On the Muckers

Finished the gift. It's strange to not have to worry about it. I get home and the docket is empty. I kick off the muckers and there's no sadness because there's no where else to walk in them. There are places I need to be and things I still need to do, but there is nothing hanging over. It's good and bad. Like a lot of things. It's a hard feeling to express. There's a pretty gaping gash where it was, the gift, and now that there's nothing in there to hold the tide aside it's washed high and hard. I wasn't expecting that. I probably should have been after working on it for so long. It's a backward empty nest kind of thing.

Not that the writing is unimportant anymore. If anything it is more important than it was as there is territory unoccupied and the last thing I need is to have the hunger for discovery eat me alive. I feel like I've been turned loose all over again. Learning what to do with that, because over the course of the work it was something that I unlearned. The timing was poor. Landed right in the holiday let down between Christmas and New Years, but I'm glad I did it. It had to be done. So it's time to dive in again. Time to shoe up the head saw and cut into myself with renewed abandon.

There's work still to be done. Year end looks. The year end playlist. Resolutions. Drawings. Poetry. Fiction. Sleeping. Games. Theories. Maybe even more stand up (but probably not for a while. I can't get my head around it to save my life) Sorry I've been away for so long. Part of finishing was really turning myself toward it with everything I had left after work days and work weeks. I think I miss the gut of the effort as much as the result. It didn't turn out exactly the way I wanted, but it was as close as I was going to get without getting lost in detail work and shoving the deadline to the horizon of another middle year. So we're back on it. I'm back on it. Time to see where the universe ends. Back from space, and off again into the star blacked banner of dreams.

That Instant

That instant you realize you've been ending your day spitting into your spit jar and it's burgundy from spitting blood into it and you didn't realize it until now, but the music is so good.

Low Lighter

I've been mulling craft over. Disappointed in the body so far. I try to grade myself week to week. Did I nail it? Did I glance it? Did I make something I can stand behind? The answers are easy in a lot of fields. Harder in writing. One thing I miss about college was workshops. Sure, half the people there are only there because they need to have creative arts credits or just needed something to add to their schedule they could coast through. That's the major difference between writers and other people. At least at that level.

The classes are only as hard as you make them. Writers make them some of the hardest classes they've ever taken. Other people don't. Humanities and social studies is like that. How deep do you want to drive into the subject matter? The same goes for many of the other largely subjective classes offered at university.

I've been asked more than once and probably too many times how a person, or how I, know that I am or they are a writer. The answer can be answered fairly simply in many different ways using very simple, and also very personal, tests. I am not saying the answer to the question is simple. It's always complicated, but can be simplified in terms of the writing being done. One of the tests, I believe, is the level of dissatisfaction with "good enough." Not the good enough that tells you that item A or B is amusing or digestible to other people, but the good enough that hits the points and edges, lines and graphs, of the things you want to map. If that lack of good enough directs you to work harder than you are a writer. If that lack of personal good enough draws you to an "oh well, I tried" sort of answer than you are probably not a writer, but did manage to put words together into a coherent string. I dunno. It's tough. Goes without saying at this point.

I haven't been disappointed with the effort as much as the second effort. I usually relied on working with criticisms to see where things were failing and where things work better. Part of learning how to write is learning how to simulate workshops within yourself. Time consuming stuff. What I have been doing is working on very short time scales. Hours instead of days and weeks and months. The pressure works well at sharpening the blade or at least keeping it sharp, but does not do enough, for me, to make progress. So I'm working on a new idea, an old one, but new to the times, on a new channel. A low line.

I've been riding the high line for a very long time and the problem is it does not leave enough time for gestation and things get excessively hit and miss and I'm not happy with that. I have to give myself time to step away and look at it again and punch it right in the craw until it's disfigured and see how I can make it better and then do it better and then look at it again. Give things time to precipitate. I haven't given myself that time partly because I over estimated what I can do (arrogance), but also because running back over what you've done is rarely pleasant. It's not fun or enjoyable to see how badly you put something together and that's a lack of discipline.

So a second Auralport is coming at a much lower line. It's not going to be about cranking out and pushing forward as much as it will be trying to put one gem together in a week. We're going dual channel. A thing for every place and a place for everything. Or something like that. Just trying to satisfy the urge to put pen to paper and make it something worth seeing just once. I want desperately to be better at it, but all I've got is me, so we're gonna figure this shit out and make something ill.


///Bowery Electric - "Freedom Fighter" ... cue dreams.

Have and Half Knots, Making Dead Lines, and Explosive Decompression

So I think I am finally approaching upper lower class. Inching toward car ownership and consistent internet access that doesn't cut off if I watch ten feature length pornographic movies in one month. It only took a year to save up the money for both, but I'm not mad because that was roughly the time span I estimated so many moons ago. Not that I'm some kind of social climber, but it certainly makes life a lot easier for me (being that at least half of my waking time is dependent on connectivity). If I think about it the only reason why I have a job, let alone two, is because of the internet. A major factor in my escape from New York was the internet. My creative outlets, well three out of the five, are internet dependent. Not originally, but since I opened myself up to being read, along with the good and bad that comes from it, that is what they've become. A pair still remain personal and internet independent, and they are my babies, whom I coddle and pet unceasingly. So I'm not quite a "have", but I am the possessor of many knotted ends.

Everyone likes to sew things up. Who doesn't. From the youngest age you can remember some of the most satisfying moments are the moments when you connect one and one and get to bask in the glory of your hard earned, bent spined, but elegant in that way, two. Whatever operand falls between the two slivers of symbols matters little. All that matters is you put in the hard think and the finger fumbles and drew something out of two separate things that ended up being beautiful, simply, the answer. Not just an answer, but the only answer possible within the frames of the rules of everything else that described the world around you. That is clutch. That is what I want to be able to do, but instead of sewing my things up I have ended up with knot after knot, with some fine stitch work in between.

It's not failure. Every time you tried to tie your laces and ended up knotting the threads when you were little, you did not just sit down and cry. Well maybe sometimes I did. Eventually, though, I ended up going outside to play regardless because the fact of the matter was that I was not concerned so much with the ending. I was not so much concerned with the fact that eventually I would have to take the shoes off, as much as I knew, no matter what I did after the episode of frustration, the things were going to do what they were designed to do, and that was stay put. So although I am a possessor of more knots than neat and fixed loops, and although I will sit and cry about it for a while, I know that I can still go out and get it done with the best of them. The difference being when I get home and the game is over I have to cut the laces apart and rethread them.

Making deadlines is hard, in that way. Not that I have to start over every week, but the things people take for granted are things I have to redo every week and make them work like new all over again. I would be more upset about it, if I had not had to live with it for so long. It's the standard. Part of the allure of medication is that it offers the promise of a consistent starting point. It simplifies, to the detriment of other experiences. I alternately accept and reject that promise. It depends on how frustrated I get tying knots when I know and tell my fingers how to do things better and they refuse to respond. When I know and tell my fingers how to do things better and they answer and accept and then absent themselves from the chain of command altogether because it turns out I did not have the con to begin with.

Making deadlines is hard, but having deadlines helps the continuity. I think that's why I hate days off so much. Days off are like being thrust into the airlock of my ship half suited, half relaxed, half giddy just to be there without having a reason, and then the count begins for the hatch release and I realize it is for real. I realize there was something I set out to do when I entered and soon I will be sucking vacuum if I don't get it together and I have to fumble and scramble to abort the entire venture because my helmet is still sitting right where I left it, in the lounge, and there is no way I'm going to manage to make something meaningful out of the next ten seconds (ten hours) besides flailing for molecules.

That analogy was a stretch, but that's what it feels like. Trying to get things done without a hard plan is difficult. Days off are always unplanned. Uncharted and unplannable. The hardest thing about it is going without contact. When I'm down on the surface among people I know what's real for the most part. Well, for the some part. When all I have is time spent with myselves it's a dicey affair. Tremendous amounts of necessary dialog and balance checking and enforcing limitations. I wonder sometimes why I sleep so much. What is wrong with me? And the answer often comes back that I cannot afford not to. A little escapist as the life across the bridge is so damn rich and half the time I am awake I want to go back there, but also because it's so certain there. A is A. B is B. C is C. And D is D. Every time. Not like here. Here person A is sometimes Z. And B is an irrational number. And C is A, but only when Z is B.

Maybe that's why I like to work so much. Formulaic. Math in action. Inactivity through action. Long story shorter, I want to finish the gift for Christmas. A gift of intent. A gift of a promise that I won't stop fighting. Not yet anyway. So game on?

Yeah, I think so.


///luke slater - "Hectic Bag" ...start as you mean to grow on.

The Original

The original sideways scrolling adventure. Now with extra bits. Extra dimensions sold separately and subject to license and title restrictions. Not available in all states. Taxes and principles extra. All features subject to network availability and data rates may apply. Purchase now to receive your free weapons expansion pack and blue key.

The Best Thing

The best thing about winter aside from the Snow? No more @#$&@$$ mosquitoes.

Moving Pictures

I have been dodging, though I hope artfully. I have been fairly thick into writing as I should be. I had a bad spate of poetry that was sexual frustration pure and simple. It never got resolved but like the urge to work out or smoke it went away with time so I could get back to imagination. It's still there on the back burner crisping up into something unrecognizable, but it's a thing I can at least be okay with.

