions symptomatic of or fluid to a basic yet unraveling (diluted) meaning of life, is the story of the self-replicating worm colony feeding upon the cold marbleizing carcass representing the association between love and death gone untold. Mostly.

Leaving on March 11, 1979, the day after my brother’s wedding, I set out to explore the nature of God, myself, and the way, only a few days after you baptized me at my request in that sad moonlit apartment pool in the southwest sector of the city in which we were then living.
These past weeks since hearing your proud cheerful voice exactly as I remember it have been pocked with recurrent memories of our regular theological exchanges. For sixteen years that voice and those words have echoed through my mental and spiritual chambers. It is no exaggeration to say that probably not a month has passed in all those many that you, your family, and the boast of our fellowship did not enter my social milieu like rainclouds over parched clay both to inspire and to challenge my efforts to attain God’s Tender Will. Indeed you have exerted a major influence over my life. I have dozens, perhaps tens of dozens of times, employed the title—My First Post-Parental Mentor—when referring to you in recollection among contemporaries. This admission is not meant to flatter or embarrass you, merely state a relationship.

While appropriate honor is certainly intended, I mention this only to emphasize your timely importance in my life. I was a fledgling 23 in the Texan autumn of 1978, still perky from the jarring experience of marrying and separating from a Jehovah Witness twice my age heavy with three kids, when we first surveyed together under the tricky financial wings of lovable diamond-mouthed Larry Godfrey, two extraordinary surveyors charged with the task of laying out the figure eight track at the City of Houston Police Academy and other site preparation tasks at the airport next property line over.

I lived and worked in Houston precisely three days plus one year. I gave away most of my possessions. Everything in my apartment in fact, save my books, music, and the short change of clothes I could fit into my car. Leaving on March 11, 1979, the day after my brother’s wedding, I set out to explore the nature of God, myself, and the way, only a few days after you baptized me at my request in that sad moonlit apartment pool in the southwest sector of the city in which we were then living—a wide open city still growing by a thousand people a week, a high stakes city still burbling in a the last big Texas oil boom, a sprawling segregated city that claimed to be the nation's fifth largest at that time, a wildcat city of mighty skyscrapers, whipping freeways and mile after mile, neighborhood after neighborhood of busy, treeless parallel and perpendicular lines paved in spectacular unwavering concrete grids, nostalgic signage, barrios, gringos pushing & shoving a 40/40 population wheelhouse, a city which I would only return once more after I left this time in my Blue Devil 305.

Regrettably, little has changed in that regard even now. Studies among the exegeses of Tolstoy, Schweitzer, Pascal, St. Augustine, Van Gogh, Cayce, Goethe, Tillich, Gibran, Pascal, Rousseau, Paine, Durant, and other biblical and ethical commentators filled my head with all too many strange transfixing questions and all too few answers, presaging an addiction to the printed word which still haunts me.
Within three months of packing myself into my car I landed a job as a caretaker on a chicken farm in Nassau County, Florida, just north of Jacksonville. Forty thousand fluttering birds my equal needed to be fed, quenched, and culled, water and feed troughs cleaned, manure and fresh wood chips shoveled, dead birds buried. This period proved to be a sharp lesson in the intentional devaluation of the self. Farming a half acre assortment of vegetables and fruits, I ate sparingly, becoming emaciatingly thin on a diet of little meat, mainly an occasional roasted fowl or catfish caught in the lagoon off Lofton Creek at the back of the cabin where I lived alone and satisfied that I walked with a living savior. Those days were delightful, pure, serene, purposeful, quixotic, flowing, and the night air was lucid for bookworming and practicing in earnest what I had hoped would one day manage to keep me in cottage and applied theory—the writing craft.

Bare minimums were code. A secluded sandbottomed lagoon wrestling with beauty offered itself for skinny dipping and the daily summer bath. Loneliness was sometimes a factor at Lofton Creek, alone as I was, caring for the unflappable birds and tending the fields of manure-fertile raw vegetable goodness I planted. Youthful polarity provided the future with great purpose as I craved to learn the ways of the intellectual, the saint, the poet, the madman whom the world, Jew or Gentile, could not force its indistinguishable patterns onto without the consent of the governed, daring to transcend each and every stone cast upon the pond, walking the walk, talking the talk, bending and bowing to the rays of the constant light within. Ah, such is the reverie of an uncouth youth seeking to belong to himself.

Landlord and his wife, the Earl Wilson's, who lived in their National Register Tabby home ten miles away in town, would occasionally bring out a mess of rockshrimp and a feast of the few would be promptly called. Fellowship, tangency, and the delicate prospering of a solitary man’s vital era ranked among the finest times I have ever achieved and was common to each visit and each conversation we shared, a genteel but unaffected mutual regard very much like our own. Earl Wilson, who later passed away of a heart attack at the tragic age of 55, had in truth and in spirit, become my second personal mentor. The second elder in whom I would be able to listen to or confide in without some sort of spiritual grudge match fostering my intelligence. Of course this is aside from what I would continue to scan heavily from books and other media accounts. My fifteen months at Lofton Creek were a gentle canvas of leisure, painted with a measuring schtick spoiled only by a natural intolerance to any perceived decline or stagnation. Was I not being groomed by the All-Purposeful Lord for great things, greater things than this? Like Elisha, I wanted more.

