Sex Sells, and Tolerance Versus Promotion

Sex sells.  Everybody know's that.  America is becoming a more tolerant place, probably more tolerant than ever before when it comes to homosexuality.  It's becoming a little more tolerant when it comes to smoking weed, but that's something for another time.  Still, though, a soused conversation I had, a quick back and forth really if not for doing it through twitter drawing it out over a couple hours (if we were speaking face to face it would have been maybe a two minute conversation), brought back to mind that actual tolerance is a long way off and it's kind of annoying.

Sex does sell.  Everyday, everywhere you go, everything you watch on television, every fourth commercial on the radio, hetero sex is promoted.  It's fired into you constantly.  It can't be avoided and as a gay person I don't really have a problem with it.  Sure sometimes it gets particularly awkward or annoying when I'm hanging out with straight friends and they want me to comment and I'm completely blank faced because it has nothing to do with me or what actually tips my scales or fires me up.  For the most part though, I'll make something up or laugh or do whatever to move on and just like that, it's done and I'm fine and they're fine and the world turns on and everyone is okay.  Sex sells.  It is promotion of the hetero relationship and it's not the end of the world.  I'm tolerant.  I don't go grab pitch forks and torches and raise a mob every time some couple gets married or a guy and girl get all kissy touchy feely in front of me.  I'm okay with it and it doesn't hurt me, but I also don't go out of my way to express the fact that I could care less.

Back handed tolerance is different.  The back handed tolerance is the kind where people do go out of their way to express that "hey, whatever, I don't care, that's your business" sentiment to the point where it becomes obvious that they do care, and it does irritate them, but they are saying what they're supposed to say because they're supposed to say it because it would be a million times worse for their image and relationships with others around them if they did express whatever hate or revulsion they felt.  It's better than nothing, but when it happens it makes me want to roll my eyes, yawn, and just walk away from the crap coming out of the person's mouth.

Back handed tolerance comes in other flavors too.  It also comes in the "I'm okay with gay people, but you don't have to promote it, come on" flavor.  Which is simply silly.  If the world is to become a more tolerant place you can't say tolerance and "shut the hell up about it" in the same sentence.  That's just asinine.  Obviously there is going to be some degree of promotion.  There has to be.  Sex sells.  If sex sells you can't just say you refuse to sell to an entire segment of the population.  If you did simply black out promotion that would be pretty intolerant.  That sort of behavior would also reduce people's exposure to homosexuality as a normal thing or at least damage their ability to observe and understand it as a normal thing.  It's aggravating.  It's annoying.  And it's pretty back handed.  

What does that even mean?  To be okay with gay people, but intolerant of them talking about their lives the same way other people do because it's promoting a gay lifestyle?  Didn't America finally more or less get beyond the "is it a choice or not debate"?  What are these people even worried about?  Promoting homosexuality is not going to turn people away from heterosexuality.  It's not going to magically revolutionize someone's long held beliefs or belief system.  What are they possibly afraid of?  If anything it would make life more comfortable or normal for homosexuals.  Could you imagine seeing commercials with gay couples selling things like lawn mowers, dinners, dating websites, concerts, and credit cards.  Are these promotion haters afraid they'll see a commercial for something they like and refer to it to their straight friends and be made fun of because it was a gay commercial?  If they are, I could understand.  How hilarious would it be if the major hang up was feeling that tiny pang of discomfort I feel throughout a day, that I'm so used to it barely raises a blip in my mind most of the time.

I don't understand what the big deal is, but I do understand back handed tolerance and I do understand that sex sells.  Maybe it's not a bad thing.  It's a step in the right direction for people and I'm happy for that.  I just wish people walked a little faster.  It makes life a little more comfortable for me and people like me to at least know if someone were to openly persecute us, there would be massive support for us, not them.  It's tiring and annoying knowing that the newer intolerance is this whole anti-promo sentiment, but at least no ones telling me I'm going to straight to hell and should be killed for my sexual orientation.  Don't be scared 'merica, sometimes a little discomfort is part of life.