Had a major identity crisis. Not really a crisis as much as a realization that there is no way I can use somebody or let somebody use me again. Even if it is a mutual causation, a mutual understanding of the fact of the reduction of the human being to object. Basically I came to the understanding that shifting my expectations of what fucking is backward to the level of what someone else understands it to be, successful or not, is a failure on my part. It gets to the point where trying to meet someone halfway, because they don't believe knives should be involved and pretending you think that is okay with you when you are on the hunt for someone at least as open and screwed in the head case as you and also homosexual and who will not turn pale when you describe your dream date, becomes an effort to use someone to fulfill, by most standards, bad fantasies. And I'm a user of many things, but I will never use a human being. Hell, I would never use an animal for that matter.

I don't care two licks for most classes of emotions just because I don't feel many of them as they relate to relationships and friendships fairly often unless they fall into my pretty obscure and unrecognized code of ethics and procedure, but I do care for the idea of the preservation of happiness. I think that should be the governing principle in life. If everyone did everything they possibly could every day to disappoint the least amount of people... who am I kidding. That would be a terrible policy. On an individual level, an isolated level, it works, but scale it up and you don't have to go far before it produces stinging and awful results.

The point is I have been dodging you. At first I was dodging you because I had nothing to show. Then I had something to show, but I was so long away I was ashamed to return. And then I had something to show and was ashamed and then on top of that I was gone so long I felt what I had to show did not justify the length of the absence. And it went around and around and around until I came to be here to face the music, my own music, an orchestration I gestured on my own, all the while missing you and the me that could still make sentences. The worst is over, again. Missed out on health insurance. Not by my own lack of action. I was excluded because of how the time line fell into place. So I don't have to worry about meds in the short term. Which means I do have to worry. It's aggravating. Disparaging? Is that even the right word? No it is not. Disappointing. Anti-soothed.

I did put together a pair of stories. It was difficult. They were souping up and I ended up forcing both endings because I ran out of time. The problem was that the stories still had a few thousand words to go before they reached reasonable clipping points where they would sew themselves up nicely and I jumped the gun. Not an honest mistake. Just a regular mistake, but sometimes being able to move on to other things is a good thing. It's not like I can't go back and reopen the sutures, dig my fingers back in, and get the knife out. That's the best thing about having them out there in the bin. And they're not complete still births. Some things worked well and part of the work is learning what works and then using the structure and pieces later on to make other things better. Same thing with poetry. Anyway. Rearranging some things to get more out of myself without pushing too far over the line and shutting down.

Take care. I'll try to. I've been thinking of what I actually use facebook for. I think at this point my wall is basically an art space. Just one big ball of expression. An interactive art piece of sorts. I think I'm happy with that. I don't really use it for connecting with people. I don't think people use it for connecting with me. Maybe they do. Maybe it's pretty much as close as some people should get. I think I am okay with that too, most of the time, as anger management and interpersonal relations are not exactly fortes these days. Those social skills keep eroding because I hardly use them. Partly my own fault. Circling the camps. Every time I go in I'm reminded of why I shouldn't be there. So I'll keep balling up art.

Later on.


///Tricky - "Excess" I believe in people being.

dear (______):

Dear Steelers fans,

Every game it looks like the Steelers may lose is not a "trap" game. There are definitions to these things. One definition you should learn is "Inadequate". Used in a sentence: the Steelers offense was inadequate to expect victory. Used in another sentence: the Steelers defense was inadequate against a sound offensive effort by the opposing team.

Sincerely,

An armchair coordinator and scout (at best) who is not so high on himself to believe every loss is due to apotheotic player talent and over achieving opposition or that he could somehow have been a more capable head coach for sixty minutes.

Base Two

On crack everything is more ridiculous. For instnace observe the following quotes:

"She runs her mouth like Jerry Springer guests ON CRACK."

"That athlete gets after the ball like a player ON CRACK."

"That game is intense, like the original Quake first person shooter ON CRACK."

"That qusar throws off radiation like a dwarf star ON CRACK."

Everything is more than it was on crack. Not to say that crack is an enhancer, because it is, but mostly to say that when people ascribe crack to something, no matter how warped it is, it instantly becomes ten times more warped and disproportionate a thing when crack is subscripted. Which is to say I just masturbated for an hour and a half to prove a point to myself. Which isn't a bad thing by itself. It's just part and parcel to the argument that conventional sexual relations are inferior. To what I can be. On crack.

No, but really I'm just desensitized to things. Common things. Which either makes me the best friend with benefits you've ever known or makes me incredibly desensitized. I'm beginning to think the title should have just been desensitization or something to that effect. I'm coming to the cutting floor.

The zone where production turns into product. If everything goes the way it should (it rarely does) I will have benefits. Health benefits. Which means that finally getting the meds I need won't be a faraway dream, but will be an actuality.

The actuality of the matter being that I will sleep on a consistent basis not by choice, not by conniving, not by cunning, not by hook or crook, but because I simply will not have any other options as reasonable courses of action because my body will simply shut itself down whether I am prepared or not. The actuality of the matter being the voices that I loathe, the voices that confuse and inflame and soothe by turns, will be banished and there will only be left a me that I do not and have not had an opportunity to know well enough will be all that is left. The actuality being that if the health benefits come to fruition, I will be plunged into a sea of knowingness that I have not yet known and that scares me.

I know it is something I have to do. Something that I have been substituting for in lieu of proper support. Something I have been, in part, fighting against because I have experienced before in older forays into medicinal remediation. But, medicine, like technology is ever advancing and I would be a fool to believe what happened then will happen again and I would be even more foolish to never try again though I have no hard and fast plans toward living 7 decades. But I am scared.

Though it is not stopping me from trying. The undiscovered country has to be the subtitle to some kind of star trek film. And if anything, I carry the spirit of the united federation of planets. But it leaves me saddened.

I've said goodbye to so many people. Don't make me say goodbye to the people I can and do still hold dear, though some hatefully so. It's necessary. I feel convicted to pursue it. Like, to not pursue it is the same as turning a blind eye to a rape. Except I am the victim and also the enforcing agent who can bring closure. With insurance, the cost of medication drops from 200 dollars a month to like 50. You can't ignore that. I can't ignore that.

So many questions arise. Who will I be on the other side? Will he know me? Will we be the same? What of the caucus?? Is it disbanded? I just want to be like you, but now that it is possibly here /I ama ==asking myself how90 mu4%ch it w@222ill cos..t me.

That Instant

That instant you fly into a panic because someone might have called or text messaged you and you can't remember where you left your phone and search every pair of pants you even thought about wearing over the last two days and then realize your phone is on your desk, right where you left it. Still silent as a five day old dead goldfish.

But at least now you know where it is.

Why I Hate Coldplay and then Compliments Addressed, the Silence, Birthdays, Ant Eaters

So today is exactly my 43rd birthday in the 26th iteration of my life. Not much bang, but there's not much buck, and, to be honest, how many knife fights with prostitutes is too much? The answer is one. One knife fight with anyone is probably too many. So I'm taking it on a lower key. Partially because I've had enough near death scrapes to make a fine scrap book of uniform crime reports and scars and partially because it sneaked up on me like a cat to a laser pointer's beam. I already had a midlife crisis. I'm still bouncing back from that. And to top it off, my latest scrape with my old friend was less of a scrape and more of a Houdini "how-the-hell-am-I-not-at-least-crippled-from-the-waist-down" kind of event and I'm not clapping my hands for an immediate encore.

43 feels the same as 42. The same as 41. Once you get over the major obstacle of realizing it's half over for all you have to offer, the rest is gravy. Things have been pleasantly silent. But I've been doing a lot of work to make it happen. Soused? Sometimes. The best thing about it is not the damage. Is not even the shortened life span, because I know I will pay for palatable living eventually, be it a massive med crash or the nick and chip of the slower knives offered by off the shelf substances, because all in all the final tally will sort itself out such that you cut years off the suffering (albeit by dying). The best thing about it is the silence. The knowing that you and only you are all present and mostly accounted for. That when people ask what you want to do, only one hand goes up in your head. When you ask yourself what to do next you hear one maybe two voices instead of ten.

I am still an anteater (fuck you). What I've also realized in the words of the illustrious coach Mike Tomlin is that the standard is the standard. I've been imagining Mike Tomlin covering my exploits in a post game/post week/post month press conference. He would probably say something like "an anteater is an anteater is an anteater. If we are anteaters it will show up on film and that film is our resume. Our resume speaks for itself. You either are an anteater or you aren't. There is no middle ground and when we can be anteaters it will show up in the work that we do." But I don't get press conference coverage. Or have coaches like Mike Tomlin, so I basically just tell myself when I don't get the outcome of my action 'dude, you're an anteater, what the hell did you think would happen?"

The silence has been nice though. I've been hanging the back end out there for almost too long though. Too many g's against tires whose grip I can never trust and part of me is waiting for the rubber to dissolve into the cloud of white smoke trumpeting from the rims for the naked rim to bite the asphalt like a starved dragon and flip my whole contraption so many times I'll be reduced to chunky tomato paste by the time it comes to halt on it's crumpled roof atop a sea of pelletized glass and unkempt infield next to the red and white rumble strips marking the path to the apex I should have targeted along the optimal path I could have taken had I the wiring and the vision and the opportunity to do so. So I enjoy the silence and try not to burn the envelope already torn to shreds back in high school when I realized my contents were not the sort of things that the postal service accepted as mail-able, transferable, items without special postage and allowances.

