Clean with alcohol only. Do not attempt to replace blown fuses. Do not remove access panels. Return to certified mechanic for regular maintenance. Made in the USA.
4/24/11
I Should
Record how good I feel tonight. And I will. Tomorrow :) Its a note to me and you. For when tomorrows already feel like shit and suislide.
4/22/11
Stand Up Act 1
Hi,
This is all improvised. I'll probably never get up in front of a mic because I am an impossibly shy guy, unlike the actual shyguys from the Mario universe. They were pretty in your face and aggressive. Actually I'm kind of like that too. So never mind that whole thing. I guess I'm just self conscious like everyone else who doesn't have enough money to ignore the rest of the world from the second they get pushed out of the womb like that little donut hole that pops out of a whole puncher. Who knew that those things grew up to be people. Or maybe people are just loose leaf paper. Waiting to be hole punched or something. How fun was using that thing. I must have ruined at least three acres of forests punching holes in paper. But I guess it wasn't really my fault. The teacher's were the ones who wouldn't accept paper with holes punched in the middle of it and around the corners and across the sides like St. Valentines day. Stick figures aren't going to shoot themselves. That's what meth and coke is for. Or something. Well anyway, I should probably explain a little more:
I've listened to a lot of stand up on the radio, well, on my computer. Which is the radio of my generation. Or I suppose, just my segment of my generation. The poorer people who got birthday cards with ten dollars in them from their parents. The kind of thing you'd expect from a grandparent who still believed ten cents could get you a sucker and copy of the latest Action comics in color and a trolley ride to the carnival next to the board walk made of gold and pixie dust and where the hell is that dish of Werther's I left to keep my copy of the TV Guide cross word I tore out of that magazine at the doctor's office, because I may be old and out of touch, but I'm still sharp enough to know when to steal shit instead of buying it. Thrifty. Like listening to radio on your computer instead of going to the club and seeing it live, because your poor and, shit, with that much money you could buy a whole mess of bacon and the good orange juice with the pulp in it instead of the food coloring.
Listening to all of this has basically made me as a largely failed occupational, but still pathological, writer want to express things that are funny to me too and hope that maybe like two other people will also think so. I say two, because I always like my stuff and my friend who doesn't really exist, the person who is basically holding down a time share in my head sometimes likes my stuff too so we need at least one more person in on this before it'll get good. Kind of like having sex with that person in the office that everyone has already had sex with, or actually no, it's more like picking up a copy of the latest nude mag, whatever they call, Juggs, or Juggs for black guys who apparently can only be aroused by large jewelry and x and y and z that we already featured in this magazine, but now it's earth toned and somehow more street, well whatever they call it, it's like picking that up and then you realize that "yeah, it's still just glossy paper and your left hand, dumbass. We coulda bought booze with that money you ass. Then, we could have at least forgotten that we were horny in the first place and also apparently do not have internet access." So at least me and two other people. Because one of you is imaginary.
So I'm gonna take some stabs at being funny until the acts kind of peter out, wherever that is. Maybe it'll be a continuing thing to go with my art. The problem with the world today, one of the many problems with the world today, possibly the largest problem with the world today is that there is so much to do and keep up with and pay for that there simply is not enough time to use these two hands, this one mouth, and these two eyes to generate everything that well's up inside. Which is why massive population extinction will be swell. Less stuff to do. More time to spend drawing on caves. Or at least exploring caves. How fun would that be? Screw this fucking phone bill. Who the hell am I going to call? Dave? He's ten states away for fucks sake. And the only other person alive on the east coast. My geography sucks by the way so if there are less than ten states on the east coast, I don't want to know, because I'll forget and be a forgetful jerk, but really it's your fault for giving me that information to hang on to with the expectation that I would actually commit it to essential memory where I put things like "how to breath" and "do not sleep underwater because that shit will drown you". Well I'm not calling Dave, because last time I schlepped up there it turned out he hadn't found the last post apocalyptic brewery still functioning. It was a fat rendering plant. So fuck this phone, fuck this phone bill, I'm gonna go draw on walls for the next month and get really good at growing shit." And so I figured I would take a stab at it. I mean what could it hurt.
I had this joke actually already in mind on my way home this morning. It was a fictional conversation. Happened in my head. Not fictional. Fictional to you. But this actually happened: "you smell like dog farts again."
"shut up"
"dude you smell like dog farts."
"well, shit. I have been slinging bags of dog food around for the last two hours to feed you"
"dog farts, dude. You better shower when you get home. I don't want you in my bed fartin up the sheets."
"well, shit on a stick, I'm tired as hell."
"have you been fisting dogs all night?"
"no, but that's kind of funny."
"I know, right?"
"Yes, I have been fisting dogs for the last eight hours and that is why I smell like Alpo gas. It's tough, but if I don't fist these dogs, who will? Who will fist these dogs for $7.75 an hour? Do I like it? Frankly that's none of your business. Other job skills? No. Just the fisting. Yes we do get a half hour to eat lunch. Alright then, thanks for your time. Should I wait for a follow up call for that second interview? Alright then, you take care too. Bitch. Click."