///Grimes - "Genesis" gots to start somewhere

Year End Playlist 2012

The music that made life a little easier to comprehend through 2012.  I told ya I was gonna put it together.  Got my "nyaahhhhhh" face going.  But seriously, this is what brought me through.  Instead of going by statistic logging I decided to go with the actual tracks I flagged through the year.  Sometimes the song you listen to the most is not a real indicator of what hit you the hardest.  I really do believe this is an accurate reflection of what punched my heart in the nuts through last year.

Dec  RJD2 - Moonlit Skies Go
Nov Skrillex - Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites Go
Oct Lo-Fidelity Allstars - Valentine Boast Go
Sept El-P - Stay Down Go
Aug War - Baby Brother Go
Jul Bjork - Pluto Go
Jun Aphex Twin - Waxen Pith Go
May Tosca - Oscar Go
Apr School of Seven Bells - Loveplay Go
Mar Starkey - Eris Go
Feb Kinny and Horn - Sacred Life Go
Jan Paul Murphy - Soul Call Go

This is the official tax return for 2012. The books have been, after a fashion, balanced. Five months late, but better late than never.  I feel pretty good about it.  Making next year's list, I can already bet on it, will be Death Grips.  I know I'm behind the curve of music, but I don't care all that much.  I'm just happy I have time to digest everything that comes across my plate as thoroughly as I care to, and that's what's up.


///Death Grips - "Guillotine"  ace high, chuck

We Were Looking for Highspeed

spent some time in the foundry.  It was important to do.  Part of the importance was simply getting the shakes out.  Along the path of life I managed to convince myself that it was too hard to use my drawing pad to make drawings instead of doing them on paper but what I realized, after weeks and weeks and weeks and weeks of procrastination, was that I was putting it off to do paper because I knew I would never really try to pick up paper the same way I can pick up the convenience of a drawing pad.  Partly because I don't have the pens or pencils I like in my house and at arms reach when I want them, and partly because I don't have scrolls of paper big enough to do what I want to do when I want to do it, and partly because both of those things allow me the saving grace to not have to burden myself with the torture of stepping outside my own skull, and that last one is the big one.

I love living by dreamlight still.  It's a wonderful thing.  Not without it's own limitations, but when you live in there you never have to worry about showing someone else what it was that you saw while you were there.  You never have to do the work.  On top of that you never have to slug your way through misinterpretation when you do try to translate dream code into real code and the circuits short out half way and you get flustered and start sweating because you know they know it didn't really happen but it did I swear if I can just show you how it all went down.  You're never burdened with that.  But it's the same principle as the principle of the fact of the matter and on and on being that you can't get in trouble if you're not conscious.  Which is true.  

How you got to being unconscious is the tricky part, but once you get there you are literally unable to fuck anything up.  There's something to be said for that.  The being comatose. The being asleep.  Part of why I prize it like I do.  The best way to do no wrong is to be unable to do no wrong.  So I spent some time though and made a picture that I like and also do not enjoy looking at because it did not turn out the way I wanted to or the way I saw it in my head and more over it is now subject to other opinions that I can or may not listen to, but it's not like I'm making a career so I care and then I don't off and on and more importantly if I simply went to bed instead of drawing the entire issue would be moot.  That's me.  Butters.

I'm glad I went back inside it though.  I had to.  I couldn't not do it.  Things were gestating for months and needed out.  It was time not spent unwell, and there's something to be said for that and I'm saying it now.  Or at least trying to.  I care because you do.  You care because I do.  We care because the infinite point of no one does not care?  Trying to balance out the word game.  It's funny.  She's funny.  But if you're going to be a recluse, at least try not to be reckless is all I'm saying.  If you're house is going to burn down, at least take good pictures.

Twas' fun though.  

I don't know what it all means with regard to the original mission.  I don't know if I'm gaining or losing ground or if it matters.  I'm still trying to lay down the blueprint, not so much to prevent me from recurring farther along down the line of history, and not so much to cut off what created me, and not so much to bring about some sort of internal change, but just to lay down track so someone like me can at least know what may or may not be ahead of them (but more than likely is).  That's really part of what I do live for.  Delusional or not.  I enjoy going to sleep and laying my head on a pillow knowing that maybe, on down the line, I helped someone not completely self destruct.  Or at least postpone it a day or two.

