So I didn't plan this particularly well. Not as well as I could have. Given my circumstances and propensity for utter restlessness. I'm in a position where I'm dying to hit the road and run, but I just finished a six pack and I know if I go outside right now and try to do anything, my judgement will couple up with my reckless streak and I'll end up punching a hobo in the face in a train tunnel by the river and possibly getting shanked. Nobody wants that. Especially not the part of me that likes to not get knifed. All I can think about, well not all, but most of what I can think about is getting out in that humid cool air and sucking lung fulls of it. Then again I have to keep in mind the mileage I put on last week and make sure I rest my hooves enough to do it all again this week. So maybe, not poor planning. Maybe out smarting myself while out out smarting myself. Or just poor planning. That's easier to say. I'm about ready to jump out of a second story window.
More importantly though I had to go in and delete some blogs. Projects I had a vision for that never panned out. Sometimes because they were joint efforts with other people and the other people never put in the effort and they metastasized into additional solo projects I couldn't support on my own along with the things I was already doing on the regular (and subsequently killed some of the regular efforts I was bending myself to in the brief time I tried to do both). It is kind of tough to admit. Sometimes things just don't work out anywhere near where I expect them to, which is why I am reluctant to do anything with anybody anymore. Not that their real lives tend to take precedent. Or maybe they do. I have no real idea why anyone stops. I know why I stop and start. I just don't see those same reasons being relevant to others. Not that I'm unique or anything like that. I'm just unique in my limits and strengths. No, I'm kidding. Experience has taught me that is the case. My perceptions of myself, however, may vary.
They went down easy though. I downloaded the ones with enough content to want to reread them at some point. Revisit the prisoners of the digital infomatic time capsulator 9000. I glossed some of them as I downloaded and reviewed and decided yay or nay for axing. What was lost is not worth going over explicitly. What survived is a pair of joint efforts with the real j chen. One not touched in forever and the other edited more recently than I expected, but still a year out from today. I owe it a call back at least. Wait and see, maybe. A wait and see kind of deal. The other survivors were all things with names I could pick up and immediately begin rebuilding or re-purpose, restructure, and give new life to, in light of new efforts forthcoming. There's still Fingerslip (the long gestation writing space), there's Hateitalready (which will be repurposed from a place to rant about new products I hate already into an infrequent comic I've been putting off forever, but have wanted to do for easily three years now), there's Simplelongingundertow (which will be about sex and strictly so), and then the Encyclopediamechanica (a store house for made up tech stuff I want to have available to myself and searchable primarily for story construction and resolution of timeline continuity issues, but available to the public because sometimes the best parts of stories are the gadgets and I want that to be documented... assuming I can write and produce something worth reading and reviewing and delving deeper into [adding a richness perhaps I otherwise could not achieve on a short story budget... I dunno]). Thems the survivors.
The mission becomes not letting myself get as caught out as I have been. Focus. Hocus focus were to be the names of my cats if I got a pair, but I didn't. I have been a little bit caught out. Caught between reading and reading up on old movies by watching them and reading up on old stories and rewatching (more like studying and breaking down) films I have enjoyed and disliked and plot lines I have enjoyed and passed off as trash and scripts. A lot of time has been spent plotting and planning to the point of compulsion. A lot of time has been spent, yes, dreaming still. That is probably one of my top five primary functions. Dream composition. Now it's time to start making the faces and planes and points and lines intersect. They're all there, even though I'm not always. I had a thought about the sky being the limit, which is patently false. What I came to was that the sky is not the limit, but the sooner you understand that, the sooner you can get to working toward putting yourself in a position where that might actually become the case through some luck, coincidence, and connection. I glass ceiling implies a glass floor somewhere.
Anyway, the point is, what do I have to do to get laid in this town? And more importantly.... you know, I don't think there's a second part to that. At what age do you just forget about getting laid altogether. Cause that shit is distracting. Can I skip to that age? That spot in the timeline where it's not even that you forget about it, but it's that your genitals transmogrify from a point of expression and emotion and even, sometimes, source of soul and self into little more than say a plumbing fixture or decorative coaster. What I do know is that one of these days along my life span I am going to wake up with super powers and the world better hope I die before that day comes because I will be the worst superman ever. Can superman even do crack? Does he have to do supercrack to get an equivalent high? I know there was that one superman movie where he got drunk, but seriously, if he went to a bar he would have to drink the entire bar to get drunk. Unless his powers only apply to mechanical elements. musculo skeletal systems. Worst super power ever. Or just not a great movie. I don't know. The point is, stuff is going to get did. Because the stuff not getting done is gone. Also because if things don't get done I will feel terrible and listless and end up down at the docks again fighting hobos.