That last part was the joke. It was this thing that just struck me as hilarious. How would I explain to someone, because sometimes I am very much compelled to defend my various conditions of dress and stench and dishevelry to people I have to share public transportation with. And that's part of why I hate the bus. It's not like the subway where you can just look outside once in a while and know where you are or count the stops, unless you ride a particular bus line all the time. Your head has to always be on the gopher swivel trying to assess how much longer you can press your luck. Is this the stop I need to get off at or can I save myself another hundred yards, but if there is no stop in the next hundred yards I risk riding this thing all the way to the stop right before the depot because for some reason no one lives or works anywhere near this road for the next two and a half miles, but if I do get off here I'll have pit stains by the time I hit that meeting and I think there was a bridge with no sidewalks after this stop light, oh shit, I should have gotten off. So you're always looking around and making dodgy eye contact and in those few seconds you can read a lot once you've done it enough times.
Yeah I reek of cheap beer, but hey, at least it's not puke. And yes I did sleep somewhere without toiletries so my pits stink, but hey, at least it's not puke. I'm sorry, do I smell like I've just taken a bath in coffee creamer and fisted dogs for the last six hours? Well, guess what? I did. Boys gotta eat lady and quite frankly I'd rather smell like I just did something than like I just crawled out of a vase at the funeral parlor. I don't know where they get that scent, but they all have it. Probably from failed Mary Kay pyramid scheming or is it Amway still? Aren't those the same thing? I bet they were both founded by the same married couple. Rich wives. Pyramid schemes. Started by the richest wife who needed something to do that would still stroke her ego. God, that's depressing. And now part of the cando American fabric. Along with dog fisting for near minimum wage and listening to the radio on your computer. Which is actually not listening to the radio at all. When it's pre-recorded. But what's the difference. The difference is the radio is live. Sort of. What the hell is the difference?
This is all improvised. I'll probably never get up in front of a mic because I am an impossibly shy guy, unlike the actual shyguys from the Mario universe. They were pretty in your face and aggressive. Actually I'm kind of like that too. So never mind that whole thing. I guess I'm just self conscious like everyone else who doesn't have enough money to ignore the rest of the world from the second they get pushed out of the womb like that little donut hole that pops out of a whole puncher. Who knew that those things grew up to be people. Or maybe people are just loose leaf paper. Waiting to be hole punched or something. How fun was using that thing. I must have ruined at least three acres of forests punching holes in paper. But I guess it wasn't really my fault. The teacher's were the ones who wouldn't accept paper with holes punched in the middle of it and around the corners and across the sides like St. Valentines day. Stick figures aren't going to shoot themselves. That's what meth and coke is for. Or something. Well anyway, I should probably explain a little more:
I've listened to a lot of stand up on the radio, well, on my computer. Which is the radio of my generation. Or I suppose, just my segment of my generation. The poorer people who got birthday cards with ten dollars in them from their parents. The kind of thing you'd expect from a grandparent who still believed ten cents could get you a sucker and copy of the latest Action comics in color and a trolley ride to the carnival next to the board walk made of gold and pixie dust and where the hell is that dish of Werther's I left to keep my copy of the TV Guide cross word I tore out of that magazine at the doctor's office, because I may be old and out of touch, but I'm still sharp enough to know when to steal shit instead of buying it. Thrifty. Like listening to radio on your computer instead of going to the club and seeing it live, because your poor and, shit, with that much money you could buy a whole mess of bacon and the good orange juice with the pulp in it instead of the food coloring.
Listening to all of this has basically made me as a largely failed occupational, but still pathological, writer want to express things that are funny to me too and hope that maybe like two other people will also think so. I say two, because I always like my stuff and my friend who doesn't really exist, the person who is basically holding down a time share in my head sometimes likes my stuff too so we need at least one more person in on this before it'll get good. Kind of like having sex with that person in the office that everyone has already had sex with, or actually no, it's more like picking up a copy of the latest nude mag, whatever they call, Juggs, or Juggs for black guys who apparently can only be aroused by large jewelry and x and y and z that we already featured in this magazine, but now it's earth toned and somehow more street, well whatever they call it, it's like picking that up and then you realize that "yeah, it's still just glossy paper and your left hand, dumbass. We coulda bought booze with that money you ass. Then, we could have at least forgotten that we were horny in the first place and also apparently do not have internet access." So at least me and two other people. Because one of you is imaginary.
So I'm gonna take some stabs at being funny until the acts kind of peter out, wherever that is. Maybe it'll be a continuing thing to go with my art. The problem with the world today, one of the many problems with the world today, possibly the largest problem with the world today is that there is so much to do and keep up with and pay for that there simply is not enough time to use these two hands, this one mouth, and these two eyes to generate everything that well's up inside. Which is why massive population extinction will be swell. Less stuff to do. More time to spend drawing on caves. Or at least exploring caves. How fun would that be? Screw this fucking phone bill. Who the hell am I going to call? Dave? He's ten states away for fucks sake. And the only other person alive on the east coast. My geography sucks by the way so if there are less than ten states on the east coast, I don't want to know, because I'll forget and be a forgetful jerk, but really it's your fault for giving me that information to hang on to with the expectation that I would actually commit it to essential memory where I put things like "how to breath" and "do not sleep underwater because that shit will drown you". Well I'm not calling Dave, because last time I schlepped up there it turned out he hadn't found the last post apocalyptic brewery still functioning. It was a fat rendering plant. So fuck this phone, fuck this phone bill, I'm gonna go draw on walls for the next month and get really good at growing shit." And so I figured I would take a stab at it. I mean what could it hurt.