If what I do and have done tells one boy that it's not necessarily over when it should have been, but it's also written once it's written and the best you can do is operate within that frame and engage and rejoin society to the best you can do and the rest is garbage time and uncontrollable and largely unpleasant, but unavoidable, then I did something right.  Sometimes you get bad gear from the get and that will be how it is.  A perpetual game of catch up if you let yourself be consumed by it.  Personally, I'm still hoping for the off chance of a nuclear apocalypse.  And that's a long, long, long, bet these days.  I also thought, though, with my luck, I'd be the first one to die in an Earth purging event.  The first person shot in the face by some ultimate virus cleansing crew because I happened to develop a bad cough the day before shit hit the fan.  Ha! that would be my luck though.  

Just know, you're not alone.  I tell and believe the same within myself..  We'll meet again some day, sweetheart, and when we do we will tear this planet down to it's foundations by any means available.  And it will be classy as hell.

///Amon Tobin + "Rosies"  so where do you wanna go?

Bricking the Computer

All I want to do is fix a hit and I know that I can't.  That's the fast track to crack and it tastes so good.  People get all concerned about weight loss and image that it grows insane.  How about a powder that takes away the urge to snuffle?  That would be nice.  Get on it science!  Help me rewire my brain maps.  That's the pill conversation again though and that is looped over as many times as it can be without taking action.  In the meantime I have a good stable of Krylon calling my name.  I want to try the chrome, but my lungs are not having it.  In fact they're not having much of anything lately.  Just how it goes.  At least I'm not pulling knives on anybody.

I hope people feel safe.  Distance is its own thing.  It's not a buffer though.  As long as your legs work you can literally go anywhere to do anything.  Been trying to figure out alibis.  I could walk to New York or Virginia.  The hard part is gonna be explaining my absence.  That's also the easy part.  I have a habit of disappearing.  It happens.  Sometimes you just have to tag up.  If I disappeared for a week to walk to D.C. the only problem would be fueling myself along the way.  Then it's mission accomplished, duck out back home, and problem solved.  Still aggravating though.  A bad kind of hassle.

Shrinking the maps, it gets easier.  Shrinking the maps further, it's a day trip.  Further still, it's a nighter.  We don't do that anymore!  Jexel.  If you're going to accelerate, make it worth it.  The hardest part about burning down a house is sealing the exits.  Or at least making them difficult enough to dissuade navigation.  Then again, you have to take into account the body types you are trying to ash.  It's all math and I struggle with math a lot.  I've always been more geometric.  Visual spatial.  One of the best days I ever had was guessing how many jelly beans were in a jar to the nearest ten.

Sure I could have estimated the volume of a jelly bean, the volume of the jar, and gotten fairly close with a little error mixed in for air space, but it was so much easier to hold in my head if I took a cube slice from one corner and moved it around in my head to form a disc and then raised the disc up to reach the lid.  Same deal, I suppose, but different ways.  Screw math.  What have you done for me lately science?

I jerked off for twelve hours.  Twelve god damn hours.  Twelve gotdamn hours!  I need a boyfriend pretty hard.  Pretty sure I ran through half of my entire library between watching full length videos and skip tracking it to money shots.  I'm not shamed or ashamed by the activity.  At least I know my heart and my cock are still functional.  I'm just head hung cuz I know I'll never get those hours back and I want them.  The toughest thing about free time is figuring out where to spend it.  I want those twelve hours back to draw and sketch and explore the things I can't put into words but I know I can put into pictures if I used that hand to do something besides stroke my pud.  I'm pissed because it was supposed to be a fifteen minute quickie and I couldn't do it on my own that fast.  And I'm pissed because I'm horny so often that it's become a problem that needs solved.  Gotdamnit!

