Look for answers and we will give you rush. Full on the face. Full b l u s h. It's very unpleasant. It's very taken aback. It's very lyric song.
I think I'm ten kinds of thousand push toward ten kinds of peach blush,
I think I know
what's ten kind cuz.
I think I know what's ten kind huuuutsch.
Rabbit in the whole. Bot a fox for a troll.
Got ten kinds of the golden rule
for the scroll.
A shark for lagoon. Got a mother#$%^er
harp for the wound. A way to say everything
is tiny violin for fingertips on a spoon.
Flak in the air.
Body bags going home.
How about instead of putting up a plaque
set a gnome.
Light a candle. Change what you're wearing.
Think about how you'll be dressed
when you're burr9ed.
Are you my mommie? I know you can't be. Can you?
Working hard and hardly working.
Are you my mommy?
On top of the junk yard
picking up pieces and putting together a great vinyl.
Are you my mommy?
Ms. Lady, are you my mommy?
Beautiful, no.
Are you my mommy?
No! Stop!
Are you?
No.
I found something I thought you may like. No. I will take a look. Are you my mommy? No. I will see. Will you see? Yes, I will see. Are you my mommy? No, but I will see.
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.
12/23/14
12/22/14
Stand Up Act 10
Stand Up Act 9
Don't be a quitter. You can say you're not funny, but you are a little funny. Everyone's a little funny in the head. Knee slapping toe tapping funny? Yeah. I was just thinking about my very confused moment when I thought it was raining while pumping gas because it was overcast and I wasn't paying attention and it's pretty funny. Imagining the view of someone waiting in line inside the mini mart and the line is eight, maybe nine, people long and it was a pain in the ass to find parking and when you did you still had to watch one of the fueling stalls with a hawk's eye until you realized the car you were watching had someone in the front passenger seat, but not the driver's seat and you knew you may as well go and pay at the register instead of at the pump because chances were good they were in there anyway, it's pretty funny. Standing in the mini mart, eight bodies deep, and the person you're waiting for four feet in front of you and instead of staring flaming arrows into the back of their head you glance to your left out of the mart front's windows and see me whistling away the afternoon and nodding my head to a killer soundtrack entirely between my ears while gasoline pours all over the ground and my shoes instead of into my car's tank... kind of hilarious. Until you ask yourself "is he about to commit suicide? Am I about to witness an act of terror/protest? Immolation? Is that the word? Buddhists aren't violent! What is going on???" That's when it becomes semi-not funny. Still funny though. Don't be a quitter. Quitters cannot be relied on for shit.
Quitters tend to be non-showerers. Soap dodgers. "Why should I take a shower? I'm only going to get dirty later." Yes! That's it! That's exactly the point! You're going to get dirty later, so take a shower! What is so difficult to comprehend about that? Why should I change my tires? They're only going to wear out later. No! Terrible logic, sir or madame! The entire point of changing your tires is so that you can still get to where you need to go without driving on the inside parts of your wheels after your rims melt into white hot vapor and you destroy the infrastructure of society by going to get a loaf of bread. That's the entire point of changing your tires.
Do you really want to be that person that provokes violent and sudden and detrimental change to the fabric of citizenry itself with the funk emanating from inside your clothing? That makes you a disease to the American body. You, person skipping bathing, are literally a disease and what you have made airborne is going to get into someone else's nose and push them right over the edge on what was probably a sub-par day of the office. That person is going to go home with a little extra essence of pure rage from having to deal with your soap dodging ass and sit and fume for hours, perhaps days. That rage is going to fester and grow and fall out of that persons brain like lightning bolts while you sit at home and think about not taking a shower while you eat some microwave heated shit dinner that comes in three different flavors, and have you tried the one with the pudding square?
That person is going to slowly fume and every time they smell anything normal, but slightly off, they will squeeze their mental stress ball until it can't be squished any smaller and they will find a board with a nail in it while they're at work and just start cracking peoples brains open. All over the place. Brains everywhere. That person's kids will grow up in a single parent home and become a serial killer. Not that your spouse didn't try, but fucked up is fucked up, let's be honest. That serial killer will shut down your cities night life and going to the bar will be a fucking shit show because no one will be there. You'll have extra time to think about not bathing yourself and I hope you feel terrible because you'll have ruined it for everyone else who does take showers, created a psychopath, and ruined a marriage, and quite possible a necklace of future children who will never have a normal childhood. All because you didn't take a shower. Be better than that.
Showering is important. There's a shower graph. It's the graph of inward and outward perception. At the bottom of the graph is zero. As the "Y" axis goes up, it heads towards an actual physical intervention. As the "X" axis goes across, it heads toward infinity number of days without washing your body. The green line is the array of points indicating what people feel about the condition of your dirt suit. The red line is the array of points indicating what you feel about the of your dirt suit. Day 1 through 2, depending on your deodorant situation, even at zero.
Day three the green line starts to inch upward. The red line is still zero. Day four, you're at "maybe shower, but my clothes are still clean so whatever", the green line is at "I'm pretty sure he's stopped showering." Day five, the green line is at "does he wipe after number 2?" The red line is at "I can still tie my shoes without being able to smell my own groin. We're good." Day 6, they're asking you if you are okay and if someone has died in your family or has your heart been broken recently. Day 6, you are realizing your skin has been chipping off pretty easily and no matter what you wear it feels kind of itchy. On day 7 people are beginning to actively avoid standing near you and it's great because you can't hear their bullshit conversations or are obligated to make conversation because they're out of the range of politeness.
Day seven too, you realize when you dig in your pockets it pulls the waistband of your jeans far enough from your hips to release an ungodly plume of b.o. the world has known only in stories of lore. It's not that your nose was close either. The mushroom cloud of violently decaying nuclear fissionic waste rolled up your tummy and chest and hit you right in the chin from underneath your shirt and jacket like NES punch out Tyson. At a grocery store. And now that's on camera forever. They'll be looking at their loss prevention footage and cue you up and point you out when you went to get your wallet out of your pocket and recoiled from yourself like a ghost held it's index finger up to your nose after finger banging someone and said "check this out!"
That's when the graph points match again. Right at the top of the graph around day 7. What's crazy is if you hit day 7 and that happens and you're completely unphased you just go back to day zero. That red line falls straight back down the "Y" axis and the thought process changes from "why not take a bath" to "why take a bath, I'm good with this."
No, don't be good with that. You're going to ruin someone's life with the way you smell. Don't be good with that! The truth is, when you get back to zero, that green line indicating how you are perceived by the world outside your skull goes to infinity. People start to really consider if they should ask you some deep ass questions. Maybe you're hiding some sort of extremely deep seated trauma or maybe you did something or something happened to you that you really need to talk about, but can't put the words together. No. None of that. You've just accepted that being a dirty assed human being is acceptable enough to you. Selfish prick. Take fucking showers. Don't be a life ruiner.
Also don't be that guy on public transportation that sits next to whomever to prove that they're fine with all walks of life. You're not impressing anyone. Anyone in their right mind knows the old man at the front of the bus in the handicap seat has shit his pants and was not wearing a diaper this afternoon. Arm sleeve tattoos are not a nose clip. Everyone on this box on wheels can smell the fact that he has shit his pants and is not at all concerned with the fact. Join the rest of the green curb at the back of the bus. It doesn't make you any less of a person. I'm sure you're a really great person on the inside and a free spirit, but shitting next to.... sitting next to a steaming pile of happily oblivious is still sitting next to a steaming pile. We live in America, people. You have the option to object. Trust us, we're not judging you from the back of the bus. We are sometimes shaking our heads and wondering what the hell is wrong with your reasoning capabilities, but we are not judging you that harshly. Come back here where the music is live on cellphone speakers and I am not acknowledging you because we have the same dealer and I remember you from two Saturdays ago, but did not realize we live close enough together to have gotten on the bus within a few stops of each other and you didn't call me back. Asshole.
Clubs and bars are like giant sleepovers. The only caveat is that everyone does have to go to sleep eventually, but everyone's sleeping bags are miles apart so that conversation you would normally have while falling asleep get's sent out through text messages and various post outlets instead of mouth to mouth to your friend. The thing is it would be creepy to send them those messages directly, way too affectionate for society now. Society is way too sexualized. Way too sexually charged. If I send you a text at 2 A.M. there's no sexual connotation to it. It's just an extension of a conversation I wanted to have earlier, but it took me a while to put the thought together, just like at a slumber party when all you can think about is all the rest of the shit you did that day. All you can think about is the cookies and the iced tea and the video games and playing tag and hitting that three on the backyard hoop they have and your friend's mom's tits and while you're trying to fall asleep you remember that thing that occurred to you that was kind of poignant and wanted to break it out for conversation and analysis before you forget that the thought ever occurred. And now you're creepy trying to talk to your 32 year old friend about a ridiculous theory that, though apt given the days events, now sounds like Silence of the Lambs pillow talk.