I did, however, receive a complement the other day from an older woman. It wasn't at all creepy. Not like the time I was walking back from the south side because the buses stopped running and I stopped at a bus stop just to read the schedule and make doubly sure and an old man who looked like Morgan Freeman after a bad Vegas weekend bender told me I was cute. That was creepy as hell. Plus I didn't know I was gay at the time so it was creepy and offensive and if I wasn't in a rush to rescue a friend from the clutches of a bad decision, but probably playing into her demand for a declaration of dedicated-ness by crossing town to get her, I probably would have stopped longer and been like "well, what the fuck is that supposed to mean, asshole?"

But anyway, I got a complement from an older lady the other day. She said I had a great smile. Now I have a prominent scar on my face that gashes from my eyebrow, down my cheek, and ends where my beard starts. I have a badly chipped front tooth from taking a dive onto cement. I have another scar from years ago where I took a similar dive, but broke my fall with my orbital bone instead of my mouth. And I have another set of scars from various head butts and several attempts to jump through a hallway's drywall ceiling. To have her see through that to that genuine grin she yanked out of me with her humor and honesty was touching. Because I mean she's got to be pushing 70, so she's seen her share of great smiles over the decades.

What was really touching about it is everyone says you're one in a million. That kind of phrasology, that kind of thought process, basically fires across the deck and no one blinks an eye. No one changes course. No one stands up and says "dear god, you are absolutely right! I must be wholly unique to this planet!" At least no one with half an ounce of sense. To believe that if you were able to gather together one million people, not a single one would have 99% of your interests, foibles, ticks, obsessions, addictions, and deficiencies in common is to be utterly blind to the simple fact that there are only so many configurations of expressibles. What differentiates then is the physical. That's what really makes you unique. So to have her say, whether true or not, off hand or not, that my smile sticks out in her nearly 7 decade long memory was totally awesome. It had me glowing while we made small talk. By the time she sauntered off I wondered if we would have gotten along just as well had she been 26 too, or if I'm the kind of person lovable only over fantastic spans of time and space.

Which is why I hate Coldplay. Not directly why. I hate Coldplay for the handful of fantastically cogent songs they've made. The songs that express the things people feel with uncanny accuracy, levity, and genius song writing. I hate Coldplay because I love their album with the figure of the guy with his head blown off on the cover, but I can't listen to it because of one song called The Scientist because the memories it brings back are still so raw and it describes those memories, the end of the formation of new memories just as good, with an intensity that is horrifically accurate it's like trying to sit down to a Rescue 911 marathon without a vomit bag for the blood, guts, bones, tears, and anguish you are about to see. It's not meant as a slight to them. it's good for them. Good for them for crafting something so intense. Good for them for wading through their own noise to get to the deep water. I guess I'm still doing that in many ways across several subjects. Assuming I don't drown first, but I'll keep kicking.


///Coldplay - "The Scientist" its not melodramatic. you have to put aside some of the common elements of regret to digest it, but those elements are, thankfully, few. but it speaks stories of information where so much pop is a glorified fragment blown out of proportion, chopped, and hashed with tons of loops and over production to fill the passage of time. ...going back to the start...

Road Speed Governor

I've been writing dark. Writing dirty. Not nearly as profound as riding dirty. Profound is the wrong word. Provocative? Every day at it has been like riding down a highway in a two place coupe with a devil in the passenger seat. I think it's simple depression. As simple as depression can be. Swallowed whole by history. A bitter course. I don't know if it has to do with a ninth concussion (counting the ones I can remember) or if it's just the holiday press.

It's hard to tell sometimes. Wrecked my bike again a few days ago. It was a pretty bad trip. It made me sad in ways I didn't think it would. Aside from the disappointment of the failure. I just burned. I burned hard over a lot of things. Stutter stepping. Toward understanding. I guess the brush was tougher to swallow than I thought. It was easy to shake off when the adrenaline was coming, but since then it rolls me on and off like a riptide.

It's just,the pain of being, the knowingness of what that being is, can grow hurtful. Explosively so. It's easy to ignore the pain a lot of the time. Life as artifact. But trying to punch it up. I might be a bastard. I might be a jerk off. I might be dumb. I might be obsessive compulsive. But a sour puss, I am not.

Note Dump

Finally got all the notes off of the old phone. It took me two days. Proprietary technologies.

182 attachments — Download all attachments


147 over 72
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12106 woodmore rd bowie 20721
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4345 andover terrace
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828 north ave
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Steve martin banjo
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Forbes to shady to bartlet just past darlington make a right and follow to panther hollow which turns into blvd to bates and left on 2nd and right on hot metal and left on water to 3830
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Im gonna shove this roll of parchment paper so far up your ass youll be baking cookies until christmas
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Whats he doing
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Dogging sunrise
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I bit my lip and it tasted like summer
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Everyone out to make what may be a first impression or maybe make up for weekend bullshit
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You think thats how it works? That we all grow up and we're suddenly friends now that i have the physical tools to take you apart the way i wanted to when i was smaller
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Plant a fist and see if a man grows
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It aint a limmerick and i aint irish
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Do the towel boys get rings too
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Empire of the god head
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She is a cheerleader
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Album titles
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Dumby rounds still hurt
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Youre not the last person ill love but you are the last person ill change my life for and thats why ill never be able to forget
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Dear god just dont let me die sober
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So much teenage poetry on tap
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Waiting to say something significant in pace and caught in the sliding revolving door of waiting for something significant to say
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Gayer than a sunbeam alighting on the arch of a rainbow pouring into a daffodil
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The clarity of 25 years of age
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Buying the things made cheap enough for you to buy because they slashed your income so low that you cant buy anything else
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The thing that feels untouchable walking home with your pants stained with dust from linoleum and not the dirt of real work and all youve done is serve for the least amount of money allowable by law for a company that wont allow you more than one work shirt beaten down and it wouldnt be so bad so shameful and shaming if you didnt have to know your spirit and candor was just as bruised as your knees
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Condom pocket on the sleeve
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Your pockets are retardedly small wtf
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Fuck you, thats some seriously personal shit but thanks for making it awkward enough to bear sympathy
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Ive finally grown into my nose
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Your fake nails are coming off
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I know my coat smells like it hasnt been washed since there were last leaves on the trees. I havent had money for detergent this week so ts.
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Trying to have sex with her and hearing her friend is dead fallen from a bridge in a suicide and the gory details and how they brought her food but did not call the police
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Career links on ardmoore off of penn ave
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Prime and paint
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Learn how to install glass block
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Fishermans friend. Buying ridiculous shit with food stamps instead of block and tackle
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Manson
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A man is fed alcohol and then sent on the road to rescue someone
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The only thing he can create with any conviction is an opinion which is not without its value but he is no artisan creator or imaginative talent
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The countervail
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Crush groove origin of def jam
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All the mess and fuss of exploding you by centimeters at the point of a box cutter
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Peacocks and their hand bags that could service pricks tighter than their own sagging resonalities and broke gate hinged hips on knee knobs turned pin headed with starvation
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A picture i should know little and littler men picking up smaller and smaller stones into infinity
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Its just you me the stars above and the hands of god in hell
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The entire planet goes online its a hollow antenna like entering a water bubble in space one billion dead links and one active
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The width of failures universe
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Whoever described to me the weight
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Zip cups
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Its like kicking a retarded kid in the face
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Once in a life time events
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Dodge beer
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You are as american as humus
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Youre a fifteen comment post
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Youre ruining the joke and its 15 years old
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Posted up on the block like a mailbox munoz
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Bug awareness resistance education
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Always be commenting
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Trailer park boys
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The sex was a watch makers dream.
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Words to be permanently stricken from the r and b dictionary
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There are no fantastically sexy terms for not doing drugs
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Rubbing sleep from eyes that have not
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They've taken their shoes off. They've torn their coats.
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No one will get in the way of what i feel for you. And i will be a mother fucker if you think that doesn't include you.
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When i ask for my blade you will present i sufficiently and you will, brandishing it at the sword smith.
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A402
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In the immortal words of hans gruber: hit it again.
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7008 fax suffix
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If you cure cancer you can cause aids
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Of
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And for that matter is this bitch calling me a dumb townie like if i foot have the cash for a cab ride from where i was to where im going i just don't deserve to travel at all dumb cunt. You know nothing of where i've been or where i'm going and deserve in yous criticism nothing less than branding
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Is it a felony to strangle someone in self defense. Is it possible to strangle someone in self defense i suppose that's getting into the stun kill territory isn't it. I think it is. The threat would have to be so grave or of a nature so intense that the only solution was the death of the attacker but how can a situation like that arise with the kind of marching inevitability that would force an action like that
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Its not about documenting human experience as much as it matters that its the first or close to a first time common experience or even perhaps common thought is being committed to paper and that is part of what makes the cannon more than relevant but very much important
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A lickist
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And a normalness confirmed and evinced in its very utterance
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Studying each interaction and assimilating and modifying behaviors until each interaction is perfectly human and utterly normal
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An adhoc network of words. Segmented thought that is in every way more complete and encompassing than any grammatical capsule
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Even the soot nastied sand of a dulled beach has something enough to beg an occassion for visitation
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Drometheus
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The dog star
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Four piece knock out chicken leg wing thigh and biscuit.
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Start a group gay so i cant hang out with attractive guys? Is it not like hanging out with hot chicks except more awesome? How often do you bang the hot chicks you like to be around
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Students of math and science quantum study work students of literature and human considerations a confluence a continuity of thought as requirement rule not exception differences in study methods and success rates dictated by subject matter the nature of the matter being studied the continuity of human experience comprehensible only in continuous immersion unlike the stagger stepped quantum accruiesssence of number based segmented and interchangeable highly interchangeable knowledge compartmentalized versus nonlinear landscape fractal persuits
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I called you 5 times and you never call me back. Left a video message of you putting french fries in a cup of peanut butter and then another of your spread legs and wet pussy. You blonde pink edgy bitch. Your friend brunette eats right. Hates the gross food we like. Chastises me in front of you. What are you doing. Staring at someone i have no business looking at. The cat can talk. Tells me to im to vervo. He smells like sewage. Tells me that vervo have him his idea that got him elected. Why do you keep flipping me off? Do we still have a thing going? Itll ad a seven game series. Ive seen you eat them like that every week. A toy gun in the library shooting water at perverts. Jim is dead. I killed him but no one knows. I was jealous. His body was destroyed after i pushed him into the machines gears. I ignore her calls until italk to the cat. Now i go out of my way to see her.they go to a club and invite me but dont tell me its collared shirts only they dont let me out of the car until they stop to pick up girls though i try to jump off while the car moves.its the second time. I walk home past the college campus i used to call home and see faces that dont remember me. Its frustrating but freeing. I give up on them.
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There are some things in there worth pursuing and fleshing out into individual things.

