the village chief

What would you do if you were the village chief?

Maybe such things you’ll avoid — if so, then what sort of village chief would you hope to follow?

Some benefits of such villages would be mutual trusts and plays. Ritual Thanksgivings and peach cobblings. With enough cycles the villagers’ blood all mixes around into a certain home.

Villages are, in most ways, a nice way to live in harmony with our Nature — or is our Nature to our discretion to mold? Villages are the playground for such things perhaps, so the Shakers would nod to that.

There’s some pretty words we could always share about love knowing no bounds. Between bloodlines and each girdle of Venus shall link together. Implementation seems to be another matter though.

Earlier today so was revealed why these posts keep coming back. Why these websites keep getting bootstrapped. Three-fourths of this content had a different URL for a home in its inception.

Thou hast made us for thyself, O Lord
Our heart is restless until it finds rest in thee.

When all you know is a transactional existence shuffling between a close convenience store and your dwelling high-rise — when all you know is banding with others to act as tentacles for the latest game, letting the game fulfill its purpose through your vessel(s); when all you know is the movie theatre aisle, mall food shuffling followed by stairwells leading to friends’ consoles and controllers splain about — when hellos start hurting more than goodbyes, or words mean less with each reply; when you’re making dough but don’t know why, and twilight biking ends a little more emptier with each ride — when you submit yourself to passively viewing others’ destructions eating them inside, and there doesn’t seem to be any more words to stir you from your sidelines.

Accepting it all even if it didn’t make much sense was the only way to move forward.

As a cardinal rule I view our (implicit) terms & conditions, scouring for one note: is there a transaction? Do we have an exchange here, apples for peaches?

If there isn’t one, and if there doesn’t seem to be a future one, then all the more reason to pre-emptively hide. Let it die. There are no red strings of fate without the golden flaxen of Transaction nestled in its bloodied fibres.

At least that’s what I selfishly and sickishly(?) believe. It seems to be effective. It at least staves away any sort of later stavings when you’re both carrying along pained and unfulfilled ramblings.

So let’s file this contract here, and this contract after it too; let’s keep a neatly sticky-noted collective of why we exist for one another. This at least keeps the malaise at bay. Mutually, I would hope.

It seems to work, but it doesn’t explain these websites. We could perhaps try to fashion a transaction out of this, but I wouldn’t be so bold to submit this as a concrete Value-Add™ to your life. If anything, you’re the one adding to me — gifting me a chunk of your finite to read this. Gracefully breaking apart my whole system.

What use is such a system of limbo anyway? Transactional existence is stony I guess. These websites are only filling in where it lacked.

So it was revealed: these entries explore the village playground of our human nature. Our mind.

A game where maybe existence doesn’t have to be all transactional. Sure, some parts can be, but not all of it.

Because I would claim the things which meant the most to you were probably gifts.

Even if the balance sheet is all ordered, it should only be in service toward such meanings, shouldn’t it?

This is my mark of meaning in the sand, wherever it’ll expand to.

This is where I hope to string together things which make the heart sing.

Why else be a village chief?