If you do enough, something is bound to stick favorably. For a time I approached writing with an arrogance. I thought, because it was the only thing I got decent marks in, I must be good at it. And then I got bad grades. Still got good grades from time to time, but bad grades just as often, usually related to the technical composition and not the ideas. And then I got good technical marks and bad ones on the formation of ideas. Sometimes I did well with both.
It was a strange time. I transitioned from writing on my own time and going to class and writing instead of doing homework to higher grades where writing was my only homework and all I did in classes. The arrogance of perceived innate talent faded quite a bit with one failed attempt to win awards after another and I blamed closed communities and the like, the department was exceptionally cliquey. I believed the profs liked what they liked and you liked what you liked and it was your job to jump the gap, not theirs.
I don't know what my problem is exactly, but I do believe it is that the people that I idolize make it look so effortless and what they make feels like hit after hit after God damn hit. Maybe proliferation theory is failing me. It's difficult to say either way. Maybe I am genuinely no good. It's tough to digest. Without some kind of schedule. I rolled up a dollar bill. It's just strange, I guess. Proliferation theory. Asking when is good enough for me good enough for someone else.
The theory begs a lower standard, but how much is compromised in terms of value and personal expansion? Is the cost appropriate to the value of the product, the life time stamp I put my name to? I don't know. I do it predominantly for myself, at least that's what I've convinced myself of. I don't know. Would I kill to go back to school? How many people? Could I plea bargain my way out of life sentences and would the offer still be good when I got out? I'd have to think about it. Hypotheticals.
Yeah, it drives me crazy. A little bit. I try to think about what else I would be doing, could be doing. None of it appeals to me the same way. Everyone, including myself, well maybe not everyone, many people talk about being their harshest critic. I may be my most passionate lover. Delusions of grandeur coming with the territory, but I don't always see it so clearly. The Fantha. Losing focus on the mission. I just want to die knowing I was good as I could possibly be, not knowing I was good as I was going to be. Who wants that?
I think believing that I'm great keeps my engine running. Keeps the clutch down and a hand on the shift knob for when I come running. Beyond that, I don't know how much credence I give it. I butcher language and muddle image on a weekly basis. I talk like broke nosed sailor all too often and argue like a fifteen time concussed politico's son. Pretty sure my mental dictionary has "turn to page 345"s on it and on page 345 there is a crayon hand drawn hairy dick in the corner.
Purpose is a fine commodity. Take a digger. Fire off the magazine, discharge, and throw it as far as you can. Sometimes panic can be beautiful. Never outwardly. Did I tell you that I was you? Don't be silly. Don't be silly little king with your crown. Let me polish that for you; you dropped it skipping puddles in gutters without your galoshes. You know the ones with He-Man and Skeletor printed all over? I'll remember for you.
Just behave, okay?
The project was, the final project was, to make a visual that encompassed everything you believed poetry to be. Everything you believed poetry to be and the purpose it served. They came in with their power points and dream catchers and God's eyes and a diorama of a village and someone made a painting and someone made a collage from printed magazines and there were a handful of abstract sculptures and even a figurine, but you made a life sized naval mine with trigger switches and detonators and wires out of empty wine bottles and paint brush handles and spray painted it black. That was a fun walk across campus with that hugged to your chest. Cutting across the grass, because the people on the sidewalk could go f--- themselves that early in the morning. You worked on it all night after thinking about it for a week. Everyone talked about their things and you talked about yours. And that's where it ended.
Officially. I suppose, the project is ongoing. I hate myself. I love myself. I hate myself. I'm sorry to drag you into it. I don't know how else anything changes. Contemplating the validity of ProT.
///Starkey - "Spacewalk" infolatice diver with a bad respirator. the city is so vast and so uninhabitable so far beneath the waves
from a similar born year and different circumstance, but very little I haven't enjoyed while there: alicja-w-krainie-czarow
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.
10/25/12
Tired, Music, Studio Dust and Weekdays
I'm tired. A lot of people are. Just kind of beat. It's not the usual beat. The common beat. You know the kind of beat I'm talking about. The beat that runs from Sunday into Monday because you didn't do anything and you got tired near the end of the day because of all the things you didn't do, but didn't spend the energy to not do? Is that the right way around? Spent the energy to not do? It's not that kind. It's the kind of beat that comes from doing stuff and dreaming stuff with equal gusto. I was going to say passion, but I feel like passion tends to connote a certain amount of emotional sensitivity that tends to drag meaning away from doing stuff and bend the beat toward a beatnik kind of over sensitivity that screams I spent my day doing nothing because doing nothing was better than doing something I don't believe in. Whatever that means. So I'm tired. Just tired. Days full of doing and nights full of doing and not enough doing to go around. What it do? I don't know? What does it do? Give me a few weeks and I'll tell you.
I'm tired though and it gets aggravating. First world problems or something like that. I never thought I would find myself whining to myself about transcribing my voice recordings. I don't want to sit down and type at my computer, but I don't want to sit down and write down notes and write out stories with pen and paper either, but I don't want to transcribe my recordings because, as it turns out, that's kind of harder. I've never said "what the hell did he just say" in reference to myself so many times in a row. Doesn't help that I lost my data cable for transferring them to my computer. And I could buy a card adapter, but I bought a shower curtain instead. It's weird. Am I dodging myself? Probably. Do you know how hard it is to do that? Not very. I'm easily distracted. Especially when I'm tired.
I have a hard to stifle desire to make music. Write songs. Emo guilty. I don't know the first thing about writing songs, but I can learn. Task locked after a way. I would say everyone is, but that's just not true. Pretty sure I'm not waiting for anything specific. I'm trying to turn routine into stability, but it feels like the only routine I can maintain with any faith is instability. It's what makes me a good fighter and a bad fighter at the same time, because even instability can grow predictable. I kind of had a little crisis mode thought track down on the low lying channels that worked its way up to the high line and caught fire across circuits. What if I'm not a writer? What if I've just been fooling myself for a decade? And then I thought: well, it's been a pretty fun decade, set backs not withstanding. Maybe all you have to do to live, the secret of life or something like it, is to do what you love and let everything else orbit it and sometimes you spend time on Titan and sometimes you stink up Venus for a little while and sometimes you dig ditches on Earth and go visit friends on Mars before swinging out to Saturn to ogle and then do some time on Io when you know when you can't be trusted to do anyone any good. Anyway you cut it though the sun of desire still comes up and you put your helmet back on and check the pressure and the panel and kick on the boosters and go. I don't mind that. I don't think I don't mind that.
I've been trying to figure out what I need to do to find my music again. Wherever it is. It's not on notes between lines and bars and what have you. I think that ship has sailed for the time being. Not that I can't do it. I just get pissed off hearing ridiculous compositions by people years younger and I know I'll just tear it up, spit on it, crumple up the spit on shreds and bean someone on the sidewalk with earbuds in their ears from my window, correcting for wind. I'm still pretty good at that. "Hey, douche!" Smack. Kind of a counter productive talent. I can also flick a cigarette with 75% accuracy from two yards. Bigby would be jealous, if he were real. In a fight between Bigby and me I would totally win, or at least be the one still able to walk afterwards, cuz I would kick him straight in the dick like five times before he hit the ground. I've been trying to find my music again though. I used to play trombone and that little plastic flute thing that could only play eight notes, and that other thing. Viola! Not well though. Music programs in sixth grade didn't teach you how to tune them. I'm pretty sure my sixth grade music teacher was on pills most of the time. She just sat at her piano, over weight, with ratty, burned up, lye blonde, wisps of shoulder length hair, playing chords and vaguely answering questions. Didn't help that I was perpetually terrified of popping my eyeball with a snapped viola string. For some reason I never got over that fear and the even greater fear of facing my parents who would say something like "this is why we didn't want you playing viola! and staying after school!"
I don't get why they cashed out when their investment was practically over. They pretty much took a steaming dump on every extracurricular I chased and then wondered why the scholarships didn't come rolling in like publishers clearing house with ten entrants instead of 10 million, because that is basically what scholarship competitions are. Do people even realize how much nonsense has to go right to win that crap? It's gotta be something on the scale of lower tier pro sports or Division three sports. Is there even a third division in the NCAA?