///Aphex Twin - "Waxen Pith" think time
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.
6/16/12
Dear (_____)
Dear weekend,
I am going to @##$%$##!@*** your brains out.
That is all.
Sincerely,
runs with scissors
I am going to @##$%$##!@*** your brains out.
That is all.
Sincerely,
runs with scissors
6/11/12
First Times and Last Times and a Limo Full of Tacos and Go, Dumby
That full feeling you get a few minutes after eating, but the feeling doesn't sit like a cannonball on your stomach, but it keeps on roiling like hookah smoke laid into a glass bowl and it just keeps flowing around and around, Baoding balls in the palm of your guts. It's kind of like that. The feeling is. But saying it's like being full like you just ate is way too simplistic. It's hard to explain. What ever isn't. A few things. Gravity. Death. How to make a cheeseburger. Those are pretty easy. What a fruit salad is. Also easy. I could probably explain most of those things in five seconds. Except the cheeseburger. That's a tough one. The definition is loose and specific at the same time. So not everything is hard to explain, but most things are. Things like that feeling.
Commercials are ridiculous. Everybody knows that. Except the people that don't. I've been noticing a lot of things citing the first days of people's lives. This or that was like being born. That and this was like the first night of my life. No one remembers what the first day of their life was like. If anything it was probably a fairly crappy day. The day when you had to put in your first twenty four hours of work. Which is kind of hilarious. I feel born again: no you don't. If you did you would be screaming and crying and probably wanting more than anything to be forty feet under water in a hot, glassy surfaced, tropic lake with your eyes closed and dreaming. I don't want first nights or last nights or rebirths. How about, just a little continuation. A little contiguity. A little less of people skipping and dancing through the streets with ten seconds of memory. I mean, isn't that what the drug state is all about. Helping everyone forget their only born once? Who knows. Sometimes, talking about it on it's own makes me laugh enough to let it go merrily down the drain.
It's funny sometimes see shows on tv and you can immediately dissect it with enough clarity to know which guy in the four person script will end up being the one referred to as "...that's that guy from that show, right? Oh, wait, no. I was thinking of..." regardless of who ends up being cast in the role. Imagining other people's heads on other people's bodies while watching television. Other voices coming out of the other heads on top of the other bodies. I don't know what I gain from doing that except a little personal amusement and every now and then the rising realization that someone in casting completely missed the boat on a pretty interesting matchup of screen presence and line reading. But then you think, well maybe they had something more important or lucrative to do. Because not everybody is like you, with your schedule that more often resembles a day in the life of Mr. Squarepants than anything else. Which is fine. The only down side to schedules like that is that people feel free to cancel on you. Which is fine. So you, just move on to the next thing on the list. And if you're lucky, it's nothing, so you go take a nap. Or hit the bar. I forget.
So anyway. Funny story. There's this commercial for tacos. All of these people are dressed up in a limousine and clearly a little party tipped (drunk, but you know... tv drunk... so not drunk really, but totally drunk) and they get out what equates to a party ball of tacos and start chowing down in this limo. All I could think of was how the air in that limo probably went from breathable air to beef gases, cheese burps, and corn flour breath in about twenty seconds. It's basically dropping a box of grenades into the artillery hold of an aircraft carrier (is that what those are called?). I mean, not to belabor the issue, but the last a group of 12 adults already with alcohol and sugar destabilized gastrointestinal tracts needs is a box full of greasy catalysts. That's a recipe for 12 photo finishes.
I've kind of realized I am a junk food lightweight. Not by conscious choice. It just phased out with excess disposable income. Candy bars? Eh, I'll split one. McDonalds? Eh. Can we just get some pb and j and rice? I mean, I'll eat it if someone else buys it so I'm not turning up my nose, or if there's nothing else to eat and even then, even then I have to concede or at least add a disclaimer. It's not you, empty food, it's me.