Soon enough though, an unchecked overwhelming sense of urgency pervaded my serenity. I spent afternoon and evening reading book after book checked out from the library in the town from which I had graduated highschool, six years earlier, the town where the landlord and his wife lived. The urgency of succeeding somewhere somehow sometime soon in a way that matched what I believed where my strong points, kept me at odds with the seclusion of my near perfect pastoral lifestyle. Regrettably, little has changed in that regard even now. Studies among the exegeses of Tolstoy, Schweitzer, Pascal, St. Augustine, Van Gogh, Cayce, Goethe, Tillich, Gibran, Pascal, Rousseau, Paine, Durant, and other biblical and ethical commentators filled my head with all too many strange transfixing questions and all too few answers, presaging an addiction to the printed word which still haunts me.

In short, I feel I am a healthy neurotic, now as I was as a child, a struggling, inept, argumentative teenager, a terrible twentysomething, and so now as a twisting thirtysomething, a solitary seeker of unbiased unprotracted truth and justice of what's happening, righteousness and compassion among those I intersect, guided not by my own sense of self-worth but by a hovering sense of duty, not quite positive everything I effect is going to put a smile on God’s face, but secure in the knowledge that without that healthy dose of doubt, purpose would then be defined as beginning and ending with myself, an absurdly brutal concept to which I’ve never long subscribed.
As a precocious child I devoured books with the vigor other kids ran through mud puddles and sticker bushes, and after surging past the glib yet stagnant years brought on by my earlier experience with a much more constrained thinking—thanks to that sorry excuse of a first marriage, but when I knew you for that year, I had already walked away from all that history, grown past the years of stain in a sense.

I'm not what one might call a naturally happy person, George; not terribly unhappy, but not particularly happy, not in the same way that I would describe you&$151;you George Rounthwaite—that wonderful impish but manly grin, a grin I could hear and could almost see over the telephone that morning you returned my call, a grin that is shaped by the ever resourceful spirit which lives within you. And yet in defense of my own robust spirit, I can never concede that I am unduly deprived of God’s intent in when weathering whatever shades of depression and simple joy I experience. I accept my local joys and those spells of dark seclusion which work to direct my life in ways most citizens, believers and pagan alike, in our culture find less than ambitious to say the least, and dare assert I, speak more to their own faulty judgment than to my own sense of frailty.

In short, I feel I am a healthy neurotic, now as I was as a child, a struggling, inept, argumentative teenager, a terrible twentysomething, and so now as a twisting thirtysomething, a solitary seeker of unbiased unprotracted truth and justice of what's happening, righteousness and compassion among those I intersect, guided not by my own sense of self-worth but by a hovering sense of duty, not quite positive everything I effect is going to put a smile on God’s face, but secure in the knowledge that without that healthy dose of doubt, purpose would then be defined as beginning and ending with myself, an absurdly brutal concept to which I’ve never long subscribed.

Why then all the straining psychobabble first before I begin detailing the struggles, the contours of my individual path? Because unappended details unfortunately are easily cut and quartered into categories of right and wrong out of context without supportive evidence. Because I have no wish to parade facts in front of someone who historically may not approve. And because I am neither here on this earth nor this page to shame anyone who is genuinely unprepared to understand the ways I feel called to manifest—that God in his own good sense may fulfill all the promises to those who have prayed for understanding and ultimate peace according to His previous messengers.

Giving way to nothingness, and following conscience, what could be more feckless and puerile for a "transit & hub" man walking away from a thriving dialed up world where the dollar is king...
Like a grapecoloured sky’s lively first pelt onto a rolling semi’s sideview mirror as load and driver barrel down the highway, I intend to reflect off these words into the surgical eye of the quick and the dead extending the free trade of ideas among other fine washables of life as keen as my powers allow. I am here to push further the envelope of comprehension, emphasize the degrees of perfection and sample the varieties of fruitbearing trees rooted in the heart of this age.

Selling the car was a major decision I actually made rather easily once I decided it was time, that my reasoning was solid. Mr. Rounthwaite, I loved that car, it was my pride. Therefore it had to go. Remember when we drove up to Tulsa from Houston to visit Oral Roberts University a few years earlier? Blew a flat as we were pulling into campus. Act of God, you said. I eventually left the serenity of Lofton Creek and Florida in September, 1980, for hurricane-tattered Corpus Christi to help my brother Clyde—at his request—bolster his fledgling roofing company, and return me to respectability from slacker life I suppose he and his wife might have discussed. My Blue Devil 305 ride rolled on tiger-grip Hercules Honcho tires, Gabriel shocks. Gabriel riser shocks to tell the truth. Took pride in it. Put 96K miles of artery on odometer in thirty-six months that I owned it. Had but five when I picked it off the lot.