Work and Workarounds

Cued: writing music and word inducing fluids to maybe produce some super fluidity. So lets get through this in one piece, because time is precious and hacks do two takes. I kid. But seriously, there's a lot less to worry about when you know your nose keeps bleeding because you've been snuffling coke. There's a lot more to worry about when your nose keeps bleeding and as far as you know you've kept it clean. So maybe it's just the winter crush I've been sucking into my lungs and things will balance up. Or maybe not. Maybe I'm just prone to nose bleeds. Maybe I've just been sniffing too much paint. Maybe I shouldn't keep sleeping at 48 degrees. Maybe I should stop worrying because at the end of the day, if I finish up with as many body parts and organs as I started with, things are pretty much as good as it gets.

Slugging my way through another work day I got to making conversation. There's only so many times you can walk by the people you don't want to talk to or have anything to do without having to say something. As I walked in the manager shook my hand. Both managers did. And I was immediately accosted by a union lifer suggesting I was buddy buddy with management. By itself laughable. Apparently the managers have never shaken hands with him first thing in the morning in all his 34 years. Which really makes me wonder: am I that much better than them? I've done nothing untoward to provoke a positive response from the high ups. I just do my shit and go home. Apparently having that much work ethic puts me at odds with my fellows and in the good graces of the up and ups. Which is hilarious. When you think about how inefficient things can be, how many times people can spin around in a circle to collect a paycheck instead of doing their jobs, it probably doesn't occur to you that having the ability to walk in a straight line could ever be that much of an asset. I laughed, shrugged, and went on doing my shit. I'm not concerned in the slightest. If anything, I know that if I show up I'm already ahead of most of the pack.

Which brings me to another conversation. I was talking to a guy who is apparently the heir apparent or at least the stop gap when managerial shifts are changing. The guy who's supposed to keep the ship righted, but everyone's been on the ship more than long enough to know what they're supposed to do and get it done without any supervision to speak of. He's "that guy" who's been around long enough to know what's up, but is absolutely incapable of leading effectively for any length of time, and so has been thrown a bone so he doesn't realize he is exactly the same for all of his time and would be better served doing something else entirely that pays better. Probably the reason they don't out right promote me (because I will immediately leverage that shit into a better position elsewhere), but anyway...

...I was talking about a coworker whose name I did not know and talked about him being the guy who makes the dirty jokes. To which, I will refer to him here as the fucking mook, the mook responded before I could finish my thought, "ah yes, you are talking about so and so. I'm the one who makes the good clean jokes." I literally had to stop what I was doing to close and rub my eyes out of frustration and disbelief. The jokes he makes are terrible. I mention off hand that time flies, he rejoins with a long diatribe about scientific principles and a crock of other fragments that essentially end two minutes later with the punch line "time can never actually fly." I had to pause to weigh punching his lights out and the satisfaction that would bring versus the satisfaction of having a job and getting a paycheck. Pros and cons floated around for a few silent moments and I shook my head and walked away.

First of all, the fact that he would not understand that his sense of humor is absolutely terrible and steeped in enough dungeons and dragons dice rolling logic to make me want to hang myself on the hour every hour we occupy the same space is tough to deal with, but I do. Can't get paid if I'm dead. Second of all, the mook didn't even let me finish my thought. I paused for maybe five seconds to move some boxes while he stood around whining about how hard work is, citing examples of exertion fractions of what I did on the regular at my other job (holding my tongue so he could feel good about himself, because I like people to feel good around me), and he chimes in about being more valuable to me because he is the "good joke teller." My thought finished with "and the sex jokes are totally hilarious." They are. That's the thing about associating with older people. They've got smut, slut, muck in the rut down right filthy jokes you've never heard before and hearing these jokes in the family oriented brightly lit grocery store instead of a dark dive bar makes them all the more side splitting. Thirdly, few things pet me the wrong way harder than people that think they're funny. If you've got some albums recorded and played comedy central or some night clubs with success, then maybe you can say that. It's one of those things. How are you going to tell me that you are funny to me? That laugh coming out of my mouth is not directed to what you said, it's directed to what everyone else around me said about what you said. Sometimes it's in line, if you are actually funny to us. But if you are not funny at all, there's a real good chance I'm laughing at their heckling more than anything else.

It just makes me laugh most of all though that this mook tries to posture like he knows whats up. I've been on the new job for a week and already they all know I get shit done faster, more efficiently, and with higher fidelity than anyone there right now who is not also a manager. He asks me to do things and I do them, because I could care less who is actually in charge. I just do my eight and go home. The people I respect are the people that do it as well or better than me. He's not one of them. I'm not trying to start anything. We're breaking down pallets of products to carts and everything is being separated out to the finest scale, wasting huge amounts of time. Things are being left on pallets because "they're too heavy" to move. And I'm laughing the whole way. It takes this dude the entire day to shuffle five pallets. I was doing that in 1 and 2/3 hours where I was working before. People are hunching to catch their breath and rest their limbs and I am dumbfound by how weak they are. Dude is taller and heavier than me, but apparently he just wears his clothes well because he's all dough and his helper is made out of lightly whipped fluff. Tell me this isn't the average fitness level of 22 year olds these days. Seriously, if I got into a fight with someone in the backroom, the entire daytime crew couldn't stop me from killing him if they all fought against me together. I'm not saying I'm super human. I'm saying they're about as functional as cardboard cutouts with souls duct taped to them.

Then he keeps asking me if I need a hand with X and Y and I said yes at first because I thought he wanted to be helpful, until I realized he was using me to dodge doing anything actual. Because I work at a relatively high octane he was basically sucking around in my wake to put in face time. So the next time he asked and said "I would offer to give you a hand but the space you're working in is pretty small" (I intentionally walled myself into the pallets a good foot taller than me with no elbow room so I could get shit done without having to deal with bullshitting this idiot with small talk) I said "you don't need to offer me a hand ever, and yes, there's enough space for me and my thoughts and nothing else." Not trying to be rude, but I get blunt when I'm trying to get things done. Nevertheless, the mook follows me out into the aisles and starts touching the stuff I loaded up and I just walk away. If he wants to work my shit that badly then fine. Have at it. One thing I can't tolerate is people nipping at my work and then claiming it was all them when it's time to hand out kudos. Sure I could step up and say "hey he didn't do shit", but I'm much more the sort of person who prefers to let work speak for itself and hope the people up top can make that distinction on their own: "hey so and so doesnt get a damn thing done when person X isn't here too. Maybe it's all person X?"

Does that actually ever happen? I don't know if they ever do, but I guess I'm just soft spoken. Let the work speak. Like if I get an 85 on my final paper DONT FUCKING FAIL ME BECAUSE I MISSED CLASS TOO MANY TIMES YOU FUCKKKK!@#@##%!!@%!@#. Yeah, that TA phd student who wore the skinny jeans and faux hawk in my media studies class back in 2008 is still on the list of people who are going to be strangled to death with my hands if civilization and law and order give out. Maybe not. Maybe just when I have nothing else to do besides dodge the law and balance the karmic checkbook that is still pretty far out of whack. But thats years off (if I win the lottery, dodging the law is expensive) or decades. Depends on how much I actually get done. Let the work speak for itself.

I realized today that my internal conversations were seeping out when I heard someone say "you unconscionable fat bastard" in my voice while I was walking behind someone. Definitely need to restore some volume control there. People shouldn't have to feel awful just for being coincident with me in space and time. That's just not fair to chance and circumstance. Plus it's not like they made me late for something. Not like the woman driving in front of me on a one lane one way road with cars parked on both sides who cruised at seven miles per hour. I was about ready to ride my bike over her back bumper, right over the roof, and down the hood of her car while flipping her double barreled fuck yous. I was about twenty minutes in to a conversation with myself when I reached the conclusion that I had to go take a dump. What I didn't realize was that I said that out loud, in mumbling tones no less, but someone caught enough of it and absolutely shot me the meanest 60 year old sour face ever. I laughed. At how lemon juiced her face looked. She flipped her cart around and strut away. Point taken, though. Need to guard my gates a little tighter. I can't always control what goes on in the compound, but I can at least try to control who and what goes in and out. Work around it, na mean?