I was doing laundry today and as I'm looking at it I'm thinking it would be a lot easier to decide what to wear if it were all in color order. But then as I'm looking at the heap of colors I realize I should organize the colors by hue. And then organize the hues by saturation. That way even as I use up the t-shirts it'll still look pretty hanging there and I can spend time looking at it. Then I realized that's what a crazy person would do. So I didn't do it. Then I thought it was a little pointless too since they are mostly hanes brand tees. Therefore mostly either flat gray, flat black, flat army green, or white or brown. Not that complicated. And then I realized what the shirts really need is not more variety, but more writing on them. As they are all blank. And that would take at least thirty permanent markers to do. But I can't trust myself with thirty markers. It would be maybe five markers down before I started sniffing them. And then I would end up sniffing all of them until they dried out. And then I would feel terrible all over again and have a bunch of blank t shirts and no money too. And then I realized that was also a crazy person thing to do.
Finally I decided the only safe thing to do, really, was put the shirts on the hangars in random order or randomize it when adding shirts to the closet. Because that was the only sane thing I could possibly do. And I congratulated myself on an hour well spent. So there. I'm not crazy.
So I have to get started. I've already gotten to the point of forgetting what I dream because I have been tearing them off six at a clip twice a day. Voice recording has gotten to be a hassle. I lost my ear phone/mic. Which means I have to sit in one place. Purpose defeating. The small voice in my head is a large voice now. Just go do it, dumby. A lot has changed. What do you want? Clarity? I got that. No, that's funny. Way too aggressive. I'm not going to be an idiot and proclaim last times or first days. That's all bullshit. I've learned. Again. After forgetting. This time it's going to stick though. Rediscovered outlets. Emissions. Things I thought I couldn't do anymore. Did get into another row along the way, but even that was minor, just a blip of the larger needle that I guess I'm still not far enough away from to ignore or full throttle straight by and not notice. Which is good. Road speed governor. You and I. I'm still taking two. Except with an eye toward more of that feeling and less outright destruction. It's all physics. Kind of. I don't know these days. Line items.
Hi.
Commercials are ridiculous. Everybody knows that. Except the people that don't. I've been noticing a lot of things citing the first days of people's lives. This or that was like being born. That and this was like the first night of my life. No one remembers what the first day of their life was like. If anything it was probably a fairly crappy day. The day when you had to put in your first twenty four hours of work. Which is kind of hilarious. I feel born again: no you don't. If you did you would be screaming and crying and probably wanting more than anything to be forty feet under water in a hot, glassy surfaced, tropic lake with your eyes closed and dreaming. I don't want first nights or last nights or rebirths. How about, just a little continuation. A little contiguity. A little less of people skipping and dancing through the streets with ten seconds of memory. I mean, isn't that what the drug state is all about. Helping everyone forget their only born once? Who knows. Sometimes, talking about it on it's own makes me laugh enough to let it go merrily down the drain.
It's funny sometimes see shows on tv and you can immediately dissect it with enough clarity to know which guy in the four person script will end up being the one referred to as "...that's that guy from that show, right? Oh, wait, no. I was thinking of..." regardless of who ends up being cast in the role. Imagining other people's heads on other people's bodies while watching television. Other voices coming out of the other heads on top of the other bodies. I don't know what I gain from doing that except a little personal amusement and every now and then the rising realization that someone in casting completely missed the boat on a pretty interesting matchup of screen presence and line reading. But then you think, well maybe they had something more important or lucrative to do. Because not everybody is like you, with your schedule that more often resembles a day in the life of Mr. Squarepants than anything else. Which is fine. The only down side to schedules like that is that people feel free to cancel on you. Which is fine. So you, just move on to the next thing on the list. And if you're lucky, it's nothing, so you go take a nap. Or hit the bar. I forget.
So anyway. Funny story. There's this commercial for tacos. All of these people are dressed up in a limousine and clearly a little party tipped (drunk, but you know... tv drunk... so not drunk really, but totally drunk) and they get out what equates to a party ball of tacos and start chowing down in this limo. All I could think of was how the air in that limo probably went from breathable air to beef gases, cheese burps, and corn flour breath in about twenty seconds. It's basically dropping a box of grenades into the artillery hold of an aircraft carrier (is that what those are called?). I mean, not to belabor the issue, but the last a group of 12 adults already with alcohol and sugar destabilized gastrointestinal tracts needs is a box full of greasy catalysts. That's a recipe for 12 photo finishes.
I've kind of realized I am a junk food lightweight. Not by conscious choice. It just phased out with excess disposable income. Candy bars? Eh, I'll split one. McDonalds? Eh. Can we just get some pb and j and rice? I mean, I'll eat it if someone else buys it so I'm not turning up my nose, or if there's nothing else to eat and even then, even then I have to concede or at least add a disclaimer. It's not you, empty food, it's me.