I had this joke actually already in mind on my way home this morning. It was a fictional conversation. Happened in my head. Not fictional. Fictional to you. But this actually happened: "you smell like dog farts again."
"shut up"
"dude you smell like dog farts."
"well, shit. I have been slinging bags of dog food around for the last two hours to feed you"
"dog farts, dude. You better shower when you get home. I don't want you in my bed fartin up the sheets."
"well, shit on a stick, I'm tired as hell."
"have you been fisting dogs all night?"
"no, but that's kind of funny."
"I know, right?"
"Yes, I have been fisting dogs for the last eight hours and that is why I smell like Alpo gas. It's tough, but if I don't fist these dogs, who will? Who will fist these dogs for $7.75 an hour? Do I like it? Frankly that's none of your business. Other job skills? No. Just the fisting. Yes we do get a half hour to eat lunch. Alright then, thanks for your time. Should I wait for a follow up call for that second interview? Alright then, you take care too. Bitch. Click."
That last part was the joke. It was this thing that just struck me as hilarious. How would I explain to someone, because sometimes I am very much compelled to defend my various conditions of dress and stench and dishevelry to people I have to share public transportation with. And that's part of why I hate the bus. It's not like the subway where you can just look outside once in a while and know where you are or count the stops, unless you ride a particular bus line all the time. Your head has to always be on the gopher swivel trying to assess how much longer you can press your luck. Is this the stop I need to get off at or can I save myself another hundred yards, but if there is no stop in the next hundred yards I risk riding this thing all the way to the stop right before the depot because for some reason no one lives or works anywhere near this road for the next two and a half miles, but if I do get off here I'll have pit stains by the time I hit that meeting and I think there was a bridge with no sidewalks after this stop light, oh shit, I should have gotten off. So you're always looking around and making dodgy eye contact and in those few seconds you can read a lot once you've done it enough times.
Yeah I reek of cheap beer, but hey, at least it's not puke. And yes I did sleep somewhere without toiletries so my pits stink, but hey, at least it's not puke. I'm sorry, do I smell like I've just taken a bath in coffee creamer and fisted dogs for the last six hours? Well, guess what? I did. Boys gotta eat lady and quite frankly I'd rather smell like I just did something than like I just crawled out of a vase at the funeral parlor. I don't know where they get that scent, but they all have it. Probably from failed Mary Kay pyramid scheming or is it Amway still? Aren't those the same thing? I bet they were both founded by the same married couple. Rich wives. Pyramid schemes. Started by the richest wife who needed something to do that would still stroke her ego. God, that's depressing. And now part of the cando American fabric. Along with dog fisting for near minimum wage and listening to the radio on your computer. Which is actually not listening to the radio at all. When it's pre-recorded. But what's the difference. The difference is the radio is live. Sort of. What the hell is the difference?
4/21/11
4/20/11
dear (______):
Dear home body,
Clean your room. Do your dishes and make yourself something to eat. And then go outside today and play some baseball. You won't regret it.
Clean your room. Do your dishes and make yourself something to eat. And then go outside today and play some baseball. You won't regret it.
4/19/11
Under Consideration and Lesser Titles for Greater Things
Having experienced various points of system shock through various psychological breaking points over the last five days there are so many facets of existence to consider. I guess first and foremost is the relationship between- brake fail. Entry point. New thread. Same thread. If I want to enter into steady state society, contiguous existence, beyond the high speed passes, lower the charge without damaging consciousness- skip break. how far can you go. how far are you willing to go to make sure you don't die alone. Found it.
The hole. If the break cannot be controlled and it has been demonstrated that the entry points are getting. Growing in number beyond traceability to a point of trustlessness and protection to enter to ask. We already know we can't ask without. The offer is real isn't it? Standing for the claimant. The ability. To reject the known for the unknown again. To start it over. We did it for her once. For both her and us and now we face ourselves and potentially the division from. And entry into not just the hole, but what lives inside.
I'd forgotten what great company was. For some time. I thought I understood to an extent. And the reality apart from the extent of understanding was more incredible. More fantastic than I could have hoped. I've heard that heaven's gonna burn your eyes, but I didn't believe it. The noises were amazing. Would we still feel it inside. Could we know it if we did.
I'm trying to reconstruct the memories. They are without sensations. The ones from that earlier time and rocky trial of prescriptions. Disconcerting eveness. All things advance. Could it really be any different from the functional calls to operations and sectional being. Yes. It would have to be. Out of the reason that the responses are all. Why not have access to. that's part of the issue. The access is cut apart. But how badly do you not want to die alone. And there's the fear that comes without description. Because there is no description for what exists apart from the ability to describe. But released from what can be described and known though invisible artifacts of the corrupted and tuned highly tuned circuit. Facing a way. A way in. A way out. A way in. To become less and a part of.
So we'll walk into it. And find what has been seen. And see it again. Charting space and spaces. We'll see what happens through this week. Thursday and straight on till morning. Not goodbye. An extended hello. To further modification. Answers. A heaven that will burn your eyes. A start of beginnings. That are loops and waves. On our insides drawing together divisions. Of necessity and being. It will throw our ways. I'll catch you yet. And maybe there really is nothing inside of that hole anymore. Or maybe the only way to deal with it is entry into. We'll find what lies and lower the charge and enter into the gravity of society. Space is just too cold. So I've learned. And it's taken loss to unravel that concept. I'll catch you if you'll wait for me. I don't like to promise much, but just don't leave too soon. I'm gonna drive it straight into the atmosphere. The flames will be gorgeous, but by the time my wheels touch the ground the tiles and plates and cooling vents will be easy on the eyes and ears and to the touch. The runway's not as long as it used to be. I didn't pack a chute when I left.