I have a vague idea of the direction I'm going to have to go. Samples. Lots and lots of samples and loops, but also keyboard and MIDI instruments. I already have some of the tracks laid out in my head. That's the easy part. The hard part is the hours and days and weeks it takes to get it laid out on my computer. I'm going to do it though. And I'm going to pick up reading music again in a few years. Or, I should say, a few years after I start doing that because I know the time will come when I can't find the sample I want and the realization will dawn for the second time, dawning first here, that it will ultimately be easier to create the exact sound I'm looking for instead of looking for the sound already out there and bending it to my will of production.
I'm getting behind though. Behind on the various projects. Time is at a premium lately and I'm trying to restructure my time expenditures to better reflect the end times of another year. The heady days of Summer are gone the fuck out the door, nigga. Time to start burning the winter fat and make something real that I can hold up to my eyes and review and turn over and do better again. Masturbation is not that thing. When the hell did I start masturbating so much? It's gotten to the point where I have to check my hand for excess lotion before I go out in public. That's not healthy, right? That's the other problem though. Two hours a pop is way too long for masturbatory purposes. The pursuit of the perfect orgasm is a waste of time because I know where it is. That little switch in my head that says "alright, just pick one and let's get through this," broke a long time ago. That has teamed up with my easily distractedness and my absolute focus on making the best iteration of an experience or nothing at all to explode my masturbation budget into a time deficit that sucks the rest of my day into it like a hole in the space time continuum. You've got a problem when you wake up and think "alright let's rub a quick one out before breakfast" and you're washing your hands at lunch time. Defeats the purpose of waking up, dude. Get it together grouch.
My studio is accumulating a disconcerting amount of dust. This needs remedied. Soon. The itch to produce something, anything, is getting unscratchable and we are not under any circumstances doing crack again. With crazy people. To make up for it. That's like asking someone to scratch an itch on your knee and they punch you so hard in the cheek they blow one of your wisdom teeth out. Sure, the itch is gone, but damn. I would have gone to see a dentist for that shit if I knew you were going to do that. And second of all, I thought we agreed on "not the face." It's cool, though. It's not. I have got to get my creative hands dirty doing before they turn on me. Operation Danny's Attic, the Outride missions.
I've been getting excited about weekdays. For televisions sake. It's a fine time of the year. Sports, cartoons, sitcoms. New episodes of this and that. And then it occurred to me why other people don't necessarily get as excited. They're taping it, or catching it later online. Technology sucking the fun out of life. The death of the viewing party. DVR killed the video star, would be an ironic throwback title to it, if ironic is the right word. Maybe dated fits there too. Sad times. Remember when Seinfeld episodes were still new? People probably had to VHS them and before they could do that they had to master their tape machines and make sure their television was on the right channel. I wonder how many people taped Friends by mistake and shot themselves in the face in their bath tub with a glass of wine balanced on the side by the bubbles that same night. I'm not saying Friends was that bad a show or Seinfeld was that good. They were just that far apart. After the Seinfeld finale I'm sure Monday night suicides probably spiked for a few weeks and then dropped dramatically. What do you mean the saga of Kramer has reached it's conclusion??? Can't remember the last time I used three question marks in a row, but I'm sure my computer could tell me. I've got to clean my studio and fire up the factory. They may not respond to coaxing, but I'm fed up coaxing with words. It is time to put the boot to them.
Anyway, the point is, there's a lot of work to do and the work doesn't care how tired you feel or where your identity crisis lies or how you feel about what you think you might be terrible at or good at. Until you do it, you're going to wish you did and once you've done it you're not going to think back and say something like: "man, I wish I hadn't spent so much time caring about and doing something I care about and enjoy doing."
Call it a cold start. I don't know how it ends.
///The Flaming Lips - "Pompeii Am Götterdämmerung"
I'm tired though and it gets aggravating. First world problems or something like that. I never thought I would find myself whining to myself about transcribing my voice recordings. I don't want to sit down and type at my computer, but I don't want to sit down and write down notes and write out stories with pen and paper either, but I don't want to transcribe my recordings because, as it turns out, that's kind of harder. I've never said "what the hell did he just say" in reference to myself so many times in a row. Doesn't help that I lost my data cable for transferring them to my computer. And I could buy a card adapter, but I bought a shower curtain instead. It's weird. Am I dodging myself? Probably. Do you know how hard it is to do that? Not very. I'm easily distracted. Especially when I'm tired.
I have a hard to stifle desire to make music. Write songs. Emo guilty. I don't know the first thing about writing songs, but I can learn. Task locked after a way. I would say everyone is, but that's just not true. Pretty sure I'm not waiting for anything specific. I'm trying to turn routine into stability, but it feels like the only routine I can maintain with any faith is instability. It's what makes me a good fighter and a bad fighter at the same time, because even instability can grow predictable. I kind of had a little crisis mode thought track down on the low lying channels that worked its way up to the high line and caught fire across circuits. What if I'm not a writer? What if I've just been fooling myself for a decade? And then I thought: well, it's been a pretty fun decade, set backs not withstanding. Maybe all you have to do to live, the secret of life or something like it, is to do what you love and let everything else orbit it and sometimes you spend time on Titan and sometimes you stink up Venus for a little while and sometimes you dig ditches on Earth and go visit friends on Mars before swinging out to Saturn to ogle and then do some time on Io when you know when you can't be trusted to do anyone any good. Anyway you cut it though the sun of desire still comes up and you put your helmet back on and check the pressure and the panel and kick on the boosters and go. I don't mind that. I don't think I don't mind that.
I've been trying to figure out what I need to do to find my music again. Wherever it is. It's not on notes between lines and bars and what have you. I think that ship has sailed for the time being. Not that I can't do it. I just get pissed off hearing ridiculous compositions by people years younger and I know I'll just tear it up, spit on it, crumple up the spit on shreds and bean someone on the sidewalk with earbuds in their ears from my window, correcting for wind. I'm still pretty good at that. "Hey, douche!" Smack. Kind of a counter productive talent. I can also flick a cigarette with 75% accuracy from two yards. Bigby would be jealous, if he were real. In a fight between Bigby and me I would totally win, or at least be the one still able to walk afterwards, cuz I would kick him straight in the dick like five times before he hit the ground. I've been trying to find my music again though. I used to play trombone and that little plastic flute thing that could only play eight notes, and that other thing. Viola! Not well though. Music programs in sixth grade didn't teach you how to tune them. I'm pretty sure my sixth grade music teacher was on pills most of the time. She just sat at her piano, over weight, with ratty, burned up, lye blonde, wisps of shoulder length hair, playing chords and vaguely answering questions. Didn't help that I was perpetually terrified of popping my eyeball with a snapped viola string. For some reason I never got over that fear and the even greater fear of facing my parents who would say something like "this is why we didn't want you playing viola! and staying after school!"
I don't get why they cashed out when their investment was practically over. They pretty much took a steaming dump on every extracurricular I chased and then wondered why the scholarships didn't come rolling in like publishers clearing house with ten entrants instead of 10 million, because that is basically what scholarship competitions are. Do people even realize how much nonsense has to go right to win that crap? It's gotta be something on the scale of lower tier pro sports or Division three sports. Is there even a third division in the NCAA?
I have a vague idea of the direction I'm going to have to go. Samples. Lots and lots of samples and loops, but also keyboard and MIDI instruments. I already have some of the tracks laid out in my head. That's the easy part. The hard part is the hours and days and weeks it takes to get it laid out on my computer. I'm going to do it though. And I'm going to pick up reading music again in a few years. Or, I should say, a few years after I start doing that because I know the time will come when I can't find the sample I want and the realization will dawn for the second time, dawning first here, that it will ultimately be easier to create the exact sound I'm looking for instead of looking for the sound already out there and bending it to my will of production.
I'm getting behind though. Behind on the various projects. Time is at a premium lately and I'm trying to restructure my time expenditures to better reflect the end times of another year. The heady days of Summer are gone the fuck out the door, nigga. Time to start burning the winter fat and make something real that I can hold up to my eyes and review and turn over and do better again. Masturbation is not that thing. When the hell did I start masturbating so much? It's gotten to the point where I have to check my hand for excess lotion before I go out in public. That's not healthy, right? That's the other problem though. Two hours a pop is way too long for masturbatory purposes. The pursuit of the perfect orgasm is a waste of time because I know where it is. That little switch in my head that says "alright, just pick one and let's get through this," broke a long time ago. That has teamed up with my easily distractedness and my absolute focus on making the best iteration of an experience or nothing at all to explode my masturbation budget into a time deficit that sucks the rest of my day into it like a hole in the space time continuum. You've got a problem when you wake up and think "alright let's rub a quick one out before breakfast" and you're washing your hands at lunch time. Defeats the purpose of waking up, dude. Get it together grouch.