Melange.  I think I may peirce my own nipples today.  So much energy.  Throwing off U two thirty something, or maybe fifty.  Uranium all over the place.  I don't know how to shut it off.  Shoving carbon into the pile, but I can't undo Chernobyl no matter what I try.  Part of the issue is dealing with getting my body back.  I wanted it back so badly and now I have it and I can start building up from the foundation because I finally got back there, but the house that foundation wants only knows how to speak in terms of violence instead of the next step; love.  That misunderstanding and shadow and grift breaks my heart and hurts.  Does violence to me and I want to reverse it and I don't know how and if I could, a pure reversal, I do violence to everyone and everything within the radius.  It's a lose lose.

You're breaking my heart, sweatness.  Spill the bucket.  We are weak ends.  I need you.  I need you to explain to me how rain comes about and tell me the little squirrels running at the corners of my eye are just shadows and not black lizards doing a slow hat dance.

I'm trying to brick the computer.  I'm trying to reset it.  If I can't reset it, I would be happy to silence it.  Stop making noise you tire kicked fall out bumper bad doored dumb coded winkied rusted out piece of .... clawing at myself.  I want that soft tissue out of me.  I know a few ways to do it, but none of them are acceptable.  Rip.  Rip.  Get out of me.  Get out!  I want them out.  I want the caucus to end.  I want the factory to shut down.  I want there to be no more discussion.  I want to be normal.  I want to be you.  I'm tired of tears strolling down my fucking face unprovoked.  I want to love the idea of children.  I want to be married.  I want to be skilled.  I want to be able to do math.  I want to be able to be relied on.  I want honey shots.  I want more tree climbing.  I want to hear less and nose more.  I want shot for.  I want dap.  I want candy hahaahahahahahahahaha.  I want ... I want a lot of things.  I'm trying to brick the computer so I can start over again.  And wanting to start over again is sometimes hard to admit.


///Junkie XL - "War"  sunrise on Titan.  I got your pith.  I raise you 400 horse power at the brakes.  Eat me.

That Instant

you realize you really do wish you could tie yourself to a rocket and shoot yourself into space and don't give a damn if you live to see the exosphere and come back to Earth.  Just want to get yourself out of here.   Out of now.

Now is unforgiving.  Now is now and I don't like it.

Fall back, fall forward, what real difference does it make.  I can't adopt a kid because I'll probably try and put my dick in it.  Jesus.  Fucking sucks.  I want to teach it to play all kinds of ball and drive cars and learn to fly airplanes if its up for it and I know I can't let myself go through it because I'll fuck it up because I've been screwed in my upbringing.

It just sucks so hard knowing the best thing I can do is not do the one thing I really want to do. But....  but..... huge but.... is I will not perpetuate what came before me.  Breaking the cycle.  There's something to be said for that.


///Ulrich Schnaus - "Wherever You Are"  what ive been waiting for all years

What Makes You Laugh 2

This cracked me the hell up yesterday.  As a kid I always had trouble with math.  I remember sitting in the temporary trailer classroom in my AP history class.  It was near the end of the year and the teacher was taking some of his sick days.  He may have actually been sick.  I don't remember.  He was kind of an intense guy.  Everywhere he walked he walked like he was walking into a steady fifteen mile an hour headwind.  He couldn't have been more than five foot six, so the combination of the fast and choppy gait and the constant forward lean he rocked combined to create this Charlie Chaplin silent film physical comedy that left people giggling in his wake.

Advanced Placement history was hard enough, but he wasn't there he would leave worksheets for the less than competent place holder substitutes.  There was a steady stable of substitutes so the substitute you had for German two would in all likelihood be the same one you had a few weeks later for chemistry.  Their job wasn't to teach, it was to keep order first and foremost.  If you learned anything while they were there it was incidental.  The worksheets were usually word finds and other time killers.  I don't know why they didn't just pass out crayons and blank paper.  Wait, I do know.  The number of people who could keep themselves busy inside of poorly airconditioned trailers without devolving into the chaos of recess could be counted on one hand.  Maybe two.  The worksheets that time around were math problems.