///Thievery Corporation - "Heaven's Gonna Burn Your Eyes" ...you can't be afraid forever... so I'm going to try a different way to be brave and maybe there will be a hero's welcome yet. Don't wish us luck. Save it for the day I shake your hand. That's when I'll need it. And we'll sit down with some coffee and I can tell you all about where the fuck I've really been and maybe there'll still be something left behind my eyes familiar to you and we both.
The hole. If the break cannot be controlled and it has been demonstrated that the entry points are getting. Growing in number beyond traceability to a point of trustlessness and protection to enter to ask. We already know we can't ask without. The offer is real isn't it? Standing for the claimant. The ability. To reject the known for the unknown again. To start it over. We did it for her once. For both her and us and now we face ourselves and potentially the division from. And entry into not just the hole, but what lives inside.
I'd forgotten what great company was. For some time. I thought I understood to an extent. And the reality apart from the extent of understanding was more incredible. More fantastic than I could have hoped. I've heard that heaven's gonna burn your eyes, but I didn't believe it. The noises were amazing. Would we still feel it inside. Could we know it if we did.
I'm trying to reconstruct the memories. They are without sensations. The ones from that earlier time and rocky trial of prescriptions. Disconcerting eveness. All things advance. Could it really be any different from the functional calls to operations and sectional being. Yes. It would have to be. Out of the reason that the responses are all. Why not have access to. that's part of the issue. The access is cut apart. But how badly do you not want to die alone. And there's the fear that comes without description. Because there is no description for what exists apart from the ability to describe. But released from what can be described and known though invisible artifacts of the corrupted and tuned highly tuned circuit. Facing a way. A way in. A way out. A way in. To become less and a part of.
So we'll walk into it. And find what has been seen. And see it again. Charting space and spaces. We'll see what happens through this week. Thursday and straight on till morning. Not goodbye. An extended hello. To further modification. Answers. A heaven that will burn your eyes. A start of beginnings. That are loops and waves. On our insides drawing together divisions. Of necessity and being. It will throw our ways. I'll catch you yet. And maybe there really is nothing inside of that hole anymore. Or maybe the only way to deal with it is entry into. We'll find what lies and lower the charge and enter into the gravity of society. Space is just too cold. So I've learned. And it's taken loss to unravel that concept. I'll catch you if you'll wait for me. I don't like to promise much, but just don't leave too soon. I'm gonna drive it straight into the atmosphere. The flames will be gorgeous, but by the time my wheels touch the ground the tiles and plates and cooling vents will be easy on the eyes and ears and to the touch. The runway's not as long as it used to be. I didn't pack a chute when I left.
///Thievery Corporation - "Heaven's Gonna Burn Your Eyes" ...you can't be afraid forever... so I'm going to try a different way to be brave and maybe there will be a hero's welcome yet. Don't wish us luck. Save it for the day I shake your hand. That's when I'll need it. And we'll sit down with some coffee and I can tell you all about where the fuck I've really been and maybe there'll still be something left behind my eyes familiar to you and we both.
4/12/11
dear (______):
Dear human resources,
Do not post job ads asking for "rock stars" if what you really mean is "persons with multiple years of internships, documented volunteer work, and several years of graduated responsibility in a closely related field or similar position and a few summers as a camp counselor who also has or is on track to receive their master's degree".
sincerely,
not a parenthetical rock star
Do not post job ads asking for "rock stars" if what you really mean is "persons with multiple years of internships, documented volunteer work, and several years of graduated responsibility in a closely related field or similar position and a few summers as a camp counselor who also has or is on track to receive their master's degree".
sincerely,
not a parenthetical rock star
Po Mo Meta Strikes Again and Lost Keys
I've been busy. Trying to keep up my end of 7 straight days of growing pains and metallurgy and using my brain hard enough to make it cry uncle and develop traumatic locker room bully memories of its own. This is not to say that I haven't had a few moments of quiet and also a few moments of utter emotional seizure that sent me running for cover to ball up under my blanket and rock myself to sleep. Yeah, that happened. But it's okay. We can't all be that bad ass from that one movie all the time. Or even some of the time. I have my flashes.
In one of those moments I was out in the park with a friend (good company is one of the few things that can get me out of my apartment. That and having nothing edible. And even then, that's enough to get me like 150 yards away. Just far enough to nab some eggs and cheese from the store. Good company is rare though. I'll go far for that. Sometimes run. Well we were talking and what I've realized is that the bubble is very large. No wait. The world outside the bubble is very large. I was referencing college and the sheer massiveness of the world outside of a campus and the interlocking experiences and attendant frameworks of interpersonal exchange.
12 hours later was when the brick I threw up came back down and broke my skull open and the idea came running down the side of my face. I'm not free. Still not free. Not even close. In fact I am so deeply chained, what I have understood to be freedom has practically blinded me. I'm not talking about the retarded discussion of citizen's rights, or what it means to be an American, or the bondage of physiological death marching on, or determinism, or fatalism, or any of that super global ridiculously wide in scope stuff. I mean in terms of things as simple as "I want to go to X place at Y time to do Z. So I will." I guess it's been so long since I even had the space to collect and exercise free will at all I lost sight of the scope ... not the scope... the spectrum of freedoms.