My studio is accumulating a disconcerting amount of dust. This needs remedied. Soon. The itch to produce something, anything, is getting unscratchable and we are not under any circumstances doing crack again. With crazy people. To make up for it. That's like asking someone to scratch an itch on your knee and they punch you so hard in the cheek they blow one of your wisdom teeth out. Sure, the itch is gone, but damn. I would have gone to see a dentist for that shit if I knew you were going to do that. And second of all, I thought we agreed on "not the face." It's cool, though. It's not. I have got to get my creative hands dirty doing before they turn on me. Operation Danny's Attic, the Outride missions.
I've been getting excited about weekdays. For televisions sake. It's a fine time of the year. Sports, cartoons, sitcoms. New episodes of this and that. And then it occurred to me why other people don't necessarily get as excited. They're taping it, or catching it later online. Technology sucking the fun out of life. The death of the viewing party. DVR killed the video star, would be an ironic throwback title to it, if ironic is the right word. Maybe dated fits there too. Sad times. Remember when Seinfeld episodes were still new? People probably had to VHS them and before they could do that they had to master their tape machines and make sure their television was on the right channel. I wonder how many people taped Friends by mistake and shot themselves in the face in their bath tub with a glass of wine balanced on the side by the bubbles that same night. I'm not saying Friends was that bad a show or Seinfeld was that good. They were just that far apart. After the Seinfeld finale I'm sure Monday night suicides probably spiked for a few weeks and then dropped dramatically. What do you mean the saga of Kramer has reached it's conclusion??? Can't remember the last time I used three question marks in a row, but I'm sure my computer could tell me. I've got to clean my studio and fire up the factory. They may not respond to coaxing, but I'm fed up coaxing with words. It is time to put the boot to them.
Anyway, the point is, there's a lot of work to do and the work doesn't care how tired you feel or where your identity crisis lies or how you feel about what you think you might be terrible at or good at. Until you do it, you're going to wish you did and once you've done it you're not going to think back and say something like: "man, I wish I hadn't spent so much time caring about and doing something I care about and enjoy doing."
Call it a cold start. I don't know how it ends.
///The Flaming Lips - "Pompeii Am Götterdämmerung"
10/18/12
Crying and Everybody Gets One
Sometimes I feel like all the tears I did not get to cry from the age where my memory starts in patches, five and sometimes six, to where it starts to form a continuous timeline, ten and on, are coming now. Balancing books and things. I've been thinking about it somewhat hard nosed and what I came to was, especially given what came down the pipe at twenty, I'd rather have them now than not at all.
Playing emotional catch up.
I'd rather be emo now, however, than be emo at age fifty (assuming I can make it to fifty iterations. that's a pretty tall order, nah mean?). Part of what I was taught, in writing classes that were worth their weight in gold when they weren't taught by tenured dick faces and holier than though masters ph.d cock tip cum nuggets whom I would still like to punch in the craw and who prevent me from going back to the English department because I will try to strangle them with their own belt, was that you have to exorcise the junk first and everything else will come with time.
That's what she said. Still, there's some merit to that. Problem is I have junk for years. When did everything turn into a fifteen year plan?
Anyway, when I'm rich and famous I'm going to work out my short list of simple assaults. When I'm set for life I'll start chipping into my kill list. First things first. Gotta lay down the work first. Get the junk out of the way. Everything else will come in due time. I can abide by that principle. The hard part is not letting other people jump your gun.
///Vangelis - "One More Kiss Dear"
Dear (_____)
Dear Fucks,
It's been hard to give y'all away through the years and I think I'm done giving you away. From now on you will only be gifted on particular instances of necessity and genuine apology. Because back in the day, when people actually gave a fuck, that's what giving a fuck meant. So, sorry for multi-posts. Sorry for content or whatever. Sorry for you name it I'm sorry for it, but ain't no more fucks going to be given about shit that is not immediately demanding rescinding or modification. Life's too short to just be handing fucks out left and right.
Sincerely,
Don't give a fuck no mo'
It's been hard to give y'all away through the years and I think I'm done giving you away. From now on you will only be gifted on particular instances of necessity and genuine apology. Because back in the day, when people actually gave a fuck, that's what giving a fuck meant. So, sorry for multi-posts. Sorry for content or whatever. Sorry for you name it I'm sorry for it, but ain't no more fucks going to be given about shit that is not immediately demanding rescinding or modification. Life's too short to just be handing fucks out left and right.
Sincerely,
Don't give a fuck no mo'
10/17/12
Birthday Sex (minus sex [also birthdays])
So I'm thirty five and a half again. For the second time. Since I've been keeping track of iterations. I'm on my twenty sixth iteration. I will not admit a lot of things, but I will admit it's kind of nice to be thirty five, and it's also nice to spell out numbers. There's something that gives them more weight and pizzazz when you spell them out. Maybe it's the greater visual volume and maybe I'm just a sucker for language and textual conflagrations. Mostly I think I like to feel my fingers fly across the keyboard and tap out music the only way I know how, but not the only way I can learn, but the only way I know how just yet. It's fun.
I've come to some realizations in being thirty five for the twenty sixth time. None of them make particular sense with regard to each other. It's kind of difficult to get the points to match up beyond courses of life times, let alone multiple life times. Really, it's going to take a significant amount of time, I assume, to parse backward and piece together iterational check ins, but I do not believe in doing so that I will be at all disappointed with what the effort turns up.
So here I am. This is a place holder for future reference to me. Yes, it is all about me this time, but not really. It's about the overarching work, but mostly I want to fire off a buoy to mark the spot in the sea of experience.
Sub-mostly, the mostly that bangs across the finish line just after the most mostly, I want to document a child singing a song about birthday sex. Because it was hilarious, and we were hot boxing the car, and the kid was loving it. And jumped up, after unfastening himself, on the back seat and started to sing birthday sex just like that time in Chicago, minus the drugs and the easily disarmed anti kid windshield splatterification device. I almost died laughing. And that's why, ladies and gentlemen, we park before boxing. We're not savages. We're forward thinkers. Or something like that.
Either way. Birthday sex might be one of the greatest songs ever and I hope it makes it to a Kids Songs album at some point. It's good to be 35. The only male enhancement drug I need on my twenty sixth iteration is every extends extra extreme. Look it up. It is the greatest arcade game ever made. Because when you're this old and this young all you need is a D pad, a lettered button, good music, and explosions and you'll be half masted all day.
I've come to some realizations in being thirty five for the twenty sixth time. None of them make particular sense with regard to each other. It's kind of difficult to get the points to match up beyond courses of life times, let alone multiple life times. Really, it's going to take a significant amount of time, I assume, to parse backward and piece together iterational check ins, but I do not believe in doing so that I will be at all disappointed with what the effort turns up.
So here I am. This is a place holder for future reference to me. Yes, it is all about me this time, but not really. It's about the overarching work, but mostly I want to fire off a buoy to mark the spot in the sea of experience.
Sub-mostly, the mostly that bangs across the finish line just after the most mostly, I want to document a child singing a song about birthday sex. Because it was hilarious, and we were hot boxing the car, and the kid was loving it. And jumped up, after unfastening himself, on the back seat and started to sing birthday sex just like that time in Chicago, minus the drugs and the easily disarmed anti kid windshield splatterification device. I almost died laughing. And that's why, ladies and gentlemen, we park before boxing. We're not savages. We're forward thinkers. Or something like that.
Either way. Birthday sex might be one of the greatest songs ever and I hope it makes it to a Kids Songs album at some point. It's good to be 35. The only male enhancement drug I need on my twenty sixth iteration is every extends extra extreme. Look it up. It is the greatest arcade game ever made. Because when you're this old and this young all you need is a D pad, a lettered button, good music, and explosions and you'll be half masted all day.
That Instant
You realize you've been trying to figure out if masturbating will help or hurt your chances of sleeping well and better than an hour has gone by in the debate. You're going to have to choose at some point.
What Makes You Laugh
I was just thinking about unfortunate super powers and I laughed a little bit because of a dream I had. Not a dream, but a day dream while I was riding. I was burning down Center Avenue on my bicycle next to a tanker truck that had the high polished aluminum finish that was so glassed I could see my face and helmet and glasses in it when I glanced to my right. I was going fast enough to pass it, but the light was red so I cruised next to it while we rolled up to the intersection together.