Social media is a lot like a giant sleepover. A giant massively multiplayer sleepover. Think about it. What did you want to do at every sleepover? Stay up as late as possible. Check. You can stay up as late as you want to whenever you want to, every time. What else did you want to do? Drink as much soda as you wanted to? Check. Play whatever game you wanted to for as long as you wanted to and cut out the players you did not want to play with at will. Check and check and check. Watch movies and talk about them as much as you wanted to? Check. Talk about current events? Check? That kind of makes you an awful person to have at a sleepover, but whatever floats your boat. Alright. It's basically an enormous, wonderful, slumber party that you have to pretend to be asleep during parts to avoid the other people at the sleepover that are not your friends. It's great!
The best thing is, if you want to get up for a glass of orange juice or something at 3 A.M. you don't have to sneak around. You can get up like a boss, go get the quart of O.J. and chug that shit straight out of the bottle.
Don't be a quitter. You can say you're not funny, but you are a little funny. Everyone's a little funny in the head. Knee slapping toe tapping funny? Yeah. I was just thinking about my very confused moment when I thought it was raining while pumping gas because it was overcast and I wasn't paying attention and it's pretty funny. Imagining the view of someone waiting in line inside the mini mart and the line is eight, maybe nine, people long and it was a pain in the ass to find parking and when you did you still had to watch one of the fueling stalls with a hawk's eye until you realized the car you were watching had someone in the front passenger seat, but not the driver's seat and you knew you may as well go and pay at the register instead of at the pump because chances were good they were in there anyway, it's pretty funny. Standing in the mini mart, eight bodies deep, and the person you're waiting for four feet in front of you and instead of staring flaming arrows into the back of their head you glance to your left out of the mart front's windows and see me whistling away the afternoon and nodding my head to a killer soundtrack entirely between my ears while gasoline pours all over the ground and my shoes instead of into my car's tank... kind of hilarious. Until you ask yourself "is he about to commit suicide? Am I about to witness an act of terror/protest? Immolation? Is that the word? Buddhists aren't violent! What is going on???" That's when it becomes semi-not funny. Still funny though. Don't be a quitter. Quitters cannot be relied on for shit.
Quitters tend to be non-showerers. Soap dodgers. "Why should I take a shower? I'm only going to get dirty later." Yes! That's it! That's exactly the point! You're going to get dirty later, so take a shower! What is so difficult to comprehend about that? Why should I change my tires? They're only going to wear out later. No! Terrible logic, sir or madame! The entire point of changing your tires is so that you can still get to where you need to go without driving on the inside parts of your wheels after your rims melt into white hot vapor and you destroy the infrastructure of society by going to get a loaf of bread. That's the entire point of changing your tires.
Do you really want to be that person that provokes violent and sudden and detrimental change to the fabric of citizenry itself with the funk emanating from inside your clothing? That makes you a disease to the American body. You, person skipping bathing, are literally a disease and what you have made airborne is going to get into someone else's nose and push them right over the edge on what was probably a sub-par day of the office. That person is going to go home with a little extra essence of pure rage from having to deal with your soap dodging ass and sit and fume for hours, perhaps days. That rage is going to fester and grow and fall out of that persons brain like lightning bolts while you sit at home and think about not taking a shower while you eat some microwave heated shit dinner that comes in three different flavors, and have you tried the one with the pudding square?
That person is going to slowly fume and every time they smell anything normal, but slightly off, they will squeeze their mental stress ball until it can't be squished any smaller and they will find a board with a nail in it while they're at work and just start cracking peoples brains open. All over the place. Brains everywhere. That person's kids will grow up in a single parent home and become a serial killer. Not that your spouse didn't try, but fucked up is fucked up, let's be honest. That serial killer will shut down your cities night life and going to the bar will be a fucking shit show because no one will be there. You'll have extra time to think about not bathing yourself and I hope you feel terrible because you'll have ruined it for everyone else who does take showers, created a psychopath, and ruined a marriage, and quite possible a necklace of future children who will never have a normal childhood. All because you didn't take a shower. Be better than that.
Showering is important. There's a shower graph. It's the graph of inward and outward perception. At the bottom of the graph is zero. As the "Y" axis goes up, it heads towards an actual physical intervention. As the "X" axis goes across, it heads toward infinity number of days without washing your body. The green line is the array of points indicating what people feel about the condition of your dirt suit. The red line is the array of points indicating what you feel about the of your dirt suit. Day 1 through 2, depending on your deodorant situation, even at zero.
Day three the green line starts to inch upward. The red line is still zero. Day four, you're at "maybe shower, but my clothes are still clean so whatever", the green line is at "I'm pretty sure he's stopped showering." Day five, the green line is at "does he wipe after number 2?" The red line is at "I can still tie my shoes without being able to smell my own groin. We're good." Day 6, they're asking you if you are okay and if someone has died in your family or has your heart been broken recently. Day 6, you are realizing your skin has been chipping off pretty easily and no matter what you wear it feels kind of itchy. On day 7 people are beginning to actively avoid standing near you and it's great because you can't hear their bullshit conversations or are obligated to make conversation because they're out of the range of politeness.
Day seven too, you realize when you dig in your pockets it pulls the waistband of your jeans far enough from your hips to release an ungodly plume of b.o. the world has known only in stories of lore. It's not that your nose was close either. The mushroom cloud of violently decaying nuclear fissionic waste rolled up your tummy and chest and hit you right in the chin from underneath your shirt and jacket like NES punch out Tyson. At a grocery store. And now that's on camera forever. They'll be looking at their loss prevention footage and cue you up and point you out when you went to get your wallet out of your pocket and recoiled from yourself like a ghost held it's index finger up to your nose after finger banging someone and said "check this out!"
That's when the graph points match again. Right at the top of the graph around day 7. What's crazy is if you hit day 7 and that happens and you're completely unphased you just go back to day zero. That red line falls straight back down the "Y" axis and the thought process changes from "why not take a bath" to "why take a bath, I'm good with this."
No, don't be good with that. You're going to ruin someone's life with the way you smell. Don't be good with that! The truth is, when you get back to zero, that green line indicating how you are perceived by the world outside your skull goes to infinity. People start to really consider if they should ask you some deep ass questions. Maybe you're hiding some sort of extremely deep seated trauma or maybe you did something or something happened to you that you really need to talk about, but can't put the words together. No. None of that. You've just accepted that being a dirty assed human being is acceptable enough to you. Selfish prick. Take fucking showers. Don't be a life ruiner.
Also don't be that guy on public transportation that sits next to whomever to prove that they're fine with all walks of life. You're not impressing anyone. Anyone in their right mind knows the old man at the front of the bus in the handicap seat has shit his pants and was not wearing a diaper this afternoon. Arm sleeve tattoos are not a nose clip. Everyone on this box on wheels can smell the fact that he has shit his pants and is not at all concerned with the fact. Join the rest of the green curb at the back of the bus. It doesn't make you any less of a person. I'm sure you're a really great person on the inside and a free spirit, but shitting next to.... sitting next to a steaming pile of happily oblivious is still sitting next to a steaming pile. We live in America, people. You have the option to object. Trust us, we're not judging you from the back of the bus. We are sometimes shaking our heads and wondering what the hell is wrong with your reasoning capabilities, but we are not judging you that harshly. Come back here where the music is live on cellphone speakers and I am not acknowledging you because we have the same dealer and I remember you from two Saturdays ago, but did not realize we live close enough together to have gotten on the bus within a few stops of each other and you didn't call me back. Asshole.
Clubs and bars are like giant sleepovers. The only caveat is that everyone does have to go to sleep eventually, but everyone's sleeping bags are miles apart so that conversation you would normally have while falling asleep get's sent out through text messages and various post outlets instead of mouth to mouth to your friend. The thing is it would be creepy to send them those messages directly, way too affectionate for society now. Society is way too sexualized. Way too sexually charged. If I send you a text at 2 A.M. there's no sexual connotation to it. It's just an extension of a conversation I wanted to have earlier, but it took me a while to put the thought together, just like at a slumber party when all you can think about is all the rest of the shit you did that day. All you can think about is the cookies and the iced tea and the video games and playing tag and hitting that three on the backyard hoop they have and your friend's mom's tits and while you're trying to fall asleep you remember that thing that occurred to you that was kind of poignant and wanted to break it out for conversation and analysis before you forget that the thought ever occurred. And now you're creepy trying to talk to your 32 year old friend about a ridiculous theory that, though apt given the days events, now sounds like Silence of the Lambs pillow talk.
Social media is a lot like a giant sleepover. A giant massively multiplayer sleepover. Think about it. What did you want to do at every sleepover? Stay up as late as possible. Check. You can stay up as late as you want to whenever you want to, every time. What else did you want to do? Drink as much soda as you wanted to? Check. Play whatever game you wanted to for as long as you wanted to and cut out the players you did not want to play with at will. Check and check and check. Watch movies and talk about them as much as you wanted to? Check. Talk about current events? Check? That kind of makes you an awful person to have at a sleepover, but whatever floats your boat. Alright. It's basically an enormous, wonderful, slumber party that you have to pretend to be asleep during parts to avoid the other people at the sleepover that are not your friends. It's great!