It's a different kind of bubble. I'm still learning what I can do. It's like when I have to figure out how to walk again some days except it's a bit bigger than that. Like learning how to make a fist or teaching your left hand to do things to make your right hand's life easier. No, it's not even that. A little bit bigger. When that thought hit I realized that I'm still interned. Still incarcerated. It's just that I'm out of the torture and modification wing of the center and I've broken a window (with a little help) and now I'm in the yard, but there's still a massive gate and fence around the yard and on the other side of that fence are more cells and then a visitors yard. Now I can get access to that visitors yard and its nice to see familiar faces, but I've got so long to go.
It's post modern slavery. Or maybe just meta jail. Kind of like super jail except nothing hilarious or awesome happens. Everyone starts out in meta jail. That's why kids hate being kids. I'm sure part of them knows they're basically post pre modern slaves. The original slave. The adolescent. But eventually as they get older their parents give them the keys, sometimes right off the bat (and then they run out and do a shit load of meth and die and self correct the problem... haha no, just kidding. that's awful. and also not self correcting), to the cell doors and then the yard and then the rec rooms and the visitor center and the white trailer with the rose tinted curtains and the kids keep the keys. I never received my keys. They're lost. Permanently. So by the time I'm supposed to be 40 and in possession of all the sets of keys a 40 year old should have, I will instead have a pair of bolt cutters and a cloth wrapped shiv and maybe a few pilfered i.d. badges and a square of carpet to throw over barbed wire. I'm still in fucking meta jail and I didn't even realize it.
It was a depressing thought. A depressing realization. But that's what industry is for. I just have to keep digging and cutting. Maybe if I do gain actual freedom before this is over I won't shut myself down. I don't know yet. I still have a ways to go on this record before it's complete anyway. Plenty of time to think about it while I work. I thought about people that get to enjoy the luxury of doing what they love so much that they end up hating it some days. That must feel nice. Better than doing what they could care less about so much that that... I just wish I had my fucking keys. It's not that I think things would be different. It's that I know they would.
///Bjork - "Domestica" ... where have I put my keys? Beautiful song. Beautiful lyric. Beautiful time to get some rest and try not to worry too much. The mirrored mirror of po meta anything can be quite claustrophobic sometimes. Which is why you should always keep a brick in your back pocket.
In one of those moments I was out in the park with a friend (good company is one of the few things that can get me out of my apartment. That and having nothing edible. And even then, that's enough to get me like 150 yards away. Just far enough to nab some eggs and cheese from the store. Good company is rare though. I'll go far for that. Sometimes run. Well we were talking and what I've realized is that the bubble is very large. No wait. The world outside the bubble is very large. I was referencing college and the sheer massiveness of the world outside of a campus and the interlocking experiences and attendant frameworks of interpersonal exchange.
12 hours later was when the brick I threw up came back down and broke my skull open and the idea came running down the side of my face. I'm not free. Still not free. Not even close. In fact I am so deeply chained, what I have understood to be freedom has practically blinded me. I'm not talking about the retarded discussion of citizen's rights, or what it means to be an American, or the bondage of physiological death marching on, or determinism, or fatalism, or any of that super global ridiculously wide in scope stuff. I mean in terms of things as simple as "I want to go to X place at Y time to do Z. So I will." I guess it's been so long since I even had the space to collect and exercise free will at all I lost sight of the scope ... not the scope... the spectrum of freedoms.
It's a different kind of bubble. I'm still learning what I can do. It's like when I have to figure out how to walk again some days except it's a bit bigger than that. Like learning how to make a fist or teaching your left hand to do things to make your right hand's life easier. No, it's not even that. A little bit bigger. When that thought hit I realized that I'm still interned. Still incarcerated. It's just that I'm out of the torture and modification wing of the center and I've broken a window (with a little help) and now I'm in the yard, but there's still a massive gate and fence around the yard and on the other side of that fence are more cells and then a visitors yard. Now I can get access to that visitors yard and its nice to see familiar faces, but I've got so long to go.
It's post modern slavery. Or maybe just meta jail. Kind of like super jail except nothing hilarious or awesome happens. Everyone starts out in meta jail. That's why kids hate being kids. I'm sure part of them knows they're basically post pre modern slaves. The original slave. The adolescent. But eventually as they get older their parents give them the keys, sometimes right off the bat (and then they run out and do a shit load of meth and die and self correct the problem... haha no, just kidding. that's awful. and also not self correcting), to the cell doors and then the yard and then the rec rooms and the visitor center and the white trailer with the rose tinted curtains and the kids keep the keys. I never received my keys. They're lost. Permanently. So by the time I'm supposed to be 40 and in possession of all the sets of keys a 40 year old should have, I will instead have a pair of bolt cutters and a cloth wrapped shiv and maybe a few pilfered i.d. badges and a square of carpet to throw over barbed wire. I'm still in fucking meta jail and I didn't even realize it.