I could of waited, but I was about to pull a right turn at the next light after the stretch of 200 feet, once the next light came up, so I figured (correctly) I would be out of the gate fast enough to beat him there by enough of a long shot and why suck truck exhaust and obstruction when you know what the score already is. Plus, sometimes it's just fun to flirt with disaster when you know the whale couldn't give two blinks for what you want to do, you being so small and flit a fish. They know you know if you knew what was good for you, you'll stay away from their fins and wheels, and I for the most part do. Sometimes I am a reckless jackass, but most of the times, this being one of those times, we both know I'm operating at my own risk and out not to cause trouble and enjoy the sights and speed. At least that's what I think.
It occurred to me, in day dreaming about it, how awesome it would be to see the tanker explode in slow motion, but not have to actually be there physically, yet have my point of view so close and so slowed down to see it happen. And then I wondered if, in real time, I would be able to see the flash or if my eyes would be disintegrated and turned to mist before my brain could know what was going on.
The whole thing made me think, in the few seconds before the light turned green, what an awful super power that would be. The power to make flammable things explode as long as you were close enough to be exploded too. You wouldn't die, but the one drawback, because super powers with no actual drawback besides responsibility makes you a comic book caricature, would be that you always experience the pain of death even though you are immediately reconstituted and the pain stays fresh. Furthermore you experience the compounded pain of everyone else who dies in the blast, directly and indirectly, so that even the people that don't immediately die still channel and communicate their living, burn ward, debilitated, living pain for as long as they live directly into your brain beneath the layers upon which drugs can intervene. So you have to really think about who and what you blow up and when and where, but not necessarily why.
Unfortunate super powers. Like the power to make yourself drunk. Like you can think about a specific BAC and put yourself there instantaneously. Instantaneously. However, you still get to deal with the health repercussions and you still have to figure out ways around hangovers and you still have to live your life. But, you get to be as drunk as you feel like, whenever you feel like, because you can call upon a secret power within yourself to generate alcohol directly into your blood stream from your bones. So, if, for instance, you have painted yourself into a corner and you know you are about to get the ass beating of a lifetime, you can instantly push yourself up to .2 BAC and not feel a thing and then meter yourself when you wake up at a solid .05 and continue to not feel a thing, but still be functional enough to ride a bus to work and do your job and go home. You could, potentially, never be hung over again, but will likely poop out your foam sponge liver by the time you're 40. I don't know, man. Every boring movie would suddenly be interesting. Every bad hookup would be forgettable, because you could have the power to black out instantaneously. It would be one hell of an unfortunate super power.
Speaking of explosions, I got an exploding pound today at the gas station. It was pretty absurd, because it came out of the blue. From a man who was clearly in his sixties. I don't know what that means. I wish I knew why I was attractive to older people. I have no idea. And why, of all things, the explosion pound? Is that what they think we're up to? Because I have no idea what the kids are up to today being the age that I am, I guess I probably would have no idea what the people my age are up to when I will be his age so I guess I will probably fire shots in the dark after the same fashion when I meet people my age when I am his age so I will probably go for some antiquated (but what I consider timeless) dap and talk about long resolved issues and the merits of industrial music, dub step, and the last relevant artist I knew or maybe go on a good fifteen minute rant about Goldie and underground hip hop by people that sold out decades before.
I have no idea why they love me, but I have no misgivings about loving them back. I think we ended up talking for a solid five minutes in the parking lot, smoking cigarettes. When I was walking home I couldn't help snickering a little bit. Still though, it was nice to connect briefly. I've been taking some talking point notes in working this up, mostly because I couldn't sleep, still can't, and didn't want to have to comb through my voice recordings to find the parts I wanted to expound upon.
Which brings to the point that people that fire their cum must have a hard time jerking off on short notice. Not super short notice, but I mean like you just rubbed one out and someone rang your doorbell, but you didn't go get toilet paper because you are almost broke and you're down to your last bit of lotion anyway, and who rings a doorbell at 1 P.M. on Saturday anyway and you're already downstairs opening the door before you realized you spooged four feet away from your computer and your chair is angled in such a way as to avoid spraying your monitor, but is pointed directly into the swatch of sunlight where your cum landed and when your guest comes upstairs to shoot the shit with you it'll be there sparkling like pixie dust on a Pan's head if a Pan's head were floor boards and pixie dust were cum? Did that turn into a question half way through? The next time you feel like less of a man for not having rocket cum, just remember it's a two edged talent. And everything will be okay.
Which is more than I can say about late night commercials. It seems every commercial after ten at night is about talking to people while jerking off, jerking off better, having sex with strangers, having sex with strangers better, buying cars, buying food that is somehow more expensive than it was last year even though it is in principle the same fucking thing it was the year before, buying cars, buying cars that cost the same for less money somehow and letting strangers jerk you off over the phone if you sit on your hand long enough and download the latest application that lets you download the latest application for getting strangers wet in the pants or making you feel less inadequate in your powers to make strangers wet in the pants. That and sleep aids that are non-addictive, and what fun is a drug without the blown relationship of all out love? An excuse, is what that is. Is what that is? Nyeh. Television outside of the hours of ten P.M. and 5 A.M. is garbage anyway, unless it's football. Plus, we all know commercials are lies. Sexy, colorful, somewhat intriguing lies.
Kinda sort of brings me to comics. Comedians. You like to think that maybe if you met them you'd be good friends, but they actually hate you. In real life. Which is in itself a little bit hilarious. They can't stand you. But they're so accessible, aren't they? The trip up is that you get excited and thrilled about the small, obscure, things they don't give two shits about. Where the common ground lies, they find very little joy because the joy in them is in the spaces where differences are most acute. I'm kidding. I'm sure they're nice people in real life if you are a part of the things they don't like. But they don't like so many things. Do they do that on purpose? I suppose this is a bad venue for dissecting comedy. The dissection simply reminds me of when you tell someone that you're going home, and sometimes suffix that comment with "to jerk off" or "to play some video games and then jerk off" and the person you are talking to comes back with some absurd bullshit like "well, I'm going yachting tomorrow so I should probably turn in."
What the fuck is that? Number one: I did not ask you what you were doing tomorrow. Did you decide to throw that in to make me feel worse about what I'm doing for the rest of tonight? That's kind of fucked up. It's not like I'm thrilled to say "yeah, my big plans are pretty much encapsulated in two hours of shame followed by sleeping into Saturday until the NCAA games start and then I'll get up and jerk off some more while half watching them and then go back to bed until the bars open and I can thinly veil a little afternoon sousing in catching late afternoon games." Did you want me to feel bad about myself for not having plans as grand? Because if you wanted me to feel included in your adventures you could have invited yourself over for the yankfest, but that would have been understandably awkward, but at least give me the chance to say so and decline instead of feeling left out of your life altogether, if that's where we're going. Because I mean, I only broached the topic of plans so you would know that I know my plans are not as great as yours, but at least you know that I know I'm not leaving the party because I don't want to be there, it's just because I can't over stay my fucking welcome.
I didn't ask you what you were going to go do, and you didn't ask me either, but I'm rolling over. It's a complement to your party. Why can't you take a complement? And that's why comics will never be your friends. Because you get excited about dumb, irrelevant, shit that is basically the frills and lace on the sides of granny panties to life. Granted, I'm not going to break into your house, duct tape your wrists together behind your back, drive you out to New England in the middle of the night until dawn, haul you out of the trunk in the middle of nowhere, and shove your face into the leaves by the side of a one lane road and scream "this is Fall!!! This is what autumn tastes like!!!" That's just not me. Plus, who has the time to do that these days? I don't. But forgive me if I don't give a !@#$ about the latest tech or music or who's hot on what coast and is performing half price and where. I'm never going to be in that sphere and the people that are also are not particularly fond of folks like me anyway.
And that's what's made me laugh these days.
I could of waited, but I was about to pull a right turn at the next light after the stretch of 200 feet, once the next light came up, so I figured (correctly) I would be out of the gate fast enough to beat him there by enough of a long shot and why suck truck exhaust and obstruction when you know what the score already is. Plus, sometimes it's just fun to flirt with disaster when you know the whale couldn't give two blinks for what you want to do, you being so small and flit a fish. They know you know if you knew what was good for you, you'll stay away from their fins and wheels, and I for the most part do. Sometimes I am a reckless jackass, but most of the times, this being one of those times, we both know I'm operating at my own risk and out not to cause trouble and enjoy the sights and speed. At least that's what I think.