///Four Tet - "A Joy" consciousness is noisy

Reinstate Child Labor in America

Getting old doesn't suck. It's the having to be places and do things part of being an adult that sucks. Reinstate child labor. Move the retirement age from 65 to 40. Everyone will appreciate their time more. Less kids having kids because they literally will not have time to fraternize or have idle energy for sex. Less crime because they literally will not have time to learn criminal behaviors. Education is already in the toilet and the vast majority end up in the consumer sector so might as well force them into useful trades before they decide to settle or slip into fast food and department stores for their entire lives. It's all win win. Their dreams won't be crushed. They'll be refined and by the time they reach an age when they know what they want to do, they'll be equipped with the fortitude and determination to get it done, plus they'll have capital in their pocket from years of hard time.

And then they'll have stable hard working families and enough stability and personal knowledge to pursue education without the massive obstacle of trying to "find themselves" standing in the way of learning what they've yearned to learn for decades. I'm not saying throw them into steel mills and whirling machinery that'll tear off their little hands. All I'm saying is, under the right conditions, child labor could probably work wonders for this fucked up country. But it'll never work, because not being able to trust the people at the top of the pyramid is an institution in America and they will find a way to fuck it up if it means they make an extra ten cents in their pocket at the end of the year.

dear (______):

Dear Baltimore,

i guess the NFL rivalry is officially legit. So I can officially say: suck a bag of dicks. You just might win the division. Kudos. And I hate you. That is all.

sincerely,

steel town.

Cycling, Greyhounds, Inherited Vision and Home

Walking home from the Greyhound station downtown I was sincerely struck by the beauty of the river and my new home town. I haven't really felt homesick for a place as much as I feel homesick for Pittsburgh whenever I'm gone for a long time. It's not like I miss the people. I can count the number of people that I see and know on one hand that's gone through a meat grinder and lost two digits. I get homesick for the atmosphere. The lack of pomp and circumstance. Of course there's the college town part of Pittsburgh, but the part plays a lot bigger than it is. I don't miss that scene or the people that frequent it religiously all that much.

Sure it was great to play drinking games and have laughs and dress up on halloween and all that shit. Sure it was great to get anxious on Sunday when you know papers are due and oh so many tests next week and I haven't studied at all but you know you'll do well enough to get a decent grade, but you need something to worry about so you don't feel like a waste of life and loan money, or trust fund money, or whatever the fuck money has gotten you in there. I do miss the drinking games and the general camaraderie largely absent in life after age twenty two when people decide what they really want to do and the doing of that thing does not include meeting you every weekend to exchange war stories and play fighting and choruses of the songs you have in common and hitting on the birds. Everyone grows up eventually and it makes me sad, because my investment schedule definitely does not include the things people my age are supposed to value which puts me at direct odds with what those people want to do. Not by choice. Everyone inherits vision to some degree and I was fortunate or unfortunate enough to inherit a vision of the future that is not worlds apart, but different enough to make common ground a scratch and tumble affair at best. I don't know where to find the people that share my vision, because I spent all of my time with people who didn't share that vision, but shared temporary past times that I thought would last forever.

People aside I get homesick for the fabric of where it is that I am. The smell of it. The starry sky that just won't quit. The bridges and hills and the chopped sidewalks. The bad architecture and the good and the fact that the people there make it work and shut the fuck up about it. The low rent, maybe low brow, of it all. The fact that I don't have to make 20,000 dollars to live a life with amenities and enough security to know that I won't be ass out on the street living out of bus station rest rooms if I don't pull in 32,000 dollars a year, much less 18,000. I miss that I can go do just about anything I want a couple times a month if it's expensive and most everything else I can do at will when I'm there and working.

As I'm walking home and crossing the last bridge across the river to my town I can see the stars sitting in the water like giants blue white lilly pads looking for frogs and it's the calmest I've seen it in a while and, yeah, it made me misty. No neon lights, no car clogged Saturday night streets. Just hills rising on either side dotted with orange street lights and a few windows and an empty bridge. The moon on my shoulder, the river at my feet. It was beautiful. It is beautiful. I could walk out to that bridge every day and it would never get old. The only thing I wanted more was a joint, a cooler with a couple 40s, and a fishing rod to pass the time til sunrise. I love Pittsburgh. She makes me wicked homesick.

The only downside was the Greyhound ride from Philadelphia. I took the fools gold. I grabbed the open seat with a few open seats around it and sure enough a family sat around me. A couple of fat mothers and their snotty kid and baby and dazed and confused husband. Not a problem. I had headphones. So I thought. Immune to crying stinky children being changed in the aisle. The real problem was the extremely portly mother. Nothing against big girls, but if you can't sleep on a red eye without falling over on the person next to you and wedging your purse into my hip and lolling your arms against my ribs, I will have a problem with you.

The worst part wasn't that she baby talked to the baby for two hours. My problem wasn't that the baby kept smacking my arms and kicking my thighs while I tried to make myself as small as possible. My problem wasn't even that she refused to acknoledge that allowing her baby to run rough shod over a complete stranger was probably a bad idea, as I had to continuously repeat aloud "do not strangle them" to keep myself in my seat and facing away. Verbal reminders keep me in line. My problem was that she kept leaning herself on me with enough perfume to hide a skunk in her vagina and have the world none the wiser.

Honestly, I would rather people smelled like people. People stink. It's part of being human. Everybody has their odor. I can deal with it. Hell, I wrestled in highschool. Ever been in a practically air tight, pad walled, wrestling room for three sweaty, teen funked, hours with unwashed knee pads, shoes, singlets and sweats everywhere? Hell, ever been locked in a 90 degree house with elephantine parents spending entire days sweating into a couch with the windows locked tight and you on the top floor where all the heat and stench gathers regardless of what you do? People stink. I would rather smell your feet after a twenty mile run than stomach whatever essence of flower musk from some far off land synthesized in a lab and sprayed on rabbits. It was hard enough to breath. I had to get out on the rest stop and smoke just to get the odor out of my nostrils for ten minutes before diving back into the air freshened nightmare.

Eventually, between the run amok children, the lolling woman leaning me so hard into the wall I thought I would pop through the emergency window like a turd through a clenched bum hours away from a stall, and the perfume I took the passive aggressive route. I read a book. I was the only one on the bus reading. Got the book out and hit that light switch and within an hour the seat next to me was vacant. Had to pat myself on the back for that act of cunning. And then I put the arm rest down for good measure. I can sleep sitting stock still. Doesn't bother me. Luckily enough it bothered them enough to get every last one of them to piss off.

But anyway, wanted to mention cycling. I almost high sided the other day. A low side fall is alright. You take the shortest path from your seat to the ground. Not terrible usually. High siding is a different story. High siding is flipping over the top of your cycle. Not laying it down and going down with it, but hitting something or wrenching it in such a way that you come over the top and land. Hard.

I was coming down a nice winder. Nice tight sweeps in heavy traffic. It's usually not a problem, but I was coming to a tight sidewinder that I flirted with about a dozen times. I pushed it hard and it took it softer on rainy days, but I felt comfortable enough to give the old all or nothing pass. The pace setter. The pass that would define how I judged my future success or failure navigating it in coming months.

Of course there is a fucking minivan charging up my ass. I don't know what it is about drivers. It's like they feel they aren't driving as well as they can unless they can chase down a bicycle as though the bicycle is somehow superior in grip when in fact it is superior in dense traffic patterns and perhaps marginally more nimble, but on open roads all the advantages go to having more contact patches. And an engine. So I take the turn tight. Too tight. I have too much speed and my apex misses the ideal by several feet and I come wide toward the road's shoulder and I can see the early morning gravel from rain wash the night before not yet cleared by a day of traffic and I am coming straight for it with a big white van charging in behind me expecting me to hold the line.

The gravel and sand are two wheels mortal enemy next to ice which usually equals instant low sides, but I see it coming so I'm sliding and correcting and sliding and correcting trying to slow down enough without taking too much of my tires capacity to steer and grip by over braking and as I basically fish tail the curb is coming up and I feel that sick few seconds when you know someone is about to blind side check you straight into the hockey arena boards. As I'm trail braking and correcting I can see my wheels jamming the curb and me flipping into the fence in what would have been the worst accident I've had to date, but I pull it together and recover about six inches out and get up off my saddle and chug with everything I'm worth to keep the van from pasting me.

It sucked. I damn near shat myself with the effort and nerve racking tension. Why do I mention it? In short, certain turns don't care what you're driving or riding. I'm pretty sure part of the reason the van didn't cream me was because she had to slow down to take the bend too and I didn't think about that. The sharpness of it. Had I been riding or driving anything I'm pretty sure the fastest that hairpin could have been taken was probably ten or fifteen miles an hour without aero package grade downforce keeping you glued. And I need to keep that in mind when I'm riding too. I know I can't out maneuver most cars on open sweepers and pins, but I also need to remind myself not to push too hard, because when the turns get tight enough, they can't out maneuver me either. And I guess that's part of the human experience too. When things get tight enough the only thing that matters is how much downforce you can generate, not what drives you.