I sat near the front.  Parents orders, and there was the standing threat that they might check up on you at any moment and if you weren't there or sitting where they told you to sit there would be a body tax to pay when you got home.  So I'm sitting near the front with this xerox of math problems that's faded blue because school infrastructure updates itself about as often as government infrastructure.  Are those basically the same thing?  I don't know why I think of them as different things.  Maybe it's just the division of public and private that happens so glaringly once you finish high school and realize there was a private system when you were just a pint too, but you were light years away from it then and student loans come preying as soon as you can make that decision yourself.

Anyway, I'm sitting near the front and getting nowhere.  I got beyond the first few algebra problems because they were easy.  I remember getting stuck on this problem that had X and Y on both sides of the equal sign and I was going crazy trying to figure out who the hell would torture someone with that kind of difficulty.  Just start off with the Xs over here and the Ys over there, but how will the children learn about life's complexities if they can't fit the building in their heads?  I couldn't.  Half the classroom was, by then, devolving into a dozen different conversations and spoon fighting and pencil fighting and laughter everywhere and I'm just trying to think because I was told if the worksheet was finished, I could start my homework.  If I finished my homework I could go outside as soon as I got home and the faster you could get out of the house and go play and ride all afternoon and not be around the dead air in that building and the anxiety couched inside the better off you were.  Can't get into trumped up trouble if you're not around to get pegged on made up charges.

The substitute teacher came over after several minutes and asked me if I was okay.  I said yeah, of course, just trying to think.  Turns out I had my eyes closed and my head on my desk and I was rubbing the worksheet on the short naps of my hair and it was making this paper on velcro loop sound that was loud enough to distract him at his desk.  I liked the sound.  I didn't like being interrupted.  To me it was really soothing.  It was helping me focus and draw away from the noise of being there and the difficulty I was having and it kinda sounded like the noise the wind makes when you're in a car with the window down and it goes fwoosh by your ear.  Beautifully white noise.  As soon as he snapped me out of it I couldn't get back there.  I ended up making little drawings of airplanes for the rest of my answers and turned it in at the end of the day.  The answers didn't matter that much.  Check, check minus, check plus.  It was mostly a way of taking attendance.

Yesterday though, I was in a similar way.  I couldn't get the windows I was working on to stay up.  I spent hours reading up on the product.  I installed them correctly.  Insulated them correctly.  Nothing over tightened, nothing under done.  There was a slight bowing, but it shouldn't be affecting the sashes the way it was and it was driving me crazy.  Every time I adjusted them I had to take the window out of the frame, adjust the settings, put the window back in and test it.  Hours into this I began to zone out and go over all of the steps I covered over the last few days, from demolition to installation to fine tuning to the now.  Going over the entire ocean of knowledge accumulated over that time and evaluating each nodule for a potential mistake.  While I was doing the sun went down.  There were no blinds in the window.

Sometimes to help myself think these days, an extension of my head rubbing habit from yesterday, I rub and cup my dick.  It's not a pleasure thing, but it kind of is.  Hearing the sound of the paper rubbing against my skull and feeling that movement and motion put me in a good place to think straight.  I don't rub things on my skull as much anymore, but I do enjoy rubbing my crotch when I'm trying to figure out and navigate particularly difficult things that require brain power.  I guess when my bodies happy, my head is freer to roam.

So I'm standing in front of this window, staring blankly into space and eyes defocused to the point where all I can see is my vague shilouette, while I pound the details of why the hell nothing I'm trying to do with the window sash springs seems to be working, and one hand all the way down my pants cupping my cock and bulls and giving them a little go, and it comes to me:  it's vinyl!  If the screws won't work and the springs cannot be moved or adjusted manually, just shim the frame in and that'll create the pressure to keep the window from falling on its own.  Eureka!