It still frequently pops into my dreamlife now, some fourteen years after I sold it to a Jacksonville dealer for next to peanuts. In my dream it’s invariably parked in a public lot somewhere when I discover it, and usually in the perfect shiny blue state it was in when I sold it. But I do recall a recent dream when in route to nowhere in particular I casually stumble upon a burned out shell of blackened steel and crisp memories, and I knew it was my old car, ready for the resurrection and a pure nature. In this dreamlife, I always manage to steal it back successfully, without incident, and drive off into the sunset, so to speak, with no remorse, no concern for its current owner, simply radiant that my inner self has renewed the fecund energy this dazzling dance of road machine represents to my subconscious mind. Obviosuly this dreaming of one’s earliest prized and therefore most pleasureable possessions is not rare. Yet no other figurative symbols of my life except maybe the house I grew up in from the age of six to thirteen recur as often as does that car.

But I had become uncomfortable with financial success at the expense of others even to the point of resisting due payment for my own labors. My common refrain for a period was, “Just pay me what you think it is worth.” Obviously I was opening myself to exploitation, for I was never the slacker, but I could not excuse myself in this war of wages. Finally, after a decade of fighting a losing battle against my own nature to appease the temperament of business, its capitalistic pressures urging my own strong will to succeed (paralleling family and peer considerations)—only recently has it became crystal clear to me that I simply have not been called to embrace the American business routine.
Abandoned to a state of self-denial and chicken farmer ethics however, I felt compelled to junk it off to a dealer as contraband, a shiny nuts and bolts conspiracy illuminating my spiritual depravity, just as I had given away most of my household possessions except for my books and albums, including my finer threads and shoes, when I had left Houston. Giving way to nothingness, and following conscience, what could be more feckless and puerile for a "transit & hub" man walking away from a thriving dialed up world where the dollar is king...

Turning away desirable girlfriends, worldly possessions, and normal occupational ambitions came unnaturally easy to me, but in the spirit of diminishing returns, I carefully worked to steer as best I could from perverting the paradox of faith along the lines of what one might call humble arrogance back over to its converse form—arrogant humility—a decidedly common open trench planted with razorsharpened spikes and mirrors many pretenders seem incapable of dodging in their eagerness to appear to self and others as profiling God’s Own Image of Himself. And so Corpus Christi on the bay would become the next corporeal stage upon which my lifelong collusion with the spirit of man versus beast would manifest its theatre deep into my being.

Fifteen months as a hermit in the backwoods of my beginnings had taken their toll. I was no longer fit to be a businessman. Lasting only four months with my brother, I finally quit his company because of what I considered unsportsmanlike price-gouging practices. Although his rates were very competitive, it just seemed to me that hard times justified hard times for all, not accelerated pricing schedules when business was booming due to a recent storm. We parted friends and have become even closer as the years tear back the youthful packaging to reveal two pensive beings bartering the spectrum of ideas with earnest achievement at opposite poles of brotherly nature. But I had become uncomfortable with financial success at the expense of others even to the point of resisting due payment for my own labors. My common refrain for a period was, “Just pay me what you think it is worth.” Obviously I was opening myself to exploitation, for I was never the slacker, but I could not excuse myself in this war of wages. Finally, after a decade of fighting a losing battle against my own nature to appease the temperament of business, its capitalistic pressures urging my own strong will to succeed (paralleling family and peer considerations)—only recently has it became crystal clear to me that I simply have not been called to embrace the American business routine. That this anticommercial strain of business acumen is not by any means unique to religious zealots, I was aware, and careful to acknowledge prevalent economic bidding as worthy of men’s attention and God’s grace, quite unlike some in the political arena who have always seemed a bit revolting to me.

My brother has since returned to Atlanta, divorced, gone bankrupt, started another company, and remarried. His high profile roofing and remodeling company will gross over $3 million this year. Eighteen or so of his company’s advertising billboards grace Metro Atlanta’s highways. The high ornamental fabric of his lifestyle is in good taste and worthy of a poor man’s envy. My brother Clyde never graduated from junior high.

At sixteen he made a remarkable breakthrough in his life via a popular rehabilitation program, learning to read and speak there, although he still does not read much outside the Wall Street Journal and roofing or contractual specs. He does not truck with religion or the standardized version of God, although he is quite an introspective, let us say, spiritual man. After years of juvenile delinquency he saw the proverbial light, although it certainly took years for the complete transformation, in both the social grooming and personal hygienic senses, as well as for the full juices of his mental capacities to kick into overdrive.

The ensuing fact that he is quite the classical handsome man, while certainly adding to his notorious vanity, does most assuredly favor his strong faculty for self-confidence and secular direction as he makes his way among worldly affairs. Everyone pegged me for the smart brother, the rich brother, the glorious brother, of us six. Christ, said I, was not the one.

GT

S A M P L E X

"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""


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