It was a depressing thought. A depressing realization. But that's what industry is for. I just have to keep digging and cutting. Maybe if I do gain actual freedom before this is over I won't shut myself down. I don't know yet. I still have a ways to go on this record before it's complete anyway. Plenty of time to think about it while I work. I thought about people that get to enjoy the luxury of doing what they love so much that they end up hating it some days. That must feel nice. Better than doing what they could care less about so much that that... I just wish I had my fucking keys. It's not that I think things would be different. It's that I know they would.
///Bjork - "Domestica" ... where have I put my keys? Beautiful song. Beautiful lyric. Beautiful time to get some rest and try not to worry too much. The mirrored mirror of po meta anything can be quite claustrophobic sometimes. Which is why you should always keep a brick in your back pocket.
4/11/11
Touching One Half of the Interface, Old Contacts, and Still Making Fire
Well, I finally got up the parts and pieces to contact him. Now I just have to work myself toward opening the response. I'm sure it's nothing. Well nothing more serious than a rejection of any one thing can be.
I found rechargeable batteries for my camera. It's nice to have to use again. It's funny how the good days bleed away like sand. I need an extra set of hands to collect them and keep throwing them in my hair till it get's stuck that way permanent like.
I made a portrait. My head is tired again, but I'm working it somewhat relentlessly. I have a bad personality tick of punishing myself for everything. It's part of what motivates me to operate. I should switch that maybe. I'm not entirely sure how. I should probably get some sleep before I go to work. It's strange. The feeling approaching the punishment breaker. Artifacting. Ridiculous. I'm still and learning. I was discussing the idea of normal. It struck me that there are people who like the burning half baked you because it is. Normal isn't good enough. Or maybe. I just need a little more sleep. I'm not just telling myself that. My self is telling me.
I miss the people I've never met and the people I can never really meet because my head comes apart so easily. It's been raining today. It's been nice. I remember hearing about the water cycle in fifth grade and thinking about how awesome it would be to ride with those molecules through aquifers to the sea. That's not an occupation. It's a preoccupation? I'm thinking about finally giving in to it. I think I've already missed. I'll find out soon enough once I talk to him. We will see if it's the last thing these pupils do. And add it to the blueprint.
///Autechre - "Kalpol Introl"
The fire is still being made and the forge is still powered on, but it's starting to feel like pulling the guts out of the underside of a fish by hauling on it's jawbone. What I'm getting out I can't eat. Still gonna try though. Today is a mess. Was a mess. No vision. No visibility. I've gotta fix these road signs before I get lost again. Must get dressed and put on my face and skins. We ride for dawn. Or some place else as warm.
I found rechargeable batteries for my camera. It's nice to have to use again. It's funny how the good days bleed away like sand. I need an extra set of hands to collect them and keep throwing them in my hair till it get's stuck that way permanent like.
I made a portrait. My head is tired again, but I'm working it somewhat relentlessly. I have a bad personality tick of punishing myself for everything. It's part of what motivates me to operate. I should switch that maybe. I'm not entirely sure how. I should probably get some sleep before I go to work. It's strange. The feeling approaching the punishment breaker. Artifacting. Ridiculous. I'm still and learning. I was discussing the idea of normal. It struck me that there are people who like the burning half baked you because it is. Normal isn't good enough. Or maybe. I just need a little more sleep. I'm not just telling myself that. My self is telling me.
I miss the people I've never met and the people I can never really meet because my head comes apart so easily. It's been raining today. It's been nice. I remember hearing about the water cycle in fifth grade and thinking about how awesome it would be to ride with those molecules through aquifers to the sea. That's not an occupation. It's a preoccupation? I'm thinking about finally giving in to it. I think I've already missed. I'll find out soon enough once I talk to him. We will see if it's the last thing these pupils do. And add it to the blueprint.
///Autechre - "Kalpol Introl"
The fire is still being made and the forge is still powered on, but it's starting to feel like pulling the guts out of the underside of a fish by hauling on it's jawbone. What I'm getting out I can't eat. Still gonna try though. Today is a mess. Was a mess. No vision. No visibility. I've gotta fix these road signs before I get lost again. Must get dressed and put on my face and skins. We ride for dawn. Or some place else as warm.
4/7/11
We Are Your Industrious Friends
That picture I owed you. Plus a week of industry is nothing without it's banner. Relearning all the skills that have lapsed. Up next: partial story dump to Bits For Flames and, if I can squeeze it in before bed time and laboring for money before my two day off stretch, concept page headers.
Ready, set, glow. I wish I had time to make one of these for every post again. Maybe when I get my workflow more streamlined. Right now it's messier than a nut filled log of christmas lights freshly squeezed from between attic rafters, but I'm working on it.
///J.G. Thirlwell - "Tuff" Action sounds that are more than just action sounds. You can't spell awesome adventures without the Venture Brothers. Not that I'm using my time to watch it. I just liked the show so much that I got the soundtrack. Because it is awesome. That's a lot of awesomes in one paragraph...
Ready, set, glow. I wish I had time to make one of these for every post again. Maybe when I get my workflow more streamlined. Right now it's messier than a nut filled log of christmas lights freshly squeezed from between attic rafters, but I'm working on it.
///J.G. Thirlwell - "Tuff" Action sounds that are more than just action sounds. You can't spell awesome adventures without the Venture Brothers. Not that I'm using my time to watch it. I just liked the show so much that I got the soundtrack. Because it is awesome. That's a lot of awesomes in one paragraph...
4/5/11
Retool and Industry.