The best thing is, if you want to get up for a glass of orange juice or something at 3 A.M. you don't have to sneak around. You can get up like a boss, go get the quart of O.J. and chug that shit straight out of the bottle.
12/21/14
That Instant
You realize you may have been bred to be a good guard dog. Even so, be the best guard dog you can be.
12/20/14
A Very Confused Moment
Confuzzlry. It's not bad, but it's not good either. I took my truck for a routine fill up. I've yet to put a full tank in her and I thought the day might be the day to push the needle full to "F". It was not the day.
Traffic was terrible and all of the legal side routes were taken and you can't hop curbs no matter your clearance level. I stared at the curbs. My head up display showed the alternate route and I had to keep pressing cancel, breathe easy, and listen to radio. Clutch out. Clutch in. Clutch out. Clutch in. Clutch out. Oh, wait! No, nothing moving. Clutch out. Clutch out. It was not my day to be had and I was not going to be had on this day. No sir. No thanks. I'll wait.
Get to the pumps and every stall is taken and my baby is thirsty as hell. Even I can taste it. I set it to hover mode and blocked all ways of ingress and egress. Except one. Sure enough that stall cleared out and I took two glances and shot the gap backwards. Full reverse! Aye aye, captain. I can't hear you! Aye aye, captain!
Straight into the path of a little rabbit car. We had a face to mirror to windshield to face show down. One of the times when having a giant rusty hook hitch bolted to your truck frame helps. It's that extra incentive to "do you really want this through the hood of your car?" I slipped her in to the open stall, easy as cake. Or pie. Take your pick. The point is, if you talk to her well, the battleship has hunter killer maneuverability. You have to suss it out though. And know her limits.
Gassing up, my eyes went upward too. I started to day dream while fueling the tank and I really wished for rain or at least snow, but I'll settle for rain. I heard it. Rattle rattle rattle asphalt rattle and I smiled very wide. And then I noticed that it was not raining. The woman on the other side of the pump was staring at me. I smiled and winked back. She kept staring.
That's when I realized gasoline was pouring all over the side of the truck and collecting in a great pool beneath my feet. "Oh?" is what I said. It kept pouring. I looked at her and she wasn't staring anymore. I looked at the sky and it was in fact not raining. I looked at the front tank's hatch and it was indeed pouring gasoline everywhere beginning six dollars ago.
I cut the feed and adjusted the nozzle and gasket. Perfect pour. She started drinking real well with no spills. I cast my eyes around to see who else saw and then I realized everybody gets one. Two fudges in five years is not bad. It's not good, but it's not bad either.
How'd you die? Freak gasoline fight accident. I couldn't help chuckling while I pulled away. A good horse is a happy horse. The things I do for you, truck. You owe me one.
The cockpit reeks of gasoline now. No shoes in the house!
///Miss Kittin - "Happy Violentine" .... do you like me [y] [n]. my truck gets moody. so do i. red aura'd capital underscore night terrors
Traffic was terrible and all of the legal side routes were taken and you can't hop curbs no matter your clearance level. I stared at the curbs. My head up display showed the alternate route and I had to keep pressing cancel, breathe easy, and listen to radio. Clutch out. Clutch in. Clutch out. Clutch in. Clutch out. Oh, wait! No, nothing moving. Clutch out. Clutch out. It was not my day to be had and I was not going to be had on this day. No sir. No thanks. I'll wait.
Get to the pumps and every stall is taken and my baby is thirsty as hell. Even I can taste it. I set it to hover mode and blocked all ways of ingress and egress. Except one. Sure enough that stall cleared out and I took two glances and shot the gap backwards. Full reverse! Aye aye, captain. I can't hear you! Aye aye, captain!
Straight into the path of a little rabbit car. We had a face to mirror to windshield to face show down. One of the times when having a giant rusty hook hitch bolted to your truck frame helps. It's that extra incentive to "do you really want this through the hood of your car?" I slipped her in to the open stall, easy as cake. Or pie. Take your pick. The point is, if you talk to her well, the battleship has hunter killer maneuverability. You have to suss it out though. And know her limits.
Gassing up, my eyes went upward too. I started to day dream while fueling the tank and I really wished for rain or at least snow, but I'll settle for rain. I heard it. Rattle rattle rattle asphalt rattle and I smiled very wide. And then I noticed that it was not raining. The woman on the other side of the pump was staring at me. I smiled and winked back. She kept staring.
That's when I realized gasoline was pouring all over the side of the truck and collecting in a great pool beneath my feet. "Oh?" is what I said. It kept pouring. I looked at her and she wasn't staring anymore. I looked at the sky and it was in fact not raining. I looked at the front tank's hatch and it was indeed pouring gasoline everywhere beginning six dollars ago.
I cut the feed and adjusted the nozzle and gasket. Perfect pour. She started drinking real well with no spills. I cast my eyes around to see who else saw and then I realized everybody gets one. Two fudges in five years is not bad. It's not good, but it's not bad either.
How'd you die? Freak gasoline fight accident. I couldn't help chuckling while I pulled away. A good horse is a happy horse. The things I do for you, truck. You owe me one.
The cockpit reeks of gasoline now. No shoes in the house!
///Miss Kittin - "Happy Violentine" .... do you like me [y] [n]. my truck gets moody. so do i. red aura'd capital underscore night terrors
12/19/14
The Best Thing
about discovering that song you are going to bang until, after an intervention, you have a private intervention with yourself and come to grips or triggers about how you will live your life, you say to yourself "the world of sound is passing me by in leaps and bounds and I am going to die inside this bubble" is that you can bang it the @#$% out til then.
12/14/14
Dear (_____)
Dear corporate,
I'm on my fucking lunch break. Unless you want to talk about the Sunday games or varieties of reds, I'm not interested. Anything else? Alright, sounds about good.
up yours,
the union
I'm on my fucking lunch break. Unless you want to talk about the Sunday games or varieties of reds, I'm not interested. Anything else? Alright, sounds about good.
up yours,
the union
12/13/14
Facebook is funny. It's obvious as a bunch of gate switches, on and off. Zero and one. It's funny because there are so many ways to have full conversations using only gate switches. It's obvious, but it's still funny imagining an ever flipping map of things and you can hit whichever switches you want to in a side scrolling self describing toggle machine. It's pretty swell and still funny. Rudimentary, but a chuckle. All the positions begin at off. No point fives. I'm not sure where I'm going with this, oh yeah, just remembered. And forgot. It's back, okay, got it, the hook is that with only being able to describe yourself through on or off it becomes possible to predict what's coming next and it grows formulaic. For a ball of nerve endings that require routine to survive it becomes a joke. For a ball of nerve endings that are a ball of fat and salt it's very funny to watch and also to participate. It's fun I think is what I'm getting at. Fun to create and fun to acknowledge. The equivalent of a wave to say that I am me and you are you and "hi, how are ya." Its neat.
///DJ? Acucrack - "Captain's Waterlog"
///DJ? Acucrack - "Captain's Waterlog"
12/12/14
The Best Thing
about finally getting the arc distance right is seeing the spark fly and watching the pressure wave go and the ball of fire and debris after and waiting to see the exact formation of the math equations painted across your vision is knowing that the scene has been set and you are one step closer to finishing the jigsaw puzzle of the lives you've been bouncing in and out of inside the story you want to tell.
That Instant
you hit the nail so squarely inside your skull (but have not physically done anything) you have to stop what you're doing so that you do not pee yourself giggling and jumping up and down in your chair trying to shift gears and make sure your only product is not a cloud of smoke.
Dear Syntax
You make my skin squirm each time you present me "its it's" and "that that's" and "that's that" and "it's its". I will contort myself in painful ways to avoid the cold sweat and dry mouth and nerve twists you give me with your greasy jigsaw knots and others like them.
queasily,
your #1 fan
queasily,
your #1 fan
12/7/14
That Instant
You realize you may have tattooed your brother's girlfriend's name on your hand by accident and you're rethinking the decision and you know you cannot spell decision without incision, and you laugh because why not and you also think "wouldn't it be magic to know that his girlfriend was also a boxer" so that it could work out even?
And then realize that no matter where he is or what he gets up to it is good to have a reminder, because you know it is easy to forget and it is better to never regret. And then remember to love your brother until you or he gives up the ghost and hope whatever or whomever he is bedding is not also the object of fast hands and heavy damage: Ali.
You realize what matters is what matters to me.
And then realize that no matter where he is or what he gets up to it is good to have a reminder, because you know it is easy to forget and it is better to never regret. And then remember to love your brother until you or he gives up the ghost and hope whatever or whomever he is bedding is not also the object of fast hands and heavy damage: Ali.
You realize what matters is what matters to me.
12/5/14
A Thought on Canvases
I made a drawing yesterday. It was good. By good I mean I liked it and art is done for you. The drawing was small and took very little time to compose. Better than good, it was a pleasure to assemble and even more pleasurable to see outside of my skull. A nice thing about it is that now that it's free I can compose more.
The thought occurred though, holding the sheet of paper up to a light bulb so that I could see it backward and see if the proportions worked correctly, was that I allowed my canvases to grow bloated. I allowed the canvases to exceed my ability to fill them. With time of course, any canvas can be filled. Tortuously. Screamingly. With terrific agony. I'm not there yet. I was there and it got very ugly for too long and I gave up.