I break out into this massive grin and my eyes come back into focus and I look through my reflection into the darkness beyond the glass with my dick in my hand and the sixty something year old neighbor two yards over is scowling directly at me with a cigarette in his hand with a look of disgust so intense I have not seen anything remotely like it since the last time I "disappointed" my dad and was there face to face to see his closed mindedness   It was hilarious.  My brain immediately searched its data banks for the universal sign language of "oh my god, I was not jerking off to you just now!" but it came up blank so I just carefully took my hand out of my pants, turned off the light and walked out of the room... into the next room over which also had a light on... so I pretty much hid behind the wall of the door until he finished smoking and went back in his house.  I laughed so hard I almost pissed my pants.  Speaking of which I once pissed my pants outside of a bar and the guy who was my ride wasn't done yet so I had to go back in and sit down at the bar and my pants made this ridiculous squishing sound and I had to explain myself.  Not a single person there was as upset as that guy was standing out in his yard yesterday night.

Cracked me the hell up yesterday.

The Best Thing

about titles is reworking them until you hit the pitch you want.  It's like playing with guitar knobs until A sounds like A and C sounds like C.  Keep rereading and feeling the note and the title comes after you tweak the knobs enough.  Sometimes the title comes last, but sometimes you already have the strings tuned and the song comes after.  I love that.  What I love more is when the song comes first and I have to set the knobs after.  So in love with you...

Wrecks, Dreamland, and Reconstruction

I went back to the scene of my car accident tonight.  Dreamland has been corrupted.  I keep having a recurring dream about it.  Cruising through dreamland last night I built a house of a little more than normal proportions.  My friend Matt and his buddy Ernie called me up after I finished eating lunch (sardines and fried centipedes... it actually wasn't that bad... all the legs and fish ribs were super crunchy inside the perogies).  Tom was there too.  Finished up eating, and the phone rang so I got up from the indoor beach with the five foot wide tv perched over the far water and went to go let them in.  Put on my fleece robe and tossed Tom the remote.  Walked down to the freight elevator and closed the gate and punched the ground floor.  The elevator went all the way down past the mech garage.  I had my bright red candy shell finished R 29 with extra plate and F990 shoulder mount long barrel with aftermarket cooling fins parked right beside it and it was awesome watching the light glint off of it.  Sometimes I spend days on the scaffold hand polishing it's entire body when I'm not joy riding it through the clear southwest desert night sky.

The elevator went all the way through to the floor and then ten feet below to the car garage and hillside entrance.  It's a short walk to the door and I let Matt and Ernie in.  Ernie asked me if I remembered going to his place the night before and showing up at three in the afternoon.  I said no.  I didn't.  I wasn't lying.  He asked me if someone hacked me, but I told him I wasn't online at all yesterday, but it's possible I might've caught something because I was online the day before pretty much the entire day looking for some rarer copies of an Ultraman graphic novel I used to have when I was a kid, but can't find in my library anymore.  He laughed.  That was probably what might've done it.  Matt offered to hit me up with a few patches to make sure whatever it was that wiped my memory didn't get passed around while they were over.  We took the lift back up and they asked Tom if I was a little off yesterday and he said "definitely."

I don't know why he didn't mention anything to me, but I guess that's what good friends do sometimes, and he's probably used to my oddness and figured it was the usual fare.  Or at least, the Tom I constructed and built into the dream did.  I told them we were out of sardines.  Because we were and if we were going to hit up the bars later it would probably be good not to over do it.  I don't know where the extra beach chairs came from but by the time we got back up to tv room they were already there.  We all started talking about whether or not we would blaze on our way up to the Silver Tusk.  I have a pretty sweet mech garage so there're plenty enough for each of us to blast out to the exosphere and dock at the Silver Tusk space station in geocentric orbit above our heads.

And then a giant tan sedan crashed through the wall behind the flat screen.  It blew it apart and was going so fast it skipped across the water and bit into the beach.  As soon as it touched down it started flipping and parts began whipping off of its underside like a pipe bomb built and stuffed with three foot long aluminum fence posts instead of nails.  I was standing behind them and it rolled right over them and chewed them up into meat before my eyes before a door came zinging off while it spun and I woke up with that door heading straight for my neck.