I've been task locked, I will admit. Moving on to what? To separate things. I would think. The stars are up tonight. They're mapping me and it's good. I'm thinking about scarification. Or at least a more direct method of production. To accompany. Not so much an accompaniment as a new machine I can introduce to the factory floor and see if they'll pick it up and make good use of it.
I was trying to think of the last time I felt like I was the center of the universe and I can't really remember a time, but that's also probably because my memory basically ends around age 9. Which I'm thankful for. Evening running backward past 11 things basically get so garbled and hazy I'm not really sure if what I'm remembering happened then or earlier. I'm okay with that. If I could wipe everything up through highschool that would just be peaches.
Tomorrow will start a week of industry. I haven't declared one of those in a while, but it's past time. Let's talk about other things. Not to forget, but to make new memories. My time is short. My dreams are long. 4 hours. Not enough. Someone told me I need to get more hours at my job. Honestly, I'm terrified of that. If there's one thing I know about myself it's that we couldn't support that kind of load if we tried. Only so many channels. Let's do some living. Let's turn some metal. Let's not forget our new selves atop the frames still falling.
///Way Out West - "The Gift" the moon and the stars.
I was trying to think of the last time I felt like I was the center of the universe and I can't really remember a time, but that's also probably because my memory basically ends around age 9. Which I'm thankful for. Evening running backward past 11 things basically get so garbled and hazy I'm not really sure if what I'm remembering happened then or earlier. I'm okay with that. If I could wipe everything up through highschool that would just be peaches.
Tomorrow will start a week of industry. I haven't declared one of those in a while, but it's past time. Let's talk about other things. Not to forget, but to make new memories. My time is short. My dreams are long. 4 hours. Not enough. Someone told me I need to get more hours at my job. Honestly, I'm terrified of that. If there's one thing I know about myself it's that we couldn't support that kind of load if we tried. Only so many channels. Let's do some living. Let's turn some metal. Let's not forget our new selves atop the frames still falling.
///Way Out West - "The Gift" the moon and the stars.
4/2/11
Counting Down Seconds
Counting down the seconds until I have to go outside again. It helps when it's dark out. It feels like there are two inch diameter screws pushing into the space behind my ears and doing their best to touch in the middle.
The wind blows up through the corner of my building where all the boiler rooms and utility closets align. I'm pretty sure I could climb down through the entire building to the basement through there. I'm pretty sure whatever's in the basement can climb up if it wanted to. I try not to think about that space. Sometimes I come home and that door is open. The lock on it is broken. Or maybe it never worked. I stuff socks in the door jamb to keep it shut, but socks don't have magical powers and it doesn't stay shut. I'm thinking about nailing it up.
Yesterday I was working so hard I started drooling and I didn't realize it until I felt the little tug on your shirt that tells you your taco just let a glob of skin temperature oil loose on the middle of your chest. I took it down a notch. The work is hard, but not hard enough. I like it when it's demanding. It helps me forget who I am. I'm no longer me. I'm levers and pulleys and little motors and wires and for loops and if then switches and I love that. Part of me wants that to be all. To rip away from the rest in a maniac's pursuit of perfectly synchronized movement. I'm clumsy. But when I've memorized all the actions it feels so good to make the calls to the functions and then revise them knowing they can't become worse.
I'm thinking about teaching myself to be a butcher, since I didn't get the post. It would be a fun pastime. By the time I can afford to buy the animals I'll be able to afford a freezer to put the parts in and have a nice place for all the tools too. Then I can extend the work from my job through the anxiety of my home and feel that relaxedness roll through me again. But that's a little ways off. It'll be fun.
I had this dream that I went forward in time to the same burned out bakery next to the house I want to buy. The house with the door boarded up in the front and all the doors and balconies open in the back where there was a fire that started at the furnace exhaust and worked it's way forward across the roof and slashed through the face of the third floor like a stroke of side armed bull whip. The place wasn't lived in. Or at least, when I looked in the one open window at ground level I didn't see any blankets in there. The day was already getting on by the time I came to and walked next door so I decided to head East toward the blight and see if I bought any property down that way since I didn't end up taking the home in the shadow of the bakery after all. It was a long walk and things were turning the blue gray of a rainy evening going dark for coming overcast more than precession. I came to the fields of weeds and tumble bricks and lost shopping bags and knit hats from past years turned into multicolored sidewalk band aids glued to the ground by leaves and dog pee and I started stopping at each building standing singular and appearing unoccupied, but none of them were mine. It took me an entire season to move as far ahead as I did and the trees were shedding and blowing across the ground and I was watching them go when my eye took on charcoal writing on the wide boards of a porch with empty windows. There was writing everywhere and it cut and curled like the shadows of crossing tree limbs if the sun were striking at first daylight. I didn't know whose house it was, but I had to know who would trace the veins of a building like that so I walking across another field where a home was knocked down into it's basement and covered over with dirt and crossed a street empty of cars and kicked an empty milk carton on my way up the stairs. There was thick black writing everywhere and on every single step and some dead vines that tried to impress, but were cut at the roots and left to rot. I went inside through the window into the dimness and walked through a living room that sagged in the middle where rain must have collected year in and year out. Walking along the walls to avoid the softest parts of the floor I found a sleeping bag with me inside and I took off my gloves to maintain a slip free grip and I started strangling myself until I felt my larynx collapse like a matchbox and I knelt there squeezing as hard as I could waiting for my eyes to open, but they never did. I left. I went back to the bakery beneath a starless sky and I didn't lay down to go back to my own time until the rain threatened earlier started to fall and I felt peaceful. I slept so good. And then I woke up.