Everything doesn't have to be bigger, better, bigger!, better!. It reminded me that I select the canvas. The canvas does not select me. The sensation was comforting. "Why has my art gone to hell?" Maybe it is you that has gone to hell to doodle? Feel free to back up. Circle round. There is no gun to your head. Don't forget to stop and enjoy what you can do with a smile.
///Error 641-33067
The thought occurred though, holding the sheet of paper up to a light bulb so that I could see it backward and see if the proportions worked correctly, was that I allowed my canvases to grow bloated. I allowed the canvases to exceed my ability to fill them. With time of course, any canvas can be filled. Tortuously. Screamingly. With terrific agony. I'm not there yet. I was there and it got very ugly for too long and I gave up.
Everything doesn't have to be bigger, better, bigger!, better!. It reminded me that I select the canvas. The canvas does not select me. The sensation was comforting. "Why has my art gone to hell?" Maybe it is you that has gone to hell to doodle? Feel free to back up. Circle round. There is no gun to your head. Don't forget to stop and enjoy what you can do with a smile.
///Error 641-33067
11/25/14
Pushed
All I wanted was a front row seat in what feels like a war and looks nothing like it. I keep reciting the procedure and double and triple checking equipment, and in the mean seconds ticking by the pilot is sweating marbles trying to keep our helicopter away from flak and small arms fire and the occasional rocket, circling where I need to land once I jump off of the side. I'm sweating too fearful of what happens after I step out into thin air, but I know what happens. There's nothing to be afraid of.
Walking into my apartment after getting groceries the long fingered man with the reading glasses glances up and turns around and taps the only skin on his arm not flayed away where a watch was. Time is of the essence. I know. There is not much time to waste. I know, I know, I know. Where are you going? Out, don't follow me. You forgot your wallet. Thank you.
I suppose, a sort of writer's block for persons who don't get writer's block?
Consider this your gentle, two palmed, straight armed shove. You know what has to be done. Pull the trigger.
I worry sometimes that it won't make sense. I worry now if it's not good. If the entire pursuit has been a waste. Why poetry? What is locking up inside you? It's nothing. Absolutely nothing and you know it. Don't be afraid, you've just had your eyes closed for a few months. Listening to the air and the land and space and people eating each other alive and giving birth and dying and sleeping and breathing and talking and talking and it's not so bad if you'd only open your eyes standing on the ledge of the gunship. Make sense out of chaos. Or chaos out of chaos. Make sense of it later. Every thought lost to time is one less beacon, one less point of reference, one less story, one less epic, one less chapter, one less relationship you could have brought into this world from your travels. One less love. Do it for you. Do it because you can love you and that's where it all starts. Come clapping toward the bright pink smoke flare while the shells fly. I'll be back to pick you up sooner than you have time to think to ask "where did you go?"
///Sylvan Esso - "Hey Mami" higher resolution
Walking into my apartment after getting groceries the long fingered man with the reading glasses glances up and turns around and taps the only skin on his arm not flayed away where a watch was. Time is of the essence. I know. There is not much time to waste. I know, I know, I know. Where are you going? Out, don't follow me. You forgot your wallet. Thank you.
I suppose, a sort of writer's block for persons who don't get writer's block?
Consider this your gentle, two palmed, straight armed shove. You know what has to be done. Pull the trigger.
I worry sometimes that it won't make sense. I worry now if it's not good. If the entire pursuit has been a waste. Why poetry? What is locking up inside you? It's nothing. Absolutely nothing and you know it. Don't be afraid, you've just had your eyes closed for a few months. Listening to the air and the land and space and people eating each other alive and giving birth and dying and sleeping and breathing and talking and talking and it's not so bad if you'd only open your eyes standing on the ledge of the gunship. Make sense out of chaos. Or chaos out of chaos. Make sense of it later. Every thought lost to time is one less beacon, one less point of reference, one less story, one less epic, one less chapter, one less relationship you could have brought into this world from your travels. One less love. Do it for you. Do it because you can love you and that's where it all starts. Come clapping toward the bright pink smoke flare while the shells fly. I'll be back to pick you up sooner than you have time to think to ask "where did you go?"
///Sylvan Esso - "Hey Mami" higher resolution
11/23/14
That Instant
it blossoms that you're too drunk to fish, too drunk to drive, and too drunk to masturbate, but just drunk enough to sleep like a new born.
11/20/14
Dear (_____)
Dear Electronics Websites,
Can we all just agree that a skin for a product that happens to have circuits and wires and batteries inside it is not an electronic product. Here's a revolutionary idea: when customers are sifting through your offerings just make a separate tab and call it "skins." The people looking for skins will know where to go and the people looking for low cost, practical, headphones won't blow their brains out scrolling through 400 different skins to put on the back of their phone case's phone case.
A skin is not an electronic device!
Can we all just agree that a skin for a product that happens to have circuits and wires and batteries inside it is not an electronic product. Here's a revolutionary idea: when customers are sifting through your offerings just make a separate tab and call it "skins." The people looking for skins will know where to go and the people looking for low cost, practical, headphones won't blow their brains out scrolling through 400 different skins to put on the back of their phone case's phone case.
A skin is not an electronic device!
11/15/14
Colonel Gentleman
Colonel Gentleman's list of things that belong in a flaming trashcan:
1: work gloves that I paid good money for that don't protect my hands from dick.
2: tear free shampoos.
3: Justin Beiber.
4: toeless socks.
5: erasable pens.
6: liquors tailored to people who do not like the taste of liquor.
7: people who do not like the taste of liquor and drink it anyway. You're ruining the market for everyone else.
8: light beers.
9: 36% of Major League Baseball's teams.
10: band aids with impossible packaging.
1: work gloves that I paid good money for that don't protect my hands from dick.
2: tear free shampoos.
3: Justin Beiber.
4: toeless socks.
5: erasable pens.
6: liquors tailored to people who do not like the taste of liquor.
7: people who do not like the taste of liquor and drink it anyway. You're ruining the market for everyone else.
8: light beers.
9: 36% of Major League Baseball's teams.
10: band aids with impossible packaging.
11/4/14
Breaking the Horse
Sometimes it feels as though I can do no right. What happened in my past lives to be cursed so? I lost a cat yesterday. I gave him everything he wanted. I gave him everything he needed and then some. It makes no sense. I can still feel him. I can still see bits of him in my vision. I can still smell him. His ears smelled like french toast sometimes. He was only about two years old. I have to remind myself that I didn't kill him. I wonder if I did perhaps by accident. I flushed my fish down the toilet a while back, but that was because I shouldn't have had them to begin with.
I thought I did pretty good with him. He was my chief officer on board my ship. The other guy was my first mate. The first mate has been promoted. I'm sure he didn't want to get his promotion that way. He keeps meowing constantly to call up the deceased. He doesn't understand that our chief officer is gone for good. I kind of don't understand it either. As soon as I touched him I knew he wasn't just sleeping. He was my cooking buddy. I'd meet him in the mess hall to talk about our course and how to squeeze a little more oomf out of the engines. He was my napping buddy too. My sleep in pal. He'd lay on my phone so I wouldn't have to hear it.
No, no, no, sweetie. Come back to me. I need you! My first mate needs you too. We had a good crew. Was the music too loud? Was the bass too heavy? Did I not keep the temperature high enough? I couldn't turn it up any higher. It made my nose bleed too much. What did I screw up? Who's going to wake me up in the morning now?
I thought about burning his body for a very long time. Give him up to the air and the stars. I'm giving him back to the city instead. It's where he came from. If I gave him to the stars, he wouldn't know what to do with himself. I am from there. He is not. He'll be home. I am glad our paths crossed. I do not know how to explain it to my first mate. If I spoke cat, I might be able to. I'm not sad. I am angry. Why didn't you tell me? Did you? Did I kill you? Involuntary manslaughter? Agent 001 Jack: K.I.A., Mr. Morton codename "Lauren": K.I.A., Chief Officer Torus: K.I.A., First Mate Boots "Hatswitch" Mustachio: T.B.D.
I am happy though. One of the last things I remember doing with him is letting him climb up my jean leg and hook his claws into my hoodie all the way up my back so he could get a good perch on my shoulder and ride around up there while I walked through the ship and pointed out the things he liked to sit on from the view of his colossus. We were a fabulous team. I thought we'd have more time to enjoy our voyage. He loved to sit in my lap while I wrote in my notebooks. He'd rub his face on the corners of the pages and make little wet nose prints on the backs of my hands and the paper.
Each week, each month, each year, I am trying to break the horse. I am trying to break myself and exercise control better than I did the year, the month, the week, before. Sometimes with success. Sometimes with failure. Some of the voices scream "somebody has to pay!!!" It is unreasonable. It is irrational. I want to cut you open so badly. I want to hook my hand into your mouth and press my fingertips underneath your tongue until the break through the skin behind your chin and rip as hard as I can and hear the sucking pop of your jaw breaking away from the rest of your skull and listen to you drown bleeding into your own esophagus. Somebody has to pay. I am trying to break that horse. I am trying not to hurt myself to show you what we want from you.