I was doing laundry today and as I'm looking at it I'm thinking it would be a lot easier to decide what to wear if it were all in color order. But then as I'm looking at the heap of colors I realize I should organize the colors by hue. And then organize the hues by saturation. That way even as I use up the t-shirts it'll still look pretty hanging there and I can spend time looking at it. Then I realized that's what a crazy person would do. So I didn't do it. Then I thought it was a little pointless too since they are mostly hanes brand tees. Therefore mostly either flat gray, flat black, flat army green, or white or brown. Not that complicated. And then I realized what the shirts really need is not more variety, but more writing on them. As they are all blank. And that would take at least thirty permanent markers to do. But I can't trust myself with thirty markers. It would be maybe five markers down before I started sniffing them. And then I would end up sniffing all of them until they dried out. And then I would feel terrible all over again and have a bunch of blank t shirts and no money too. And then I realized that was also a crazy person thing to do.
Finally I decided the only safe thing to do, really, was put the shirts on the hangars in random order or randomize it when adding shirts to the closet. Because that was the only sane thing I could possibly do. And I congratulated myself on an hour well spent. So there. I'm not crazy.
So I have to get started. I've already gotten to the point of forgetting what I dream because I have been tearing them off six at a clip twice a day. Voice recording has gotten to be a hassle. I lost my ear phone/mic. Which means I have to sit in one place. Purpose defeating. The small voice in my head is a large voice now. Just go do it, dumby. A lot has changed. What do you want? Clarity? I got that. No, that's funny. Way too aggressive. I'm not going to be an idiot and proclaim last times or first days. That's all bullshit. I've learned. Again. After forgetting. This time it's going to stick though. Rediscovered outlets. Emissions. Things I thought I couldn't do anymore. Did get into another row along the way, but even that was minor, just a blip of the larger needle that I guess I'm still not far enough away from to ignore or full throttle straight by and not notice. Which is good. Road speed governor. You and I. I'm still taking two. Except with an eye toward more of that feeling and less outright destruction. It's all physics. Kind of. I don't know these days. Line items.
Hi.
6/4/12
Have a Try
I'm trying. No apologies out of respect for you. No explanation necessary, I know. Up and down and up and down. Sometimes more down than left. More left than right.
It's an odd scale. Coming from actually having stabbed someone to being free and clear. Your head tells you that you've gotten away with something and you're heart tells you otherwise. Every day. I guess I would never make it in prison. Or something like that.
I'm trying to get back to writing. Like substantial writing. Or something like that. Evolutions and all of that jazz. All of that jazz. Jazz and jazz and jazz.
I read a book recently, where am I now? I read a book recently. Where am I now? Angry. Still. Still angry. Happy, of sorts. But still angry. And sorry. And angry. And Sorry. With a capital S. I never know how to describe it. I never know how to tell you their names.
I am starting again though. Power. Redesgn is in the works. The aural port is getting a summer face. OEM is getting a new face too. I'm sorry. I'm broken, but functioning. I don't know how else to put it. There's a space in my heart for me and a space in my heart for you and a space in my heart for the things I can not deny myself and ... and what? Tears are for the dead. And the dying. So I'll try to breath or something like that..............................................................
...............Muster the gorgeous.
....................place holders. Place holders. Consider this a place holder.
It's an odd scale. Coming from actually having stabbed someone to being free and clear. Your head tells you that you've gotten away with something and you're heart tells you otherwise. Every day. I guess I would never make it in prison. Or something like that.
I'm trying to get back to writing. Like substantial writing. Or something like that. Evolutions and all of that jazz. All of that jazz. Jazz and jazz and jazz.
I read a book recently, where am I now? I read a book recently. Where am I now? Angry. Still. Still angry. Happy, of sorts. But still angry. And sorry. And angry. And Sorry. With a capital S. I never know how to describe it. I never know how to tell you their names.
I am starting again though. Power. Redesgn is in the works. The aural port is getting a summer face. OEM is getting a new face too. I'm sorry. I'm broken, but functioning. I don't know how else to put it. There's a space in my heart for me and a space in my heart for you and a space in my heart for the things I can not deny myself and ... and what? Tears are for the dead. And the dying. So I'll try to breath or something like that..............................................................
...............Muster the gorgeous.
....................place holders. Place holders. Consider this a place holder.
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