It occurred to me, in day dreaming about it, how awesome it would be to see the tanker explode in slow motion, but not have to actually be there physically, yet have my point of view so close and so slowed down to see it happen. And then I wondered if, in real time, I would be able to see the flash or if my eyes would be disintegrated and turned to mist before my brain could know what was going on.
The whole thing made me think, in the few seconds before the light turned green, what an awful super power that would be. The power to make flammable things explode as long as you were close enough to be exploded too. You wouldn't die, but the one drawback, because super powers with no actual drawback besides responsibility makes you a comic book caricature, would be that you always experience the pain of death even though you are immediately reconstituted and the pain stays fresh. Furthermore you experience the compounded pain of everyone else who dies in the blast, directly and indirectly, so that even the people that don't immediately die still channel and communicate their living, burn ward, debilitated, living pain for as long as they live directly into your brain beneath the layers upon which drugs can intervene. So you have to really think about who and what you blow up and when and where, but not necessarily why.
Unfortunate super powers. Like the power to make yourself drunk. Like you can think about a specific BAC and put yourself there instantaneously. Instantaneously. However, you still get to deal with the health repercussions and you still have to figure out ways around hangovers and you still have to live your life. But, you get to be as drunk as you feel like, whenever you feel like, because you can call upon a secret power within yourself to generate alcohol directly into your blood stream from your bones. So, if, for instance, you have painted yourself into a corner and you know you are about to get the ass beating of a lifetime, you can instantly push yourself up to .2 BAC and not feel a thing and then meter yourself when you wake up at a solid .05 and continue to not feel a thing, but still be functional enough to ride a bus to work and do your job and go home. You could, potentially, never be hung over again, but will likely poop out your foam sponge liver by the time you're 40. I don't know, man. Every boring movie would suddenly be interesting. Every bad hookup would be forgettable, because you could have the power to black out instantaneously. It would be one hell of an unfortunate super power.
Speaking of explosions, I got an exploding pound today at the gas station. It was pretty absurd, because it came out of the blue. From a man who was clearly in his sixties. I don't know what that means. I wish I knew why I was attractive to older people. I have no idea. And why, of all things, the explosion pound? Is that what they think we're up to? Because I have no idea what the kids are up to today being the age that I am, I guess I probably would have no idea what the people my age are up to when I will be his age so I guess I will probably fire shots in the dark after the same fashion when I meet people my age when I am his age so I will probably go for some antiquated (but what I consider timeless) dap and talk about long resolved issues and the merits of industrial music, dub step, and the last relevant artist I knew or maybe go on a good fifteen minute rant about Goldie and underground hip hop by people that sold out decades before.
I have no idea why they love me, but I have no misgivings about loving them back. I think we ended up talking for a solid five minutes in the parking lot, smoking cigarettes. When I was walking home I couldn't help snickering a little bit. Still though, it was nice to connect briefly. I've been taking some talking point notes in working this up, mostly because I couldn't sleep, still can't, and didn't want to have to comb through my voice recordings to find the parts I wanted to expound upon.
Which brings to the point that people that fire their cum must have a hard time jerking off on short notice. Not super short notice, but I mean like you just rubbed one out and someone rang your doorbell, but you didn't go get toilet paper because you are almost broke and you're down to your last bit of lotion anyway, and who rings a doorbell at 1 P.M. on Saturday anyway and you're already downstairs opening the door before you realized you spooged four feet away from your computer and your chair is angled in such a way as to avoid spraying your monitor, but is pointed directly into the swatch of sunlight where your cum landed and when your guest comes upstairs to shoot the shit with you it'll be there sparkling like pixie dust on a Pan's head if a Pan's head were floor boards and pixie dust were cum? Did that turn into a question half way through? The next time you feel like less of a man for not having rocket cum, just remember it's a two edged talent. And everything will be okay.
Which is more than I can say about late night commercials. It seems every commercial after ten at night is about talking to people while jerking off, jerking off better, having sex with strangers, having sex with strangers better, buying cars, buying food that is somehow more expensive than it was last year even though it is in principle the same fucking thing it was the year before, buying cars, buying cars that cost the same for less money somehow and letting strangers jerk you off over the phone if you sit on your hand long enough and download the latest application that lets you download the latest application for getting strangers wet in the pants or making you feel less inadequate in your powers to make strangers wet in the pants. That and sleep aids that are non-addictive, and what fun is a drug without the blown relationship of all out love? An excuse, is what that is. Is what that is? Nyeh. Television outside of the hours of ten P.M. and 5 A.M. is garbage anyway, unless it's football. Plus, we all know commercials are lies. Sexy, colorful, somewhat intriguing lies.
Kinda sort of brings me to comics. Comedians. You like to think that maybe if you met them you'd be good friends, but they actually hate you. In real life. Which is in itself a little bit hilarious. They can't stand you. But they're so accessible, aren't they? The trip up is that you get excited and thrilled about the small, obscure, things they don't give two shits about. Where the common ground lies, they find very little joy because the joy in them is in the spaces where differences are most acute. I'm kidding. I'm sure they're nice people in real life if you are a part of the things they don't like. But they don't like so many things. Do they do that on purpose? I suppose this is a bad venue for dissecting comedy. The dissection simply reminds me of when you tell someone that you're going home, and sometimes suffix that comment with "to jerk off" or "to play some video games and then jerk off" and the person you are talking to comes back with some absurd bullshit like "well, I'm going yachting tomorrow so I should probably turn in."
What the fuck is that? Number one: I did not ask you what you were doing tomorrow. Did you decide to throw that in to make me feel worse about what I'm doing for the rest of tonight? That's kind of fucked up. It's not like I'm thrilled to say "yeah, my big plans are pretty much encapsulated in two hours of shame followed by sleeping into Saturday until the NCAA games start and then I'll get up and jerk off some more while half watching them and then go back to bed until the bars open and I can thinly veil a little afternoon sousing in catching late afternoon games." Did you want me to feel bad about myself for not having plans as grand? Because if you wanted me to feel included in your adventures you could have invited yourself over for the yankfest, but that would have been understandably awkward, but at least give me the chance to say so and decline instead of feeling left out of your life altogether, if that's where we're going. Because I mean, I only broached the topic of plans so you would know that I know my plans are not as great as yours, but at least you know that I know I'm not leaving the party because I don't want to be there, it's just because I can't over stay my fucking welcome.
I didn't ask you what you were going to go do, and you didn't ask me either, but I'm rolling over. It's a complement to your party. Why can't you take a complement? And that's why comics will never be your friends. Because you get excited about dumb, irrelevant, shit that is basically the frills and lace on the sides of granny panties to life. Granted, I'm not going to break into your house, duct tape your wrists together behind your back, drive you out to New England in the middle of the night until dawn, haul you out of the trunk in the middle of nowhere, and shove your face into the leaves by the side of a one lane road and scream "this is Fall!!! This is what autumn tastes like!!!" That's just not me. Plus, who has the time to do that these days? I don't. But forgive me if I don't give a !@#$ about the latest tech or music or who's hot on what coast and is performing half price and where. I'm never going to be in that sphere and the people that are also are not particularly fond of folks like me anyway.
And that's what's made me laugh these days.
10/15/12
Born Yesterday
You look terrible. What, have you been up all night drinking? No, you self righteous, snide, whisker faced, monkey pawed, salad dicked, piece of shit. I'm going to tie your legs to opposite rungs of a ladder with surgical tubing, slice open your taint, and plunger fuck you 'til your guts blow out and all you can see are after images of fantasia from when your uncle came to visit, got you drunk, and touched you, you absolute @#$##!%@%#$%%$*%^*%%@#%$#@%!%*(*((^&$^%$$!@# dumpster fire fucker. I can't sleep. I'm not a wreck, I just can't sleep. It's a problem. I feel like I'm awake all the time. Is that a problem? Yes, that's a problem. Calm down, baby. It's always a little scarier at night. I stopped going out with my knife, that's a step in the right direction, right? Yes. Okay, bad start. Let's do this again.