Happiness is fleeting. Pain endures. Pain is infectious as is happiness. I am not broken. I am tired of dealing with death. The horseman that rides with me. Our ghost army behind us. Having to continually modify not by choice, but necessity.
I know I have to use my words more. Not just more, but with greater frequency. I have to use art more to break the locks and the seizing to escape the killing fields. I have to pay more respect to the blast radius and recognize that it is not a game and if I take it too lightly, if I lull myself into believing it will sort itself out without careful and constant monitoring I will wake up too late and infection will spread far and wide defeating the entire purpose of closing the cycle of violence began a generation before my birth. I am trying to break myself. I am trying to limit myself. Meta-jail is real and I have to do my part too. You are there for a reason. You can manufacture happiness. The children are always present, do not listen to them, no matter what they say. While you've been ignoring it, the factory floor has been busy and now coming to that basement and seeing the stockpiles of things you only imagined existed my heart falls. Where the hell were you when the furnace fired again? Where the hell were you when the new blueprints were spread out and the flywheels started turning again? I tried. Try harder! This is not a game!
It is good that some mobility has been lost. There are those you cannot reach and it is good. It is important. Remember why you laugh, jackal. The freedoms you have were hard won, do not give them up easily. Do not give them up lazily. Take time. We have been patient and we will not shed it. A crew of two instead of three may not be so bad a thing as you imagine. The first mate will adjust and embrace his promotion, regardless of how it came about. Know that, do not say it, know it. You did not skin him. You do not wear him. He will be remembered. Bury the tools and keep an eye on us. I will. Somebody has to pay, but not today.
I took a long walk around the city. A very long walk. Control rage. You were born. Get over it. I was born on the twenty second of April in nineteen eighty five. Remember what you are doing. I was born into conflict. I was born into violence. I was born into love too. I was born onto a battlefield not of my own making and that is okay. That is alright. We learned, we grew, we got stronger, we learned how to kill and how to eat, how to feed ourselves, how to breath, how to hide, how to fight, how to see in the dark, how to trap, how to sleep, we learned and we grew. We learned our genealogy was a lost cause and our history before our time will never be mapped. We figured out the tree was a hangman's and the damage was already done well before we opened our eyes for the first time on Staten Island. We understood hunger and the sound of an empty stomach and the shiver. Do not forget the mission. Lay a road map for those that are coming after you are gone. Do not forget what it is you must fulfill. Even though your heart is kind of small you were built for something more. Embrace it. Learn the truth and love your life because you only get one shot at it.
Your shipmates will help you. Your inmates. Your internees. They will help you along the expedition through space and time. They are part of the fold, jackal. Use the words, not the weapons. The child will come and go. Supernature is simply part of the spectrum you were born with. They are not demons or angels or phantoms and errors. They are not only that, please stop crying sweetheart. You will die and you will take all of them with you and they will be gone for good too. That's okay. I don't know if Torus saw them too. I don't know if he felt them. I kissed him before I let him go. I rubbed his fur into my nostrils and ate some of his whiskers before I put him back in the trash where he came from. I hope you're happy you disparaged him saying he came from a dumpster. Pluto used to be a planet. We want to name a constellation after him.
I dislike my bad wiring so much. I know I cannot increase my strength, my power. I cannot be allowed to break down the electrified fences and razor wire atop. I cannot let it go. I cannot be allowed to make more money, it will turn into more combustion chambers, more cylinders, more lead, more trigger mechanisms, sights, and chemicals. More wires, dead man switches, boxes of nails and washers, nitrogen, ammonia, and springs. More casings and pellets and carpet knives. Bang on the left ear so it all falls out of the right ear. With greater knowledge comes greater responsibility and I am not sure I am to the task. We absolutely are. For the love of God, get the hell away from me.
Who massages your shoulders? Who plucks your eyelashes? Who sets your makeup? One gold tooth. Break that horse. Change those shoes. Wash those gloves. I need more power. No, you don't. I do! NO YOU DO NOT! Imagine the kingdom we could have. No. Do not lie to me. I am not lying.
I definitely wanted to become a musician. A composer. A librarian. To get lost in the stacks and get paid for it because alphabetical order never lies. Growing up, so many have lied to me. Washing dishes and playing the bubbles like a battlefield always put a smile on my face until standing on a milk crate on Brighton Avenue I heard them screaming at each other and I tried to wiggle my ears to remind them that I was standing there and they started to say he's listening and they took it upstairs, but I could still hear them. My nose is running again. No blood though, that's good. I haven't pissed blood in a while and that's good too. I know how it ends, I do. I am halfway home. Remind ourselves not to do anything stupid. Remind ourselves the visions are just that, visions only.
Time will fly and before we know it we'll be polishing my skull and looking at the healed fractures and running our fingertips over them like welds on an engine block trying to reverse engineer the forces and machines and hands that made them. Do you have a torque wrench? A shoeing hammer? An arc welder will do in a pinch. A continuous retrofitting. We were built for a war, but the war is over. It is not. We were built in war time and repurposed. Built not to feel. Built to not need to see. I got out. I got out. The horse must be broken. Distance must be kept. Do not lose heart. Finish the deal.
Enjoy the view from the edge of the arm of the Milky Way and do not curse Sol or Terra. Aboard the ship we are secure and secured. Take care of the equipment and don't stay long. Coexist. Someday you too will shut down, but understand there are many paths to that end and much to be explored before the channels go dead. Do not forget where you came from, do not be consumed by where you're going. I am not broken.
///Chairlift - "Guilty As Charged" ...footprints on the carpet....go on and punish me...
///El-P & Killer Mike - "Early"
I thought I did pretty good with him. He was my chief officer on board my ship. The other guy was my first mate. The first mate has been promoted. I'm sure he didn't want to get his promotion that way. He keeps meowing constantly to call up the deceased. He doesn't understand that our chief officer is gone for good. I kind of don't understand it either. As soon as I touched him I knew he wasn't just sleeping. He was my cooking buddy. I'd meet him in the mess hall to talk about our course and how to squeeze a little more oomf out of the engines. He was my napping buddy too. My sleep in pal. He'd lay on my phone so I wouldn't have to hear it.
No, no, no, sweetie. Come back to me. I need you! My first mate needs you too. We had a good crew. Was the music too loud? Was the bass too heavy? Did I not keep the temperature high enough? I couldn't turn it up any higher. It made my nose bleed too much. What did I screw up? Who's going to wake me up in the morning now?
I thought about burning his body for a very long time. Give him up to the air and the stars. I'm giving him back to the city instead. It's where he came from. If I gave him to the stars, he wouldn't know what to do with himself. I am from there. He is not. He'll be home. I am glad our paths crossed. I do not know how to explain it to my first mate. If I spoke cat, I might be able to. I'm not sad. I am angry. Why didn't you tell me? Did you? Did I kill you? Involuntary manslaughter? Agent 001 Jack: K.I.A., Mr. Morton codename "Lauren": K.I.A., Chief Officer Torus: K.I.A., First Mate Boots "Hatswitch" Mustachio: T.B.D.
I am happy though. One of the last things I remember doing with him is letting him climb up my jean leg and hook his claws into my hoodie all the way up my back so he could get a good perch on my shoulder and ride around up there while I walked through the ship and pointed out the things he liked to sit on from the view of his colossus. We were a fabulous team. I thought we'd have more time to enjoy our voyage. He loved to sit in my lap while I wrote in my notebooks. He'd rub his face on the corners of the pages and make little wet nose prints on the backs of my hands and the paper.
Each week, each month, each year, I am trying to break the horse. I am trying to break myself and exercise control better than I did the year, the month, the week, before. Sometimes with success. Sometimes with failure. Some of the voices scream "somebody has to pay!!!" It is unreasonable. It is irrational. I want to cut you open so badly. I want to hook my hand into your mouth and press my fingertips underneath your tongue until the break through the skin behind your chin and rip as hard as I can and hear the sucking pop of your jaw breaking away from the rest of your skull and listen to you drown bleeding into your own esophagus. Somebody has to pay. I am trying to break that horse. I am trying not to hurt myself to show you what we want from you.
Happiness is fleeting. Pain endures. Pain is infectious as is happiness. I am not broken. I am tired of dealing with death. The horseman that rides with me. Our ghost army behind us. Having to continually modify not by choice, but necessity.
I know I have to use my words more. Not just more, but with greater frequency. I have to use art more to break the locks and the seizing to escape the killing fields. I have to pay more respect to the blast radius and recognize that it is not a game and if I take it too lightly, if I lull myself into believing it will sort itself out without careful and constant monitoring I will wake up too late and infection will spread far and wide defeating the entire purpose of closing the cycle of violence began a generation before my birth. I am trying to break myself. I am trying to limit myself. Meta-jail is real and I have to do my part too. You are there for a reason. You can manufacture happiness. The children are always present, do not listen to them, no matter what they say. While you've been ignoring it, the factory floor has been busy and now coming to that basement and seeing the stockpiles of things you only imagined existed my heart falls. Where the hell were you when the furnace fired again? Where the hell were you when the new blueprints were spread out and the flywheels started turning again? I tried. Try harder! This is not a game!