///Junkie XL - "War" on the road of life there are drivers and there are the driven

That Instant

The instant you fan out your laundry before throwing it on your laundry horse and the pant leg whips and sends your dildo (that you didn't realize you laundered in the first place) flying through the air to smack against the wall hard enough to knock posters off the wall and you breath a sigh of relief because it hit plaster instead of the back of your roommates head. And you breath another sigh of relief because you don't have a roommate. And then breath a sigh of frustration because you have to put your posters back up yourself, because there's no one to blame but yourself and your overly enthusiastic laundromatic expertise.

Fuck, where's the tape.

dear (______):

Dear twitter,

If I don't instantaneously follow you back, it's not because I don't care. It's because physically opening twitter and balancing my "follow" checkbook is not the most pressing thing on my schedule nine days out of a week.

love,

irrationally guilt ridden twitter user

Every Day I'm Shoveling

First of all, why is "every day" not one word by now? Or the various "every" constructions? If we as a people can come to accept "bling" as a word with real meaning, how can we not accept words with real meanings that don't lose those meaning with the space dropped out? A space between words is a fence between neighbors and fences are necessary. I'm not saying take out all the spaces and make every sentence a word, though that would be awesome. You could say what you wanted to say whenever you wanted to say it in like ten words or less every time. But instead of an organized neighborhood of streets and cross walks when you looked at a page you'd see a mosh pit. Every time you spoke to someone it would basically be you sharing your personal rave and trying to combine parties when they spoke back and that would just be... ...awesome. Also awesomely unintelligible. For a generation or two. Ultimately though it would probably make our children smarter, or at least allow them to think differently. It would change politics. It would make it pretty much impossible for foreigners to assimilate and then you really would need to learn other languages because that guy that only speaks Spanish or only speaks Cantonese would not be able to talk to you at all in broken English because the language would be so agglutinated and dense that it would be impossible for anything but an uncreased brain to grasp it with ease and build into it.

Second of all: why can't I sit in a park with a shovel after the sun goes down? That is just unfair. I walk halfway across town because I saw an awesome shovel out for trash and I forgot to go back and get it until the evening and besides my hands were full at the time. I walk halfway across town, granted I live in a pretty small town and get this nice, heavy handled, spade shovel that would be absolutely perfect for some yard work I'll have to do later and on the way home I cut through the local park and it's a pretty nice night out and the hills are all dotted with little Saturday evening fires of people in doors so I sit for a moment on a bench with my new sweet ass shovel, staring up and letting my mind wander over who those people might be and just enjoying the weather cold enough to drizzle the air with the smell of fireplaces. I've never had a fireplace of my own. I like to imagine what it's like. I saw a duraflame log once, one of those fake wood things for people who don't like to burn real wood I guess. Or maybe for people who like fire places, but don't want to do the things that having a fireplace requires you to do. That really is the story of modern America. I want things, but I don't want to do the things having those things will require me to do.

Anyway, I'm sitting there and a car comes rolling up real slow and I don't look back to see who it is. I know it's a car. I know that pebble crunch anywhere. I also know people don't like it when I make sudden moves, and besides I have nothing to hide. I'm just a dude with a shovel. I keep listening to this car rolling closer and then, in the background of my mind because I'm still thinking about the hillsides and the gorgeous night, but my head is also running through all of the sound clips of tires and pebbles and speed equations, I realize the tires are doing police cruiser and/or drive by speed and/or jump out and stuff in the backseat kidnapping speed. So I stand up and I figure one of those three things will happen and sure enough the flashlights come on and the questions start in and why the hell do you have to shine that shit directly in my eye sockets anyway. I have a shovel. I'm not running anywhere with a damned shovel. Or at least not far anyway. So now I know. It is officially not okay with society to just be a dude in a park with a shovel between the hours of 7 PM and 7 AM.

I haven't really been eating. Not my fault though. I have been eating. Because I'm pretty sure I give off this pheromone when I don't eat. I'm kind of obsessed with how I smell. I try to match it with what I've been doing and putting into my body. Not farts. Those are totally easy. I'm pretty sure you can tell how someone's body functions based solely on how their ears smell. Well maybe not solely. And you probably have to lick them like licking a nine volt battery to see if it works to get the full suite of diagnostic information available through smells. What am I talking about? I get lost in theory sometimes. So I have been eating some. Enough to keep things going, but little more. Mainly because my sink doesn't work and I don't want to have to slog all my dishes down six flights of steps to the sink that does work. Naturally the answer to that problem is: don't do anything that requires the use of dishes. So I've been skipping a bunch of meals. I don't really miss them. I do miss them in that it makes it a lot easier to stay awake. Staying awake has become a full time job again. Partly because of the lack of intake and hypermile-ing my body, but also because dreaming has been so incredible I can't help but want to be there constantly. It's becoming less of a second life and more of a single joined seamless in phase existence. You know people that complain about how they "already did that" in a dream and then like have to go to work again? That used to happen to me. Long ago. Now it never happens.

Of course I feel completely unrested because I am basically alive and in phased consciousness for twenty hours a day, but the people I've met and things I do... it's been ridiculous. Also pointless to tell you about it in those terms because you weren't there. Definitely a "dude I saw this movie and it was awesome, you should have been there, but let me continue to talk about the movie in terms of superlative adjectives because if I frame it in enough paper thin hammered gold you will totally be inspired by the blank space inside the frame containing the picture only I can see."

So the dish thing I learned from my dog, Jack, rest his angry, fun loving, visitor hating, best friend for life, little Shelty bones. We would go on weekend road trips and he didn't want to poop in the house so he would basically not eat or drink, though we always left him plenty of food and water, until we got back. Maybe it was equal parts "if I don't eat then I won't have to poo" and vigil for me. "That's giving an animal too much credit," shut your face. I can't give that old bastard enough credit. He was the man. Seriously. Except for his fear of thunder and lightning and his rage toward fireworks he and I were basically two of a kind and alternated top dog roles depending on the situation, but we were basically 1 and 1A. Learned that little trick of no input equals no output, body wise, from him. More bravery per pound than most people who are not also Marines. Probably more stupidity per pound, but we were, again 1 and 1A on that front too. If you are a cat person I don't hate you, but you have no idea what you're missing.

Which is why I should never be a parent. Me and my kids will be the baddest family on the block. Partly because I would be way too fair to them. With my dog, he would bring me a sock for tug of war and being like three times his size, maybe four if I just ate a couple burritos, the only fair thing to do was meet him at his level. I figured his teeth were probably a lot stronger than mine, what with his eating bones from time to time (never understood that, but I do have a propensity for walking around with spoons in my mouth), maybe four or five times so naturally I used my teeth for tug of war. If I lost a couple, no big deal, so we got it on. "I'm a take you down to China town!" That's how we threw down. Gotta be fair. So instead of setting a curfew I would probably tell my kids they can stay out or stay up as late as they want, but they have to fight me for it and if I win then they have to go to bed when I say. I wouldn't kick the crap out of them. I never actually hit Jack. I would scuff 'em a little. More like lioness to cubs kind of stuff. Only minus the breast feeding. Do they even do that? Or do they come out of the womb craving a hearty meal of lightly chewed, but still fresh, Giraffe. Instead of telling my kids not to go set fires, I'll probably stop them at the door and say something like "make sure you bring fireplace matches so you don't have to stand too close to the accelerant, because I'm not driving up to the woods to put you out." Sure, I wouldn't let them blow themselves up. I'm not a monster. But I will make sure they know how to set a charge properly and it would be the best father/son or father/daughter tandem ever. We will be feared. Probably. Anyway. What I'm saying is every day I'm shoveling so don't cause any problems and there won't be any problems. I'm just a dude with a shovel out for a walk.

Trying to get back to writing fiction, but it's been a long and heady road full of potholes. I'm not dawdling as much as I am reflecting. I wrote a fairly long draft of a science fiction short called Scanlon, but I haven't back over it in almost eight days now. I'm trying though. I apologize. I will try harder. Life's too short not to try, so don't spend all of your time "doing".


///Deadelus - "Taking Wing"

Cheesus Christ, Does Nothing Work?

I'm sorry I've been away. Less sorry than usual. Only because I've been away because I've been working and not because I've been furiously masturbating. It's been hard. The living. The being aliveness of breathing. Not the breathing part. That part is easy. What's been hard is trying to have a continuous thought when bells go off every fifteen minutes. Remember that book about that society that suppressed creativity by fitting every person with an apparatus that sounded a chime every five minutes to interrupt thought and render it's populace unable to create new ideas? No? Well that's what it's been like. A lot of "gotta put bread on the table" things interrupting the "gotta put bread into my skull so I don't check out of this world on some aneurysm shiz".

I've had one of those days. Not really one of those days, but one of those days stretched across an entire week. One of those days where you come down the break room stairs after sitting for fifteen minutes that flew by in a blink because you fell asleep in your chair watching infomercials about magic brassieres and magic belts that will force your body to do things you haven't taught and practiced or considered that maybe your body just wasn't meant to do for any length of time and you go to get back to work and realize, picking up your box cutter that you left your mug of tea upstairs. And it's going to take you another five minutes to go back and get it and your legs are too dead for yet another trip up those damned stairs, but you are already dead thirsty and have to weigh which death is more unpleasant.