I'm losing my shit. I don't understand everything. In fact, I don't understand a lot of things. In fact, I understand very few things and some of what I do is pure emulation. Some of it is learned. The things that I do when I'm not alone. When I'm trying to communicate and rub elbows and socialize and allow myself to be socialized. From a pure experiential stand point, I am always still catching up. Especially when it comes to purely adult things like paying bills and writing checks and progressively more complex responsibilities that come with age. Learning on the fly. Is part of why I am perpetually referring to near and distant past interactions and outcomes to judge and play into and inform and explicate the more recent and definite present ones. I need snow. I need cold weather. I need Winter. I need to trap my insides in and wear my skin all over again. Compression wraps. I'm trying to learn so many things on my own.
What do I need to do to suppress the monster? It's a puzzle game again. It's the puzzle game again. And I don't want to play. Even if I did, I can't if I can't get over there. Reconsidering therapy for the hundredth time.
I am dense. Dumb. I get that. So ask for help. I do, the problem, however, is that half the time I do ask for help with X and Y I get bitten. Look, okay, no one ever taught me how to be a grown up. I'm fucking trying. Okay, calm down. I'm trying and learning how to be an adult. How to take care of myself. How to be a part of other people's lives and, more over, part of society and a functioning member no less. It takes practice and it takes patience and sometimes other people are not as patient with me as I would like. I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but blunt objects get the job done pretty good. I'm good at things. I know that. I can do some things pretty well. Other things not so good. But why come no patience on their part? They must know I'm being patient with them and their remarks and their assumptions. They must know by now that I'm doing the best I can and that's all I've got by now. Granted the repertoire grows yearly, monthly, sometimes daily, but it's never going to grow fast enough to get on their level. I mean someone has to bring up the rear. Who else will be there to pick up the leaders when they stumble and fall and roll their ankle and have to be dragged until they can stand up and break the trail again? I serve a purpose, gotdamnit.
I'm not a doormat, or inferior, but I kind of am in many respects. In terms of tangibles. A state of perpetual repair. 800 brake horsepower on the dyno and shit tires. Steel struts for shock absorbers. The ride is harsh, but give me enough straight asphalt and I'll burn straight through to the vanishing point. I've been thinking my siblings and I relied on and alternately hated each other through the years, but before everyone dove off the edge to lives and relationships and variables apart from the smoking hole in the ground where our lives blew up, we were complementary parts.
Are you really happy? I'm happier than I've ever been. I swear I cannot fuse myselves together. It's like some kind of micro field acting over exceptionally short distances and so they gravitate and hang loosely together if I, when I, can manage to coerce them into the same headspace, but any further, any fucking further, and they fly apart. Driven like body parts from a weatherman's over packed pipe bomb and a warning two hours too late. Reduce the casualties, she says. We're not terrorists he says. Y'all can go suck a dick he says.
I chewed through my lip the other day. I'm not the strongest man in the world, or the tallest. But weapons are all around me. Tools, you know? A weapon is a tool. We should spend some quality time together some day. I know this place where the street lights have gone out. It's a stretch of road really. The headaches have gotten a little worse, but sometimes I can convince myself. Heavy industrial works and general cause. It's kind of funny sometimes. Let's play cards. Let's play Spades. I'll never go board. In my dream I was shot four times through the back, it was pretty amazing. Not the getting shot part. That part hurt a lot. More than anything I've felt in life. What felt amazing was the increasing inability to breath while my lungs filled up and my brain started to die and became unable to process pain. I started to think about how screwed up it was that my first DMT trip would also be my last, but then I started to look forward to at least being able to do that. And then someone else came up and they passed the gun and held it up between my eyes and blew my head apart before I could enjoy it. And I died, but didn't wake up and they left. And I waited and I waited and I waited for my life to start over. For reincarnation. For hell. For heaven. Nothing. And so, inside that dream still, I simply stood up, with half a skull from the nasal bones down to my neck, and walked out and woke up into an afternoon. Disappointed.
I am me. And you are you. The greatest form of flattery. The finest grains of abandonment. In the soles of my shoes. The cities crumbled. Many people died. The pain never goes away entirely, but honestly, that's asking too much. Who and what you are is no concern of mine. The man with the crystalline mind and the watch maker's hands with browns for whites of eyes and a head more water than land and no docks to be found. I don't know. I don't know and I cannot tell you if I wanted to. Steps in right directions. I need cold weather. I need something to cool the pile. Carbon rods? Is that what does it? The machine to help me understand and define the horror? Parcels of molecules and reckless atomic connections.
I can remember going in for the scans and the EMG and the warmth of the dye they injected into my veins and waiting quietly in the wheel chair for it to get pumped throughout before they put me inside and trying to stay awake while feeling like my entire nervous system was wrapped in an electric blanket. It was a gorgeous feeling. That was years ago. I've been thinking about dating again. I know I'm not and will probably never be ready. I also know what I want is something I can't have. It's a catch two two. I can't bank on getting away with it twice. I just wish I could have thought of that the first time. Says everyone at some point in their life. It's been difficult. I won't suppose. I know. Reaching out to other schizophrenics is like picking up someone else's phone, pounding the numbers until it rings, and saying "hello, it's me. You know me, right?" Asking someone to come in, when the sign on the door clearly reads "get the fuck out."
I'm trying. Please be patient. The heat has been stifling. Crush, baby. Crush. Who loves you? I do. You still keeping odd hours? That depends. Are you still on vacation? I don't know. Maybe you should think about writing during daylight hours. Maybe you should think about the kinds of questions you ask me. The city is large and I'm just one man. The country is larger, but I'm still just one man. Come with me if you want to see or don't. I won't fault you either way. Do you remember how you laughed in 2005 at that concert? No. But the tears have been uncontrollable since. A right sort riot. I can't go back, but I have to. Keep it down. Where are your sunglasses? I don't know. Let's get it right this time. I was born yesterday.
///Lo-Fidelity Allstars - "Valentine Boast" ... the greatest romance of the 21st century...
///The Orb - "Secrets" awed by tradition
I'm losing my shit. I don't understand everything. In fact, I don't understand a lot of things. In fact, I understand very few things and some of what I do is pure emulation. Some of it is learned. The things that I do when I'm not alone. When I'm trying to communicate and rub elbows and socialize and allow myself to be socialized. From a pure experiential stand point, I am always still catching up. Especially when it comes to purely adult things like paying bills and writing checks and progressively more complex responsibilities that come with age. Learning on the fly. Is part of why I am perpetually referring to near and distant past interactions and outcomes to judge and play into and inform and explicate the more recent and definite present ones. I need snow. I need cold weather. I need Winter. I need to trap my insides in and wear my skin all over again. Compression wraps. I'm trying to learn so many things on my own.
What do I need to do to suppress the monster? It's a puzzle game again. It's the puzzle game again. And I don't want to play. Even if I did, I can't if I can't get over there. Reconsidering therapy for the hundredth time.
I am dense. Dumb. I get that. So ask for help. I do, the problem, however, is that half the time I do ask for help with X and Y I get bitten. Look, okay, no one ever taught me how to be a grown up. I'm fucking trying. Okay, calm down. I'm trying and learning how to be an adult. How to take care of myself. How to be a part of other people's lives and, more over, part of society and a functioning member no less. It takes practice and it takes patience and sometimes other people are not as patient with me as I would like. I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but blunt objects get the job done pretty good. I'm good at things. I know that. I can do some things pretty well. Other things not so good. But why come no patience on their part? They must know I'm being patient with them and their remarks and their assumptions. They must know by now that I'm doing the best I can and that's all I've got by now. Granted the repertoire grows yearly, monthly, sometimes daily, but it's never going to grow fast enough to get on their level. I mean someone has to bring up the rear. Who else will be there to pick up the leaders when they stumble and fall and roll their ankle and have to be dragged until they can stand up and break the trail again? I serve a purpose, gotdamnit.
I'm not a doormat, or inferior, but I kind of am in many respects. In terms of tangibles. A state of perpetual repair. 800 brake horsepower on the dyno and shit tires. Steel struts for shock absorbers. The ride is harsh, but give me enough straight asphalt and I'll burn straight through to the vanishing point. I've been thinking my siblings and I relied on and alternately hated each other through the years, but before everyone dove off the edge to lives and relationships and variables apart from the smoking hole in the ground where our lives blew up, we were complementary parts.
Are you really happy? I'm happier than I've ever been. I swear I cannot fuse myselves together. It's like some kind of micro field acting over exceptionally short distances and so they gravitate and hang loosely together if I, when I, can manage to coerce them into the same headspace, but any further, any fucking further, and they fly apart. Driven like body parts from a weatherman's over packed pipe bomb and a warning two hours too late. Reduce the casualties, she says. We're not terrorists he says. Y'all can go suck a dick he says.