It is good that some mobility has been lost. There are those you cannot reach and it is good. It is important. Remember why you laugh, jackal. The freedoms you have were hard won, do not give them up easily. Do not give them up lazily. Take time. We have been patient and we will not shed it. A crew of two instead of three may not be so bad a thing as you imagine. The first mate will adjust and embrace his promotion, regardless of how it came about. Know that, do not say it, know it. You did not skin him. You do not wear him. He will be remembered. Bury the tools and keep an eye on us. I will. Somebody has to pay, but not today.
I took a long walk around the city. A very long walk. Control rage. You were born. Get over it. I was born on the twenty second of April in nineteen eighty five. Remember what you are doing. I was born into conflict. I was born into violence. I was born into love too. I was born onto a battlefield not of my own making and that is okay. That is alright. We learned, we grew, we got stronger, we learned how to kill and how to eat, how to feed ourselves, how to breath, how to hide, how to fight, how to see in the dark, how to trap, how to sleep, we learned and we grew. We learned our genealogy was a lost cause and our history before our time will never be mapped. We figured out the tree was a hangman's and the damage was already done well before we opened our eyes for the first time on Staten Island. We understood hunger and the sound of an empty stomach and the shiver. Do not forget the mission. Lay a road map for those that are coming after you are gone. Do not forget what it is you must fulfill. Even though your heart is kind of small you were built for something more. Embrace it. Learn the truth and love your life because you only get one shot at it.
Your shipmates will help you. Your inmates. Your internees. They will help you along the expedition through space and time. They are part of the fold, jackal. Use the words, not the weapons. The child will come and go. Supernature is simply part of the spectrum you were born with. They are not demons or angels or phantoms and errors. They are not only that, please stop crying sweetheart. You will die and you will take all of them with you and they will be gone for good too. That's okay. I don't know if Torus saw them too. I don't know if he felt them. I kissed him before I let him go. I rubbed his fur into my nostrils and ate some of his whiskers before I put him back in the trash where he came from. I hope you're happy you disparaged him saying he came from a dumpster. Pluto used to be a planet. We want to name a constellation after him.
I dislike my bad wiring so much. I know I cannot increase my strength, my power. I cannot be allowed to break down the electrified fences and razor wire atop. I cannot let it go. I cannot be allowed to make more money, it will turn into more combustion chambers, more cylinders, more lead, more trigger mechanisms, sights, and chemicals. More wires, dead man switches, boxes of nails and washers, nitrogen, ammonia, and springs. More casings and pellets and carpet knives. Bang on the left ear so it all falls out of the right ear. With greater knowledge comes greater responsibility and I am not sure I am to the task. We absolutely are. For the love of God, get the hell away from me.
Who massages your shoulders? Who plucks your eyelashes? Who sets your makeup? One gold tooth. Break that horse. Change those shoes. Wash those gloves. I need more power. No, you don't. I do! NO YOU DO NOT! Imagine the kingdom we could have. No. Do not lie to me. I am not lying.
I definitely wanted to become a musician. A composer. A librarian. To get lost in the stacks and get paid for it because alphabetical order never lies. Growing up, so many have lied to me. Washing dishes and playing the bubbles like a battlefield always put a smile on my face until standing on a milk crate on Brighton Avenue I heard them screaming at each other and I tried to wiggle my ears to remind them that I was standing there and they started to say he's listening and they took it upstairs, but I could still hear them. My nose is running again. No blood though, that's good. I haven't pissed blood in a while and that's good too. I know how it ends, I do. I am halfway home. Remind ourselves not to do anything stupid. Remind ourselves the visions are just that, visions only.
Time will fly and before we know it we'll be polishing my skull and looking at the healed fractures and running our fingertips over them like welds on an engine block trying to reverse engineer the forces and machines and hands that made them. Do you have a torque wrench? A shoeing hammer? An arc welder will do in a pinch. A continuous retrofitting. We were built for a war, but the war is over. It is not. We were built in war time and repurposed. Built not to feel. Built to not need to see. I got out. I got out. The horse must be broken. Distance must be kept. Do not lose heart. Finish the deal.
Enjoy the view from the edge of the arm of the Milky Way and do not curse Sol or Terra. Aboard the ship we are secure and secured. Take care of the equipment and don't stay long. Coexist. Someday you too will shut down, but understand there are many paths to that end and much to be explored before the channels go dead. Do not forget where you came from, do not be consumed by where you're going. I am not broken.
///Chairlift - "Guilty As Charged" ...footprints on the carpet....go on and punish me...
///El-P & Killer Mike - "Early"
10/17/14
Stresses and Stressors and Life On My Tardis
Life is stressful and full of stressors. That's not news to anyone. Time is money and money can be converted into time. The time it takes you to read this is time you could've spent making money. Or maybe it is time you are spending making money. Getting paid to read blogs. Or maybe getting paid to do something, anything, besides read blogs. Shame on you. The time it takes to write this could have been spent working as a dishwasher at Eat n' Park. Or could've been spent getting shopping carts at Kmart and trying not to completely lose it and burn the place to the ground.
Life has many different stresses to it. Some of those stresses are more intense than others. Just about all of those stresses demand some sort of relief, some sort of answer, and you can only ignore the bell for so long before they break in and tear you to pieces and sack your fortress and leaving nothing more than a few shreds of clothing and broken cookware and a few charred pages in their wake. You have to answer the bell. Eventually. It's critical to your survival.
The sad part is, in order to answer those stresses, you have to introduce stressors. Jobs, tasks, relationships, a stressor is anything you take on, voluntarily or not, to help alleviate the stresses, the ambient tensions of your existence, of being alive in a shared world. If the world were not shared. If the world were entirely yours, there would be a single bridge. A single leap from stresses to peace. A back and forth street, a channel, two lanes wide, and perfect. However, it is a shared world. There is no single leap and there never will be.
To achieve any sort of relief from stresses you must introduce or have already introduced stressors. Stressors which often times do introduce stresses of their own. The channel becomes layered denser and denser with lanes upon lanes of tasks and responses all in the name of achieving a peaceful state or a state of greater fluidity and less tension than what your own ambience, your own existence, demands by the fact that you are alive and breathing and as such will not remain so in an entropic universe. By the way, did you ever see Tropic Thunder? Hilarious movie. I highly recommend you watch it if you haven't seen it. Came out a while ago. Should be available for rental or something by now. Robert Downey Jr's in it. Tom Cruise to. Surprisingly good.
Anyway, it's truly mystifying sometimes when you step back and look at and draw the circuit board, the ridiculous interstate highway map of what you have to do just to feel good, normal, and whole, on this shared planet, in this country, in your state, in your city where you call yourself a citizen. It's troubling sometimes. From the time you are alone as a child until the time you die, so much of your energy will be spent on trying to return your state to a single bridge. Return to the two channel direct connection. The single bridge. It's amazing the damage adding a single extra link, one more node, to the graph does.
Time is money and money is time, so let's move this thing forward. I get that time is money, but I also get that what America values my time at is not what I value my time at. I have precious little of it, not because I'm particularly busy, but because it is very difficult at times to function on a, for lack of a better term, "normal" level. A level normative to my peers and expectations of someone my approximate age, build, and general intelligence. My head wears out very quickly and I have to rest and gain space to gather myself before re-engaging. I don't blame mental disorder as much as it's part of how I function and maintain myself now. It's not something distinct of myself, it's incorporated [really, it's only a matter of perspective, part of yourself, outside yourself, what difference does it make from the outside observer looking in? Very little. The only difference looking in from the outside is viewing it one way sounds like you make "convenient" excuses when you do not perform and looking at it the other way sounds like you are a person who is unreliable and irresponsible and maladjusted, but you try to work on yourself. "Attaboy, chap! If you work hard enough you'll get there." Eat me.].
At any rate, the way I understand it is spending your time allows you to convert it into money which you can use to purchase things you may need or want, things you would never have the time to learn how to make, gather materials, and then produce on your own. The question is the conversion rate. If the fastest I can convert time into money is a certain figure per hour, it will cost a certain amount of time to get X or Y thing, necessary or not. Then the question becomes how much time will it cost to maintain X or Y thing at that time to money conversion rate.
With all of the time being drawn out of you, how much time is going to be left for simply living. Will you spend most of your "free" time recovering from work so that you can go back to work so that you can keep X or Y thing you thought you needed or wanted? How fast is that going to kill you. How much stress is that stressor going to introduce and are there enough channels flowing back to ever break the loop long enough to have time to feel whole? My time is worth more than the conversion rate offered. I'll do without, thank you. If my conversion rate changes, I will reconsider. Until it does I am happy maintaining what I have, where I am, keeping the channels as simple as possible so that I do have time to enjoy life and write and breath and sleep. I get it, the more money you make the "better" your life will be near the end. I am sorry. My mind will not work that way. I wish many nights and days that it did. That it functioned properly and reliably and all of the other words that make an effective and productive, ever climbing upward, American. It doesn't. I won't get to enjoy that. I won't get to see that. But hey, I could always win the lottery or something. Wouldn't that be a gas.