One of those days where the fattest jar of the smelliest pickled peppers in piss yellow juice slips out of your clutches because your hands are cramping and every single paper towel dispenser is empty because the people responsible for keeping them filled never do their jobs as well as you do yours. The mop bucket is at the other end of the store, another five minute round trip on sleeping hooves, and when you get there to fill the mop bucket there is no floor soap and the other fluids available would take up the spill and stink right along with the wax finish. You take the bucket and get halfway across the store before you realize its got a flat and you are utterly baffled as to how a plastic wheeled yellow tank of a bucket could have a flat before you realize a thread of the mop came loose and lodged in the wheel and, instead of plucking it out, the bucket was filled and dragged around for weeks, maybe months until the wheel turned into a plastic orange wedge, and since you were too tired to notice it sooner you've left a scratch on the floor several dozen yards long.

You walk the bucket back and have to pick it up and hug it's black stained, deli grease streaked body to yours because walking it back on the floor would double your error. Selecting a new bucket you walk it across the store to the opposite slop sink and find that while there is cleaning solution appropriate for the task, someone was so kind as to snap off the knob, rendering the sink into something more like a flushless urinal, and so you walk the bucket with soap back to the other end of the store with the working sink and wonder why they would bolt the soap to the wall instead of making it possible for you to take the soap to the working sink and prevent having to do the routine all over again, and why the hell you would need a manager to sign off on throwing out a broken bucket in the first place when they so rarely use them they wouldn't know if it was broken or not and can you really not be trusted to make a simple judgement like "a three wheeled bucket is no longer useful."

=sigh= sometimes nothing's working for ya. And by the time you get back to the shattered jar it's been tracked up and down the aisle. By your coworkers. And you wonder how much time you'd do if you just killed them all and called it a day and a win for humanity.


///The Chemical Brothers - "Surface to Air" take flight and forget the world even exists... what i want to do. but its the only outpost in this sector of the galaxy and my ship can't take me far enough to reach the next one. so we keep in touch.

That Instant

That instant you realize you still have no clue where you live and stumble around the block six times before you understand that you didn't land on the wrong block, or the wrong neighborhood, but you, in fact, paid for a forty dollar cab ride thirty minutes ago and hopped out exactly where you told the cabbie to go: the wrong side of the city altogether.

dear (______):

dear diary,

Today was awesome. More of that plz thnx.

love,

your little spaceman

Wall Street

> We are Wall Street. It’s our job to make money. Whether it’s a commodity, stock, bond, or some hypothetical piece of fake paper, it doesn’t matter. We would trade baseball cards if it were profitable. I didn’t hear America complaining when the market was roaring to 14,000 and everyone’s 401k doubled every 3 years. Just like gambling, its not a problem until you lose. I’ve never heard of anyone going to Gamblers Anonymous because they won too much in Vegas.

> Well now the market crapped out, & even though it has come back somewhat, the government and the average Joes are still looking for a scapegoat. God knows there has to be one for everything. Well, here we are.

> Go ahead and continue to take us down, but you’re only going to hurt yourselves. What’s going to happen when we can’t find jobs on the Street anymore? Guess what: We’re going to take yours. We get up at 5am & work till 10pm or later. We’re used to not getting up to pee when we have a position. We don’t take an hour or more for a lunch break. We don’t demand a union. We don’t retire at 50 with a pension. We eat what we kill, and when the only thing left to eat is on your dinner plates, we’ll eat that.

> For years teachers and other unionized labor have had us fooled. We were too busy working to notice. Do you really think that we are incapable of teaching 3rd graders and doing landscaping? We’re going to take your cushy jobs with tenure and 4 months off a year and whine just like you that we are so-o-o-o underpaid for building the youth of America. Say goodbye to your overtime and double time and a half. I’ll be hitting grounders to the high school baseball team for $5k extra a summer, thank you very much.

> So now that we’re going to be making $85k a year without upside, Joe Mainstreet is going to have his revenge, right? Wrong! Guess what: we’re going to stop buying the new 80k car, we aren’t going to leave the 35 percent tip at our business dinners anymore. No more free rides on our backs. We’re going to landscape our own back yards, wash our cars with a garden hose in our driveways. Our money was your money. You spent it. When our money dries up, so does yours.

> The difference is, you lived off of it, we rejoiced in it. The Obama administration and the Democratic National Committee might get their way and knock us off the top of the pyramid, but it’s really going to hurt like hell for them when our fat a**es land directly on the middle class of America and knock them to the bottom.

> We aren’t dinosaurs. We are smarter and more vicious than that, and we are going to survive. The question is, now that Obama & his administration are making Joe Mainstreet our food supply…will he? and will they?”

End email. I don't normally respond to threads like this, but I was struck by the flippancy and offered a rebuff:

dear content of email

hilarious. if the reduction of the "food supply" ever gets down to hyper competitive opportunists versus ingenuity and survivability,
wall street will find itself in an afghanistan of its own creation. good luck.

rejoicing in what income i have and living on it too. i get home at 5 a.m. if im lucky. but better than lucky is working a sixteen hour day. i work every hour im given and i take hours from coworkers whenever i can. ive been trying to get expelled from the ufcw since the union forced me to join as a condition of employment. good luck coming down here and eating the food off my plate lol. wash your car and cut your own hair and your lawn and everything else you have that needs washing and doing and guarding and tending to.

you might get some of my "food", but im used to being hungry. eventually my knife and fork are taking your hand. and it will be delicious. and ill leave you to moan and divorce and spring idle bastard children in failing school districts because you wont be able to live in the good ones no matter how hard you work at minimum wage jobs that cut and limit your hours and send you home or on leave when you hit the red line they define and the only release you can have is fucking strangers on wellfare with six kids to net massive child support and other benefits that work the system until she files a bogus PFA when you don't pay on time and the fuzz come and lock you up and you lose that job for "no call/no show" and can't get another one for two years thanks to your criminal record.

and then, hopefully, youll buy a shotgun from a pawnshop and end the dance, wherein your children will pick up where you leave off. hilarious. very much enjoyed. mostly because it's reflective, i guess, of an extremely homogenized community versus an extremely diverse community pressed into a stereo typical mold for easy digestion/dissection. also i am super hungry now with all the talking
about food.

not wall street does not equal an inability to compete and dominate. all it means is "not wall street." life can be just as vicious, demanding, painful, unforgiving, unblinking and violent as downtown manhattan any day of the fucking week for many people who have had a different set of opportunities presented to them. capitalize all you want. break your hands trying to beat down doors. the fact of the matter is it's not a level field, will never be a level field, and for civilization to continue to advance or plateau or whatever there will have to be some kind of hierarchy and class system and learn to fucking live with it and pursue yourself. i think. whatever.
hilarious.

i guess its just funny when people beat their chests and say "you couldnt do what i do" without for a second realizing they couldnt do what i do either.

i dont want to be rich or fat and happy or a gym member who would otherwise be fat and happy. all i ask of you, wall street, is that you dont let your "rejoicing" become an obstacle to my happiness.

End Rebuttal.

I don't hate wall street. But if a person with hired landscapers can frown upon those landscapers billing hour of work incorrectly or frown upon a maid secreting away the homeowners possessions, why can't those of us who keep them employed by participating in the economy frown upon its mismanagement and abuse? When you order your cheeseburger at the diner you expect a cheeseburger, not a thing that has been gutted and cheated to make it more cost effective and time conserving for the line cook to make. Sure, I can't solve differential equations easily, if at all, but the fact of the matter is the people who can more than likely couldn't do my job for a week either before they quit to pursue something easier. So I guess we're even. On an uneven playing field.

That Instant

You bang your head so hard your sense of smell goes out of whack and everything smells like burning leaves in paint chipped oil drums and you realize your eyes are no longer tracking anything symmetrically, and in fact are off on individual candy land adventures and won't be back home for dinner. So don't wait up.

Stand Up Act 6

Stand Up Act 5

I have been dreaming graphic. Memory graphic. It has been difficult to deal with still. A silly concern. Sometimes not silly. Trying to keep track of the comers and the goers cross bridge and who is lingering and who isn't in places they should and should not be. I feel like what would lend them all credibility is if they had names, but none have offered anything close to a name since I left Maryland. Since I left murderland. It's a strange thing. The namelessness. There is the thing in the white and tan ghili suit, man or woman, but definitely humanoid who shows up well in fluorescent lights and little else. The little man in the black trench coat. The woman in the blue dress. The tall and wide man who loves to wear khaki and from head to toe and never talks. The bone spur balls of things I can only really describe as pre sleep sheep skinned and tumbling. The seeing spots in the middle of the day. The thing who offered a name, whose name I cannot record because it would serve it's displeasure at my efforts to disseminate its existence on the crown of my head by day and by night and chew my nerves like dollar a pack gum and suck the insides of my skull like a starved lamprey.