I chewed through my lip the other day. I'm not the strongest man in the world, or the tallest. But weapons are all around me. Tools, you know? A weapon is a tool. We should spend some quality time together some day. I know this place where the street lights have gone out. It's a stretch of road really. The headaches have gotten a little worse, but sometimes I can convince myself. Heavy industrial works and general cause. It's kind of funny sometimes. Let's play cards. Let's play Spades. I'll never go board. In my dream I was shot four times through the back, it was pretty amazing. Not the getting shot part. That part hurt a lot. More than anything I've felt in life. What felt amazing was the increasing inability to breath while my lungs filled up and my brain started to die and became unable to process pain. I started to think about how screwed up it was that my first DMT trip would also be my last, but then I started to look forward to at least being able to do that. And then someone else came up and they passed the gun and held it up between my eyes and blew my head apart before I could enjoy it. And I died, but didn't wake up and they left. And I waited and I waited and I waited for my life to start over. For reincarnation. For hell. For heaven. Nothing. And so, inside that dream still, I simply stood up, with half a skull from the nasal bones down to my neck, and walked out and woke up into an afternoon. Disappointed.
I am me. And you are you. The greatest form of flattery. The finest grains of abandonment. In the soles of my shoes. The cities crumbled. Many people died. The pain never goes away entirely, but honestly, that's asking too much. Who and what you are is no concern of mine. The man with the crystalline mind and the watch maker's hands with browns for whites of eyes and a head more water than land and no docks to be found. I don't know. I don't know and I cannot tell you if I wanted to. Steps in right directions. I need cold weather. I need something to cool the pile. Carbon rods? Is that what does it? The machine to help me understand and define the horror? Parcels of molecules and reckless atomic connections.
I can remember going in for the scans and the EMG and the warmth of the dye they injected into my veins and waiting quietly in the wheel chair for it to get pumped throughout before they put me inside and trying to stay awake while feeling like my entire nervous system was wrapped in an electric blanket. It was a gorgeous feeling. That was years ago. I've been thinking about dating again. I know I'm not and will probably never be ready. I also know what I want is something I can't have. It's a catch two two. I can't bank on getting away with it twice. I just wish I could have thought of that the first time. Says everyone at some point in their life. It's been difficult. I won't suppose. I know. Reaching out to other schizophrenics is like picking up someone else's phone, pounding the numbers until it rings, and saying "hello, it's me. You know me, right?" Asking someone to come in, when the sign on the door clearly reads "get the fuck out."
I'm trying. Please be patient. The heat has been stifling. Crush, baby. Crush. Who loves you? I do. You still keeping odd hours? That depends. Are you still on vacation? I don't know. Maybe you should think about writing during daylight hours. Maybe you should think about the kinds of questions you ask me. The city is large and I'm just one man. The country is larger, but I'm still just one man. Come with me if you want to see or don't. I won't fault you either way. Do you remember how you laughed in 2005 at that concert? No. But the tears have been uncontrollable since. A right sort riot. I can't go back, but I have to. Keep it down. Where are your sunglasses? I don't know. Let's get it right this time. I was born yesterday.
///Lo-Fidelity Allstars - "Valentine Boast" ... the greatest romance of the 21st century...
///The Orb - "Secrets" awed by tradition
10/10/12
Dear (_____)
Dear time,
Give me more of you. Or at least have some nasty good sex and some kids and let me be their godfather so I can hang out with them. But then it occurs to me they won't necessarily be just time, but might end up being time and space or something altogether worse. How about this: just light me up once in a while. I promise I'll answer the phone.
thanks.
Call me, bitch!
Give me more of you. Or at least have some nasty good sex and some kids and let me be their godfather so I can hang out with them. But then it occurs to me they won't necessarily be just time, but might end up being time and space or something altogether worse. How about this: just light me up once in a while. I promise I'll answer the phone.
thanks.
Call me, bitch!
10/5/12
Musicality
I'm trying to find the music in common sense. Not just that, but I'm trying to find the fun. I believe one of my greatest fears is writing ending being an occupation. Do what you love and everything else will come is largely a lie. Taking bobby pins out of my hair.
I don't know what I want to be, but I know I can't be an astronaut or a race car driver or a stuntman. Well maybe stuntman. Childhood dreams still haunt me, but at least I know (my third pick) I can be a writer given the right circumstances. I can be a bass junkie. That works too.
I know we had a lot of conversations about this
so I will stop there.
All we ever wanted to be was loved. That's a lie. Trying to find a good way to coda this. And I can't find one. The scrap yard has been busy today. Train noises. Bright lights. I feel I am aging inside beyond my years and I don't like it. Precipitation begging the clouds, but sometimes you have to look up
My condition is getting worse. Ghosts in the back room. And all I have to look forward to is the worsening of my schizophrenia. Fuck. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. It hurts. I just want others around me to be happy and to kill them at the same time. I suppose in another life things worked out slightly differently because at this point it is a game of edges. I cannot imagine how things would have worked out otherwise. If I got the help I needed when I needed it instead of, no offense, Jesus.
the highs keep getting higher and the lows lower. There's only so much equipment a frame can carry. But all in all you just try to stay on the human side of things.
Double tracks pending.
///DJ? Acucrack - "In Yer Mind" all the pills
I don't know what I want to be, but I know I can't be an astronaut or a race car driver or a stuntman. Well maybe stuntman. Childhood dreams still haunt me, but at least I know (my third pick) I can be a writer given the right circumstances. I can be a bass junkie. That works too.
I know we had a lot of conversations about this
so I will stop there.
All we ever wanted to be was loved. That's a lie. Trying to find a good way to coda this. And I can't find one. The scrap yard has been busy today. Train noises. Bright lights. I feel I am aging inside beyond my years and I don't like it. Precipitation begging the clouds, but sometimes you have to look up
My condition is getting worse. Ghosts in the back room. And all I have to look forward to is the worsening of my schizophrenia. Fuck. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. It hurts. I just want others around me to be happy and to kill them at the same time. I suppose in another life things worked out slightly differently because at this point it is a game of edges. I cannot imagine how things would have worked out otherwise. If I got the help I needed when I needed it instead of, no offense, Jesus.
the highs keep getting higher and the lows lower. There's only so much equipment a frame can carry. But all in all you just try to stay on the human side of things.
Double tracks pending.
///DJ? Acucrack - "In Yer Mind" all the pills
10/4/12
dear (_____)
Dear Winter ducks,
I'll feed whoever decides to stick around. It's no big. I enjoy your company as much as you enjoy mine.
with love,
Sharpsburg
I'll feed whoever decides to stick around. It's no big. I enjoy your company as much as you enjoy mine.
with love,
Sharpsburg
dear (_____)
Dear adulthood,
You were everything I thought you would not be.
with love,
your cosigner
You were everything I thought you would not be.
with love,
your cosigner
Dogging It and the Winter Manifesto
Yep, I have been dogging it, for lack of artistic direction. I've become consumed with the immediate and unable to find the magic, the whimsy. The press of culture has been stifling. The pressure of fitting into some kind of God damned role has been palpable, or I should say, more palpable than in past weeks and months and years even. I keep looking up and asking myself if this is all there is and I have been pounding my fist on the table with six empty chairs around it and rattling nothing more than my own glass.
There is no such thing as a dry spell. I know it is all still there, still pouring, still palpitating. What I want to get at, however, is after the flow. I am storing metaphor and analogy and analysis, but not having tapped the vein I want I have limbs dying for overdose and infection. "Eating heroin is one thing, but injecting it is another." Probably the funniest thing I heard this year. The funniest admonishment. It burns my ass sometimes to hear people complain about things that are fairly simply resolved. Hilarious in some ways. Met up with a friend of mine at the local hole and he told me about another friend who had a fiberglass, nuclear white, road bike.
Turned out the guy was high as fuck on mescaline and out for a joy ride and he rode with him up to his place and the guy just housed the hill there. Should I feel bad for feeling inspired?
I've (enter apostrophetics) been dogging it none the less. I can't describe the feeling. If you've ever read the phantom tollbooth you know what the love affair of language can be like. Sometimes she wears lace. Sometimes he wears the same lace the last time you had to suck him off for a solid hour because he lied about not jerking off before he came over and you found out second hand from his other friend he was banging beers back with before he decided to ring you up and now your neck hurts when you tip your head backward to drink water the morning after.