Life on my Tardis is pretty okay. Often times when I do manage to save up money and get near the cusp of making a capital improvement to my life or my ship, something breaks. I laugh saying it because it's happened so many times it feels nearly inevitable, to the point where whenever I save up any significant amount of money I start to get anxious and wondered what the ship is going to pull out of it's hat next. I sometimes think the answer may be a credit card, but after being buried by student loans that turned out to be all for nought I refuse to live beyond my means. No credit cards unless they're already paid for, in which case they're not really credit cards are they? I still have never owned a credit card and I'm damn near 30. I had a Target card back in the day, but I think we all know that doesn't really count. Besides, that ended in utter disaster too. I will not do it. If you have to make payments on something, you probably shouldn't have it right now. Simple as that. Of course that also leaves no space for emergencies and heaven knows there have been emergencies aboard my ship. Gross injuries to my musculoskeletal system as wheel. Pretty sure I still have a torn ligament in my thumb and being uninsured, that range of motion is just going to be gone by the time it heals on its own. "You should have gone to the hospital!" Yeah, right. Of course. It's a part of my life I've kind of resigned myself to. As fast as I can improve and repair things is just as fast as they'll break and splinter and burn up and fizzle out. Life aboard my Tardis. One step ahead of the fire, but boy it would be nice to be a couple more steps ahead, or even a block away would be swell.
What day is it? Sunday, 6 P.M. Are you sure? Yeah. No. Wait a minute, it's 6 A.M.! What the hell happened? It's Tuesday!? What happened to Monday? Weren't we supposed to be somewhere? It's 6 P.M. on Tuesday. Are you sure? Well, okay. We'll call them tomorrow morning at 6 A.M. and explain everything. Yes, that will be Wednesday. I'm pretty sure they don't want to hear it now. What do you mean we're 5 miles from home. This is a park bench? Come on, man. Get it together. The Tardis will get you to any point in time or space within a 5 second 5 inch radius. Except when it doesn't.
Bjork - "Enjoy (Dark Jedi Remix)" There have been a lot of great reimaginings of Bjork's music. This is one of my favorites of late. So dark. So playful. So wonderfully and beautifully mechanically.
Life has many different stresses to it. Some of those stresses are more intense than others. Just about all of those stresses demand some sort of relief, some sort of answer, and you can only ignore the bell for so long before they break in and tear you to pieces and sack your fortress and leaving nothing more than a few shreds of clothing and broken cookware and a few charred pages in their wake. You have to answer the bell. Eventually. It's critical to your survival.
The sad part is, in order to answer those stresses, you have to introduce stressors. Jobs, tasks, relationships, a stressor is anything you take on, voluntarily or not, to help alleviate the stresses, the ambient tensions of your existence, of being alive in a shared world. If the world were not shared. If the world were entirely yours, there would be a single bridge. A single leap from stresses to peace. A back and forth street, a channel, two lanes wide, and perfect. However, it is a shared world. There is no single leap and there never will be.
To achieve any sort of relief from stresses you must introduce or have already introduced stressors. Stressors which often times do introduce stresses of their own. The channel becomes layered denser and denser with lanes upon lanes of tasks and responses all in the name of achieving a peaceful state or a state of greater fluidity and less tension than what your own ambience, your own existence, demands by the fact that you are alive and breathing and as such will not remain so in an entropic universe. By the way, did you ever see Tropic Thunder? Hilarious movie. I highly recommend you watch it if you haven't seen it. Came out a while ago. Should be available for rental or something by now. Robert Downey Jr's in it. Tom Cruise to. Surprisingly good.
Anyway, it's truly mystifying sometimes when you step back and look at and draw the circuit board, the ridiculous interstate highway map of what you have to do just to feel good, normal, and whole, on this shared planet, in this country, in your state, in your city where you call yourself a citizen. It's troubling sometimes. From the time you are alone as a child until the time you die, so much of your energy will be spent on trying to return your state to a single bridge. Return to the two channel direct connection. The single bridge. It's amazing the damage adding a single extra link, one more node, to the graph does.
Time is money and money is time, so let's move this thing forward. I get that time is money, but I also get that what America values my time at is not what I value my time at. I have precious little of it, not because I'm particularly busy, but because it is very difficult at times to function on a, for lack of a better term, "normal" level. A level normative to my peers and expectations of someone my approximate age, build, and general intelligence. My head wears out very quickly and I have to rest and gain space to gather myself before re-engaging. I don't blame mental disorder as much as it's part of how I function and maintain myself now. It's not something distinct of myself, it's incorporated [really, it's only a matter of perspective, part of yourself, outside yourself, what difference does it make from the outside observer looking in? Very little. The only difference looking in from the outside is viewing it one way sounds like you make "convenient" excuses when you do not perform and looking at it the other way sounds like you are a person who is unreliable and irresponsible and maladjusted, but you try to work on yourself. "Attaboy, chap! If you work hard enough you'll get there." Eat me.].
At any rate, the way I understand it is spending your time allows you to convert it into money which you can use to purchase things you may need or want, things you would never have the time to learn how to make, gather materials, and then produce on your own. The question is the conversion rate. If the fastest I can convert time into money is a certain figure per hour, it will cost a certain amount of time to get X or Y thing, necessary or not. Then the question becomes how much time will it cost to maintain X or Y thing at that time to money conversion rate.
With all of the time being drawn out of you, how much time is going to be left for simply living. Will you spend most of your "free" time recovering from work so that you can go back to work so that you can keep X or Y thing you thought you needed or wanted? How fast is that going to kill you. How much stress is that stressor going to introduce and are there enough channels flowing back to ever break the loop long enough to have time to feel whole? My time is worth more than the conversion rate offered. I'll do without, thank you. If my conversion rate changes, I will reconsider. Until it does I am happy maintaining what I have, where I am, keeping the channels as simple as possible so that I do have time to enjoy life and write and breath and sleep. I get it, the more money you make the "better" your life will be near the end. I am sorry. My mind will not work that way. I wish many nights and days that it did. That it functioned properly and reliably and all of the other words that make an effective and productive, ever climbing upward, American. It doesn't. I won't get to enjoy that. I won't get to see that. But hey, I could always win the lottery or something. Wouldn't that be a gas.
Life on my Tardis is pretty okay. Often times when I do manage to save up money and get near the cusp of making a capital improvement to my life or my ship, something breaks. I laugh saying it because it's happened so many times it feels nearly inevitable, to the point where whenever I save up any significant amount of money I start to get anxious and wondered what the ship is going to pull out of it's hat next. I sometimes think the answer may be a credit card, but after being buried by student loans that turned out to be all for nought I refuse to live beyond my means. No credit cards unless they're already paid for, in which case they're not really credit cards are they? I still have never owned a credit card and I'm damn near 30. I had a Target card back in the day, but I think we all know that doesn't really count. Besides, that ended in utter disaster too. I will not do it. If you have to make payments on something, you probably shouldn't have it right now. Simple as that. Of course that also leaves no space for emergencies and heaven knows there have been emergencies aboard my ship. Gross injuries to my musculoskeletal system as wheel. Pretty sure I still have a torn ligament in my thumb and being uninsured, that range of motion is just going to be gone by the time it heals on its own. "You should have gone to the hospital!" Yeah, right. Of course. It's a part of my life I've kind of resigned myself to. As fast as I can improve and repair things is just as fast as they'll break and splinter and burn up and fizzle out. Life aboard my Tardis. One step ahead of the fire, but boy it would be nice to be a couple more steps ahead, or even a block away would be swell.
What day is it? Sunday, 6 P.M. Are you sure? Yeah. No. Wait a minute, it's 6 A.M.! What the hell happened? It's Tuesday!? What happened to Monday? Weren't we supposed to be somewhere? It's 6 P.M. on Tuesday. Are you sure? Well, okay. We'll call them tomorrow morning at 6 A.M. and explain everything. Yes, that will be Wednesday. I'm pretty sure they don't want to hear it now. What do you mean we're 5 miles from home. This is a park bench? Come on, man. Get it together. The Tardis will get you to any point in time or space within a 5 second 5 inch radius. Except when it doesn't.
Bjork - "Enjoy (Dark Jedi Remix)" There have been a lot of great reimaginings of Bjork's music. This is one of my favorites of late. So dark. So playful. So wonderfully and beautifully mechanically.
10/12/14
That Instant
you realize your coworker back in Queens at JFK airport while you were baristing at starbucks inside the international kiosk on the second floor of the terminal was hitting on you and not giving you occasional rides to work in her Tiburon for free.
10/3/14
The Best Thing
about outer space is that no one can hear you scream.
The other best thing, though,
no one can hear you howl either.
The other best thing, though,
no one can hear you howl either.
The Come Down (i know i cannot keep skirting)
I will try to keep this brief. There is a lot on my heart and my focus, my eye focus is getting, cheap. I will have to rebut this hard when my eye focus is getting better.