Times have been strange at the cusp of awareness. Maybe not the cusp, but the interface of understanding and the known with the less known and the abstract removed thrice from the models and modes of deduction. The experience of the thing is not even close to ... I don't even know. They're not ghosts. Some are new. Many are old. Some of them change clothing and change sexes, but I can smell them beneath the dressings. I can smell their blood in the marrow of their bones as clearly as they can smell and find mine across state lines. With them it is always a matter of time. Sometimes I have to trick myself into being alone, put on the little blinders and the nose muzzle and slip the bit between my teeth so I don't swallow my tongue while I run so hard and so tuned, but I'm faking it.



and I'm just talking. Trying to talk some things out. Orient myself. I cannot tell if I'm air locked or just cold. It's 58 degrees in my apartment. I should fix that. Six hours later, the temperature is fixed, but my geography is not. There are a lot of things that made me laugh today and I'm trying to remember some of them. Trying to keep my insides in. Browsing my old day time notes. And by daytime I mean work time. And by work time I guess I mean night time.

As a side note though, do you ever get into those odd temperature situations? For instance the break room where I work is already kind of a hole in the wall with some chairs scattered around. Kind of like a refrigerator box behind K-Mart that someone saw and said to themselves "yeah, that would be a cool place to hang out for the next ten years of my life" and then adopted a stray one legged pigeon and fed it corn puffs until it was eaten by a stray cat. That kind of break room. Actually, I don't even believe it would be a stretch to say there are probably better cafeterias in most underfunded high schools than the place where I work. That's not the bad part about it though.

I'm the kind of person who just loves opportunities to eat. Not that I'm fat. Not that I particularly love delicious food, even though I do. Who would really say no to an open flame seared, seasoning rubbed slab of rare beef. Like, bleeding delicious, with buttery asparagus and sesame seeds and I am getting way ahead of myself as I can afford to eat that, maybe, twice a year. Two times out of a year. That's thirty minutes out of 60 minutes multiplied by 24 hours multiplied by three hundred and sixty five days. That's gotta be a tiny fraction. Anyway, I love eating. With a passion. My mouth just needs to have something in it at all times to be truly happy. I would have made a pretty awesome shark in another life. Perhaps a penguin. Also pornstar? That should probably be on the list. But I love food, so any opportunity to sit down and eat is a great thing. Not good, great.

How often do you run into opportunities where someone sits you down and says "if you pass this background check we won't pay you to sit and relax and eat for thirty minutes, but we will pay you to sit and relax and eat for another set of thirty minutes, but there's catch." And you slide to the edge of your seat and get nervous. Am I going to have to kill someone? Am I going to have to whore myself? Am I going to have to drown a family of kittens? And then they come back "the catch is the thirty minutes will be broken up into two fifteen minute blocks and settled at opposite ends of the thirty minutes we will not pay you for." Awesome. So any chance to sit down and eat is a good thing, because there are people with jobs that allow them to sit down and eat zero percent of the time. Literally if they are caught sitting and eating, like humans are wont to do, they will be fired for not being perfectly mechanical.

So the bad thing about this prison break room cafeteria hole in the wall with chairs that were shat out of plastic molding machine once every second and probably as ergonomic a bed a refrigerator box's floor is that it is eighty degrees in there. I bike to work. By the time I get in I am sweating pretty much from chin to ass cheek. Hiking up the stairs to the lockers and the break room after pummeling my body just to get to work is a bother. Not intolerable. Not even difficult. Sometimes tiresome. It is kind of ridiculous that if you were handicapped you would basically be ass out of luck if you wanted to watch tv or have a table in front of you while you took your breaks, but having eighty degree heat bust you in the face is like getting on a bus and having the fattest, sweatiest, cheese smellingest person get on the next stop and not sit next to you. Sitting next to you would be okay. Contact with people is unavoidable on a bus and sharing a bench is just part of the contact contract. However, when people stand next to you it's a whole different set of acknowledged boundaries, and when heavier set, fatties, stand next to you and your ear is two inches away from the bulging gut and you can hear the carnival of their digestion, it gets weird. It gets real weird and uncomfortable is all I'm saying.

Like, weird enough to make your ear hot and tingly for all the wrong reasons. Like having a complete stranger at a party come in really close to you and drop a hand in your lap. Your crotch sends the signals up to your head and your head is like "alright, this is good. We are on the right track here, drunken stranger" and then they bring their lips up close to your ear and you're playing it really cool. You're too cool for blushing. Highschool kids blush not adults (you pedophile), but even with all of your super pro control and James Bond coolness, your ear never does get the memo and all the blood that should be in your cheeks rushes to your prickling ear and then the person whispers something like "I'm so horny I could take a long walk on a beach, and knit for hours, because I really really need to use the bathroom after eating that many tacos and I want you to watch," and you kind of have to step back and rub your eyes because they either actually said that or you are way higher than you thought you were. And that's why I hate riding buses. Shit gets real weird, real fast. That's what it's like walking into this break room most days. It is break room in which it is impossible to relax. Someone basically said "hey, do you know all of the things that can make relaxation impossible? Well let's take all of those things, combine them into a single room with easy to clean floors (because someone is eventually going to throw up their lunch) and then let's put a television in there to lure them in and then a camera to capture the hilarity that ensues."

It's an odd temperatured situation. And I have no idea why. But when you run into a situation where the setting is alright, but the temperature is way off it becomes impossible to do what it is you went there to do. Try having sex at fifty degrees. Ain't going to happen. Sure, maybe you'll get it up, maybe you'll get all warm down there. But unless you've got a blanket, eventually your skin screaming at you "good lord, it is cold as fuck, what the hell are we doing without clothes on" will pretty much trump that. Try playing a sport at a grossly incorrect temperature. Baseball at one hundred degrees? Sure it can be done, but good luck keeping eighteen unpaid individuals in a pick up game when their couches, cold beers, and coldcuts are waiting for them back at their homes. I think that's what I ran into today. Trying to get my thoughts together when it was simply too cold to think.

Situations where you can't hear yourself over your body trying to survive. On a completely unrelated note, is the hallmark of the late eighties generation sarcasm? Maybe not completely unrelated. I was just thinking that maybe with all of the nebulous threats to being and the rise of open sharing and the sense of "what have you got that you have to hide" and the unrelenting standard of interrogation and search and destroy culture has given rise to a survival mechanism. Sarcasm. Sure, some people are beautifully sardonic. Some people try to be. I kind of feel like a lot of the younger people and peers that I am familiar with find a sarcastic, sardonic, dead pan stance to be the most comfortable base state of being. A variation of the poker face. It's like a poker face with burlesque sequined and feathered sunglasses on. A poker face with a little personal flare so not blank, but not telling in a world that has become one not available for questioning, but able and unceasingly questioning of identity and intent.

Like the question "what did you do to your hair." There are many responses that are acceptable. Many responses that are reasonable. I cut it: is one response. I wanted to try something new: is another. But, how many times can you be asked that question in different ways before you wig out and say something like "oh my god, did something happen to my hair? Is it still there? I could have swore I cut it yesterday. Oh god, why? Why could something happening to my hair have ever happened to me!" as you fall to the ground weeping and clutching at your scalp. It's just the nature of the world we live in. Everyone keeps asking you how old and who you are and where you're from and who you know that would also cop to knowing you.

Sure some people still give the standardized responses, but I think a lot of people in our generation who want to be slightly more than a string of numbers and a birth certificate and a photo i.d. and tax form fall into sarcasm as one of the last free forms of interpersonal, globally accepted, expression. Clothing as expression peaks and falls and peaks constantly. There isn't really an age of clothing as expression. Drugs as expression, I think peaked in the seventies. Is that fair? I know new drugs came along later on, or were in development and then came to fruition later on, but that's definitely a negative. People don't look at users of pharmaceuticals and think "wow, man you are seriously expressing your take on life and it's battles." What they think is "wow, man who raped you when you were five," or "wow, can you really not cope with your white bread existence," or "unlike bacon, everything is not better with glow sticks." Pot heads are probably the exception. And amphetamines that do not have to be smoked or injected. Those people aren't users by today's definition. They're modifiers. Suped up. For one reason or another they need to enhance certain abilities or muffle other sensitivities and so aren't really expressive. To say there are expressive is to say that someone who closes their eyes in a horror flick is expressing their inner self. Nope, they, like most normal people not desensitized to acts of brutal violence through television, news media, film, and video games, happen to not enjoy watching someone get their head twisted off. They are modifiers, not necessarily expressive. And that's what's up.

It's not the culture of harder drugs that are a way of life as much as they are a means to continue living. The old adage of "source of and solution to". Maybe if everyone wasn't so sarcastic things would be more straightforward. Hobbled senses of humor being symptomatic of hobbled senses of being maybe? As expression and avenues of expression become more vacant there is the old mainstay of sex. Being utterly personal and completely void of pretense sex still expresses who you are and in that opposite way of expression spread across the surface of being, sex is much more a sense of being spread across pure expression.

I mean think about it, the lady behind the desk at the dmv is in principle a sexual object. She is a vagina with a lot of extra things draped around it that define her self, but in a pure sense she is expressible by her vaginality at her core and everything else is in place to facilitate that expression. Same goes for the guy. It's like the core motive of man is perpetuating itself and everything else is in place to ensure its perpetuation. So if you're sitting on a train in rush hour and all you see are hovering breasts, vaginas, cocks, and balls all around you, you're not tripping. You're seeing through the bullshit. Or you are absolutely tripping your brains out and should probably not be inside a metal sardine can powered by coils of wire and magnetic fields twenty feet below the surface of the earth inside a dark tube. Or you are in highschool and are writing on post-it notes "you smell nice" to the person next to you and you realize you will probably never land that date to the prom because you are expressing yourself backwards, as far as the rest of the population is concerned, but hell, if you don't tell them, who will?