The point is, he doesn't realize you would be more than happy to throttle his neck the same and watch his eyes start to pop out until they turned back and up into his eyelids and the tears ran down your hands because that's what gets you off.
And that just turned way angry and too honest. I don't know. I can't speak to human engineering because I don't know enough, but I absolutely believe that engineering can be trumped by training. The problem and the pitfall is the belief and extrapolation from that idea that training can be unlearned. Somehow the incorporation, the building of the structure can be as easily or possibly as difficulty and painstakingly deconstructed. The question arises: if you have 24 years of programming and construction and habituation built into your psyche, how many years will it take to reprogram, reconstruct, repurpose, and rehabilitate those patterns into new ones? If it takes, just drawing cards from my own deck of experience, twenty minutes to demolish a level 3 Revell GT 500 painstakingly constructed over two weeks, it should be fairly easy. That's my deck.
It's been hard. Real hard. Violently hard. Violently happy. To the point where people know me well enough that I have to actively push away opportunities to ...I'm not a destroyer. But I know I am. I know I can be a creator too. I used to be. I used to create willy nilly and I still do, but the work goes into that. The creating. The destruction comes naturally. I'm not a big guy by any stretch, but I never thought five years ago I would ever be comfortable popping someone's eye with my thumb. Yeah, it was salty. Not good salty either. Like, I do not know how to describe it. It was like the saline was an afterthought. I did not realize, at all, how much energy I was burning to be, but I've felt the exhaustion of it, of late. It's been taxing. Who to tell what and how much. I'm rambling.
I know. I have been dogging it. Not on the low roads though. I'm kind of surprised some times how easy it's been. Violence as language. I think the Auralport has been a lot of language as violence. Which is a start, but not enough of a start. There's no point in conquest you can't talk about. No entryway. No friends. I just laughed saying that out loud. I am not an animal. I build models with tweezers. Still do. I suppose that is not making me any less creepy. I have fallen off. Maybe fallen in to. Something. Fighting fair is a sad man's game.
I am not an animal, but I am trying to work my way back to the human side of the master equation.
And so I present to you the Winter manifesto:
Do good. Do not just be better within yourself, because that is not enough. Be better within, and for, others sake. Do not just see stars, but see horses and do not steal them, only enjoy their being and watch and maybe tip a hat to that wilderness, but do not beg to be the center. Do not fight this winter, for any reason. Physically. Because you have one body and one set of knuckles and you have enough years on them to make making it past forty a probability instead of a certainty. Lose no more fractions of teeth. Put together your works and compose for compositions sake alone because recognition is fool's gold and the short path to the quitter's raga. Be bright and not literally, but for light's sake. Be motivated and train and not for the sake of preparations for conflict, however, be prepared to defend yourself, and only in defense cause a mother fu$$ing ruckus. Finish the twenty thousand words to your book you left hanging two years ago. No Damoclesean swords. Less reference. Clearer analogy. And I don't know how much further I should take it because I've already stepped into the boundary between what I know I can do and what I know I know I may not be able to do.
The Winter manifesto is this: take it head on and do not fear the cool.
The trees talk to me in summer, at night when the moon is out. I am looking forward to their silence and the peace of the death of the ground beneath my feet. I am looking forward to reclaiming the night that I leased to the summer and all her passerby and the bullshit.
I survived another season. I know the next two will be beautiful.
Redesigns coming soon.
///Sneaker Pimps - "How Do" I grew up on sneaker pimps. through the conflict years. them, massive attack, and floyd, and disco. and the orb.
There is no such thing as a dry spell. I know it is all still there, still pouring, still palpitating. What I want to get at, however, is after the flow. I am storing metaphor and analogy and analysis, but not having tapped the vein I want I have limbs dying for overdose and infection. "Eating heroin is one thing, but injecting it is another." Probably the funniest thing I heard this year. The funniest admonishment. It burns my ass sometimes to hear people complain about things that are fairly simply resolved. Hilarious in some ways. Met up with a friend of mine at the local hole and he told me about another friend who had a fiberglass, nuclear white, road bike.
Turned out the guy was high as fuck on mescaline and out for a joy ride and he rode with him up to his place and the guy just housed the hill there. Should I feel bad for feeling inspired?
I've (enter apostrophetics) been dogging it none the less. I can't describe the feeling. If you've ever read the phantom tollbooth you know what the love affair of language can be like. Sometimes she wears lace. Sometimes he wears the same lace the last time you had to suck him off for a solid hour because he lied about not jerking off before he came over and you found out second hand from his other friend he was banging beers back with before he decided to ring you up and now your neck hurts when you tip your head backward to drink water the morning after.
The point is, he doesn't realize you would be more than happy to throttle his neck the same and watch his eyes start to pop out until they turned back and up into his eyelids and the tears ran down your hands because that's what gets you off.
And that just turned way angry and too honest. I don't know. I can't speak to human engineering because I don't know enough, but I absolutely believe that engineering can be trumped by training. The problem and the pitfall is the belief and extrapolation from that idea that training can be unlearned. Somehow the incorporation, the building of the structure can be as easily or possibly as difficulty and painstakingly deconstructed. The question arises: if you have 24 years of programming and construction and habituation built into your psyche, how many years will it take to reprogram, reconstruct, repurpose, and rehabilitate those patterns into new ones? If it takes, just drawing cards from my own deck of experience, twenty minutes to demolish a level 3 Revell GT 500 painstakingly constructed over two weeks, it should be fairly easy. That's my deck.
It's been hard. Real hard. Violently hard. Violently happy. To the point where people know me well enough that I have to actively push away opportunities to ...I'm not a destroyer. But I know I am. I know I can be a creator too. I used to be. I used to create willy nilly and I still do, but the work goes into that. The creating. The destruction comes naturally. I'm not a big guy by any stretch, but I never thought five years ago I would ever be comfortable popping someone's eye with my thumb. Yeah, it was salty. Not good salty either. Like, I do not know how to describe it. It was like the saline was an afterthought. I did not realize, at all, how much energy I was burning to be, but I've felt the exhaustion of it, of late. It's been taxing. Who to tell what and how much. I'm rambling.
I know. I have been dogging it. Not on the low roads though. I'm kind of surprised some times how easy it's been. Violence as language. I think the Auralport has been a lot of language as violence. Which is a start, but not enough of a start. There's no point in conquest you can't talk about. No entryway. No friends. I just laughed saying that out loud. I am not an animal. I build models with tweezers. Still do. I suppose that is not making me any less creepy. I have fallen off. Maybe fallen in to. Something. Fighting fair is a sad man's game.
I am not an animal, but I am trying to work my way back to the human side of the master equation.
And so I present to you the Winter manifesto:
Do good. Do not just be better within yourself, because that is not enough. Be better within, and for, others sake. Do not just see stars, but see horses and do not steal them, only enjoy their being and watch and maybe tip a hat to that wilderness, but do not beg to be the center. Do not fight this winter, for any reason. Physically. Because you have one body and one set of knuckles and you have enough years on them to make making it past forty a probability instead of a certainty. Lose no more fractions of teeth. Put together your works and compose for compositions sake alone because recognition is fool's gold and the short path to the quitter's raga. Be bright and not literally, but for light's sake. Be motivated and train and not for the sake of preparations for conflict, however, be prepared to defend yourself, and only in defense cause a mother fu$$ing ruckus. Finish the twenty thousand words to your book you left hanging two years ago. No Damoclesean swords. Less reference. Clearer analogy. And I don't know how much further I should take it because I've already stepped into the boundary between what I know I can do and what I know I know I may not be able to do.
The Winter manifesto is this: take it head on and do not fear the cool.
The trees talk to me in summer, at night when the moon is out. I am looking forward to their silence and the peace of the death of the ground beneath my feet. I am looking forward to reclaiming the night that I leased to the summer and all her passerby and the bullshit.
I survived another season. I know the next two will be beautiful.
Redesigns coming soon.
///Sneaker Pimps - "How Do" I grew up on sneaker pimps. through the conflict years. them, massive attack, and floyd, and disco. and the orb.
10/3/12
Dear (_____)
Dear Folgers,
The best part of waking up is going the fuck back to bed. Stop spreading lies and coffee bean propaganda.
Sincerely,
Whatever man. You can pick some friends, you can pick some substances, but you can't pick which addictions end up becoming socially acceptable.
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