The whole thing made me wonder how many unsolved murders are suicides. It's probably in horrible taste. I'm sure someone somewhere is probably being brutally raped and murdered by someone else who will never be caught. Maybe I'm already on some course for that to happen to me in my bids to connect with people I don't know. But how many people are killed by their time traveling suicidal selves. I don't want to meet myself. Not yet anyway, but I'm counting down the seconds until I have to go outside. I need some time to work on things. I hope I get some time off soon, even though I don't want it. My head hurts.
///Groove Armada - "At The River" Let's dance a little. Please? Don't make me dance by myself again.
The wind blows up through the corner of my building where all the boiler rooms and utility closets align. I'm pretty sure I could climb down through the entire building to the basement through there. I'm pretty sure whatever's in the basement can climb up if it wanted to. I try not to think about that space. Sometimes I come home and that door is open. The lock on it is broken. Or maybe it never worked. I stuff socks in the door jamb to keep it shut, but socks don't have magical powers and it doesn't stay shut. I'm thinking about nailing it up.
Yesterday I was working so hard I started drooling and I didn't realize it until I felt the little tug on your shirt that tells you your taco just let a glob of skin temperature oil loose on the middle of your chest. I took it down a notch. The work is hard, but not hard enough. I like it when it's demanding. It helps me forget who I am. I'm no longer me. I'm levers and pulleys and little motors and wires and for loops and if then switches and I love that. Part of me wants that to be all. To rip away from the rest in a maniac's pursuit of perfectly synchronized movement. I'm clumsy. But when I've memorized all the actions it feels so good to make the calls to the functions and then revise them knowing they can't become worse.
I'm thinking about teaching myself to be a butcher, since I didn't get the post. It would be a fun pastime. By the time I can afford to buy the animals I'll be able to afford a freezer to put the parts in and have a nice place for all the tools too. Then I can extend the work from my job through the anxiety of my home and feel that relaxedness roll through me again. But that's a little ways off. It'll be fun.
I had this dream that I went forward in time to the same burned out bakery next to the house I want to buy. The house with the door boarded up in the front and all the doors and balconies open in the back where there was a fire that started at the furnace exhaust and worked it's way forward across the roof and slashed through the face of the third floor like a stroke of side armed bull whip. The place wasn't lived in. Or at least, when I looked in the one open window at ground level I didn't see any blankets in there. The day was already getting on by the time I came to and walked next door so I decided to head East toward the blight and see if I bought any property down that way since I didn't end up taking the home in the shadow of the bakery after all. It was a long walk and things were turning the blue gray of a rainy evening going dark for coming overcast more than precession. I came to the fields of weeds and tumble bricks and lost shopping bags and knit hats from past years turned into multicolored sidewalk band aids glued to the ground by leaves and dog pee and I started stopping at each building standing singular and appearing unoccupied, but none of them were mine. It took me an entire season to move as far ahead as I did and the trees were shedding and blowing across the ground and I was watching them go when my eye took on charcoal writing on the wide boards of a porch with empty windows. There was writing everywhere and it cut and curled like the shadows of crossing tree limbs if the sun were striking at first daylight. I didn't know whose house it was, but I had to know who would trace the veins of a building like that so I walking across another field where a home was knocked down into it's basement and covered over with dirt and crossed a street empty of cars and kicked an empty milk carton on my way up the stairs. There was thick black writing everywhere and on every single step and some dead vines that tried to impress, but were cut at the roots and left to rot. I went inside through the window into the dimness and walked through a living room that sagged in the middle where rain must have collected year in and year out. Walking along the walls to avoid the softest parts of the floor I found a sleeping bag with me inside and I took off my gloves to maintain a slip free grip and I started strangling myself until I felt my larynx collapse like a matchbox and I knelt there squeezing as hard as I could waiting for my eyes to open, but they never did. I left. I went back to the bakery beneath a starless sky and I didn't lay down to go back to my own time until the rain threatened earlier started to fall and I felt peaceful. I slept so good. And then I woke up.
The whole thing made me wonder how many unsolved murders are suicides. It's probably in horrible taste. I'm sure someone somewhere is probably being brutally raped and murdered by someone else who will never be caught. Maybe I'm already on some course for that to happen to me in my bids to connect with people I don't know. But how many people are killed by their time traveling suicidal selves. I don't want to meet myself. Not yet anyway, but I'm counting down the seconds until I have to go outside. I need some time to work on things. I hope I get some time off soon, even though I don't want it. My head hurts.
///Groove Armada - "At The River" Let's dance a little. Please? Don't make me dance by myself again.
4/1/11
dear (______):
Dear kid waving from the window across the parking lot,
Please go away. It's been a very long day at work and yes I have not finished making my window blinds, but I would really like to masturbate and get some sleep without also ruining the start of your day.
Thanks,
Your weird and exhausted neighbor who is extremely disinterested in your happiness and healthy growth right now.
Please go away. It's been a very long day at work and yes I have not finished making my window blinds, but I would really like to masturbate and get some sleep without also ruining the start of your day.
Thanks,
Your weird and exhausted neighbor who is extremely disinterested in your happiness and healthy growth right now.
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