Every other dream since it happened has been like that.  No matter how I construct it or if I let it play and go along for the ride, they keep ending with cars careening through and killing everyone in one way or another.  So I went back to the place tonight.  It was weird walking up the off ramp.  I tried to think about what that kid could have been thinking that morning walking between the off ramp walls.  There's no where to go on either side.  If you leap off the far side of the corner it's a good ten foot drop.  Off of the inside corner there's some grass, but cars come much closer to the inside of the turn so your chances are much slimmer of even having time to react or think about jumping.  I like to drive in wide and then turn in tight and let the car bleed off speed while it grips in.  He was lucky for that.  If I came inside he would have been through my windshield.

The mark on the far wall when I swerved to avoid him was nothing tremendous.  It was mostly a tire scuff maybe a foot long at most.  It didn't speak at all to the damage done to the car.  There was no traffic tonight.  I walked out to the middle to pick up a piece of my bumper that was still there.  Just a shard.  I don't wonder why he ran away.  I would have too.  Was he daydreaming?  Did he want to die?  Was he just high?  Crouched there I started to remember when I was younger and I walked into traffic trying to get hit on Forbes avenue.  I wasn't particularly upset or anything, but I was ready to let my life go.  No one would hit me.  I did it again a few nights later with my eyes closed and I distinctly remember a bus blowing by me so close it spun me around when it brushed my black hoodie.  I wasn't upset, but I was impossibly trapped at the time and finished trying to figure out how to pick that particular lock.

I'm still putting my body back together.  From the car accident and the fall down the two flights of stairs and the bike accident (which was my own fault, just pushed my bicycle too hard after having it laid up for most of winter and a too cold spring).  Two hours a day of rehab work getting my back right.  A lot of my power comes from my torso and I messed up my hip and tailbone pretty ugly.  Nothing broken, but the deep bruising and muscle strains took their toll, but I'm getting back to a point where I can consider running again and hitting the weight room hard.  The reconstruction, the process of it has become consuming.  I was at a point where I could mess with whomever I wanted.  Sure, I didn't win every scuff, but I had confidence in my bones and tissues that spoke to having a decent shot as long as I wasn't piss drunk.  Not so now.  There's hesitation now.  There's memory tape now of the waking up in pain and not being able to sit up straight even in a well made chair.  Not being able to breath because my sternum hurt so bad.

My body is gathering force though.  Regaining moxy and it's difficult for me to have my limitations still in view.  I keep having internal arguments with myself shouting "don't do that, you're not ready yet."  And myself shouting back "or what?"  But I know what.  Humiliation, failure, more time lost in recovery.  What the reconstruction has also done though, is forced a new view upon me.  A new way of going about conflict. Handling passions I can't always contain effectively.  War bringing peace, in a way.

More than anything, I want so badly to speak to that kid face to face now that I don't want to skin him alive anymore.  I want to know, and I want to tell him I forgive him.


///Lo-Fidelity Allstars - "Smash and Grab World"  looking to the stars on a fucked up night.  Year end playlist is still in the works.  Just five months late.  No worries.

Dear (_____)

I'm not checking out your girl.  I could give two shits, but it's not even worth that.  I'm worn out and tired of trying to hide my glances.  Talk to her about it.  Not me.  Skin is skin and rare skin is rarer.  If she flashes it holds my attention the same way the rat man going into the crawl space showing crack catches my eye.  It's nothing personal and in fact is farther from the sun than the dirt beneath my feet, but if you see armpit I'm going to look.  It's not striking fire in my pants anymore than a turtle upside down, but grant me curio.  I don't have a hardy for her bralessness anymore than you do for him in trunks sans wear.  Relax, bro.  Relax.  I came here to fight like you came here to eat glass.  Ain't happening.   However, if you want to throw down for the spirit of putting blood on cement, I'm all in, homie.  Let's go.

Dear (_____)

Dear mankind,

People are strange.  Their ways are strange.  We don't get along by definition.  Everyday is getting two steps beyond definition.  The first step is always understanding where your line ends and theirs begins.  The second step is getting into that water and going beyond the initial chill of water versus air temperature differential.  It doesn't change the back burner knowledge that they're doing it for you and you for them.  People are strange.  Every problem cannot be solved with a fist.  Every problem cannot necessarily be solved.

Sincerely and with love,

your bugaboo