A story of betrayal. Yan, ayn, yan yan, ayan,. Let me do that better: yan yan yan,
Bad rehearsal.
Allow me to do that better. Punching keys like putting a fist into water.
Blank faces.
Allow me to o that better. It's funny to see my fingertips mashing things up into words because I cannot hit words into words by accident.
It's funnnnnnny to do that and well there should be a comma inside there but there isn't because that is just how it happens oh fuck! Time's out for//// fpr what growing conscio0usiouts of, growing conscioutious of..... growing consciouscious of .... did i still not spell it right???? growing conscious of the spinny things?
This is the come down, /' Comining down off of cutting, Coming down off of consciousness. Coming down off fo consciousnesss. Coming down off of consciousness and coming down off of mobility. Coming down off of the abukuty to come at folks and understanding yhsy with coming at peoople.... coming at people requires a certain something out of you. A certain something that I have shut off from myself that I do no and should never be turned onnn again no matter ther input.
Yes I am drunk, but no matter.
I can drive. There is no one I can't ew
RIP RIP RIP RIP CANCEL
THERE IS NO ONE I CANT REACH.
I ALWAYS COME IN BLOOM.
Focus.
Focus.
I always hate boundaries.
I fear for the day I forget them and who I will hurt when I do.
Imagining myself in court
attempting to explain my actions
and unable to scribe
reasonable doubt.
A story of betrayal. Yan, ayn, yan yan, ayan,. Let me do that better: yan yan yan,
Bad rehearsal.
Allow me to do that better. Punching keys like putting a fist into water.
Blank faces.
Allow me to o that better. It's funny to see my fingertips mashing things up into words because I cannot hit words into words by accident.
It's funnnnnnny to do that and well there should be a comma inside there but there isn't because that is just how it happens oh fuck! Time's out for//// fpr what growing conscio0usiouts of, growing conscioutious of..... growing consciouscious of .... did i still not spell it right???? growing conscious of the spinny things?
This is the come down, /' Comining down off of cutting, Coming down off of consciousness. Coming down off fo consciousnesss. Coming down off of consciousness and coming down off of mobility. Coming down off of the abukuty to come at folks and understanding yhsy with coming at peoople.... coming at people requires a certain something out of you. A certain something that I have shut off from myself that I do no and should never be turned onnn again no matter ther input.
Yes I am drunk, but no matter.
I can drive. There is no one I can't ew
RIP RIP RIP RIP CANCEL
THERE IS NO ONE I CANT REACH.
I ALWAYS COME IN BLOOM.
Focus.
Focus.
I always hate boundaries.
I fear for the day I forget them and who I will hurt when I do.
Imagining myself in court
attempting to explain my actions
and unable to scribe
reasonable doubt.
Thursday (explication of what came to be "I'll Come See You" the poem)
I don't know how you read it, but this is how I meant it.
Knock the slag off, with air piston jacked hammers.
When I kicked this off, the intent was to put something down in writing that was blunt force enough to make me need to go further to explain it because I know I do paint myself into corners, at least I feel that I do, to add clarity to what I say. From that spark, the spark of shedding light, everything else developed.
Sitting on a crate opposite you
sitting on another,
printed in yellow block stencil
underneath, 98 mm high explosive x 75.
From that spark I imagined our meeting. What I said before about knocking off slag with jack hammers was a reference to work. From that reference, I immediately jumped into the warzone of language and how often times that is how I view my relationship with the world outside of me. It really is a, put it on whatever scale you want to, some kind of war and this blog is a bit of a foxhole and we are literally sitting on our mental ammunition boxes.
Underneath my ass 150 mm
aye pee
times 30. My feet dangling like our cigarette's
smoke mingling on a windless afternoon.
This verse is kind of a wink and a nod because I do avoid actually smoking as much as possible, but I vape pretty hard. The main thing about it though is that I am prone to large gauge action while most people are happy to work with suppressing fire. My actions are much more leaned toward "kill them all in one sweep of gun barrel barking." I can go accurate, but it is much more fun to swamp them in flames the way I have been. Hence, the large gauge ammo underneath my bum and the smaller gauge, but still deadly, ammunition box underneath the interpolated.
The front is 220 miles out
East as the crow flies.
We will have to refuel
over the mediterranean
and I am looking forward to seeing
how you do it.
This is where we bring in the mechs and how the mechs will get to the front lines, where the action is happening and a short reference to how we wage ware once we get there. This is a reference to the fact that what is about to happen is not new to either of us. We know exactly where it is and what needs to be done to get there. And also speaks to the fact that we have no problem with how the mission succeeds as long as it succeeds.
Our conversation has already broken down
into objectives and way points with a little
bet mixed in to the after action report.
This verse simply speakes to the fact that we've been there before. Our conversation does not need to be enumerated here, only indicated, hinted at, ellipsed. We've done it so many times that the only thing that needs to be done is counting up how many people, targets, installations, were destroyed by the time we succeeded.
It is unfair
to where we land and to whom we mount against,
because they are not in on the game.
Again, this verse is a reference to the previous verse, assuming we both got back home after the operation safe and sound
Us both waiting for the KA-CHUNK
of couplings leaving us in free fall
to where our bombardier's decided
we could do our best
against the populace.
This verse is a credit to the people who get us to the target zone and an acknowledgement that we do not neccessarily know who exactly it is we are going up against inside of our mechs, however. However we have full faith that they, the pilots and/or controllers of our evening will not drop us into a situation that our equipment and skills directly related to our equipment cannot handle well, if not outright destroy them.
A little cheers of coffee.
A little double check of flight suits.
Is the mic where it needs to be?
Trial fit the helmet again
after a quadruple check;
be sure the reticle is in line.
Double check my nail polish
before the glove comes on.
Smash shoulders and opposing tattoos,
before the top of the flight suit
is zipped on.
This is an inside joke to a close friend who helped me tattoo myself. It is part inside joke and part coffee joke. "the best way to start your day" when you are going over your manifest for the day. You know whatever it is that is required of your skills will take all of your skills and you have to be sure when the time comes to pull the trigger, that trigger cannot fail, take practice shots.
Finish the coffee, with pills in our mouths.
They will learn what we live for,
they will learn what is loud.
They will learn that you do need coffee and that you do live for challenges and that you do know what horrible drugs are and that you are not about it.
Our flights will be long. I'll sleep inside the mech
along the way. I don't know what happens to you
while we wait out the sandbox for play.
The thup thup thup thup thup thup
I can hear, because I never turn off
the audio input once I am strapped in.
We both understand how to get to the battlefield. I don't understand how you are so calm. I feel like you've been here before and I have not.
For me, it is a very long long long grin
to watch you work. Guilty.
You know I have not been there before but youare looking forward to my struggling.
Watching, zone cleared against spear chuckers
who happened to have come into
a fushionable pile
and needed reckoning before
something terrible happened,
you break out a "grenade"
two tons strong and willing to-\
-/Christ, where is the pin?
A mixture of edge of tommorrow and starship troopers the book. In Starship Troopers the book they had miniature nukes. Miniature nukes could clear an entire area as long as they got clear. In edge of tomorrow the whole deal was differremt.
Mech against mech. Dust to dust.
Die another day.
Why can you not understand I do
feel the same?
This is myself, dropped onto this planet trying to stop you and yrtying to fighht you hardcore because what I would like to do is save everyone but I cannot. What I would also like to do is kill everyone but I can also cannot. I'm good with figthing you though. I am good with where you RE COMING FROM.
Fire the shell in my mechanized palm
to fire it just that strong
and knock it four miles out
to change the time of day from moonlit to
high noon in a fire ball that could eat city blocks,
but she's in the air. Fair. But "what the f@#$?"
Apologies, but I turned the palm and the gun built in to accelerate it against the what? The elbow cannon that went off and blew the palm muzzle off to an odd degree shot it off toward the dark horrizon and it lit up like noon day.
Overkill......... underneath your left foot,
underneath your left pedal inside your cockpit and
underneath you left foot outside your cockpit
you are grinding human flesh into a paste. And now is
the fucking time.
Do you remember being small? I do.
You don't get conscripted by chance.
Hearing him over the comm, realizing that the action he just did with the arm of his mech just required him to smush some people with the foot of his mech....
You find detonators. You stumble upon detonators.
Land mines Mines. I've never met a land mine like you.
Me on the ground amongst the flattened human beings trying to offer encouragement to my friend (the other pilot) while shaking my head at the damage he did without thinking about the power at his fingertips.
I will know how to move forward
regardless ,after you.
Everyone talks big. Yack, yack, yak yak yak, waaaan.
Him trying to make another move and myself watching, back in my own mech while our communicators crackle and guns go boom.
Cruiser. Angry. There was someone else here. I will find them, sonavubitch. Fail. My fault. Reset.
Reset.
Reset.
Reset.
Me trying to wipe my memory and undo the entire operation in my head. Each reset a muzzle flash.
Clutch in. Match revs. Time to the light. Gas pedal. Clutch out.
Release brake.
Gas pedal down.
Slowly.
Burnout.
Me, over the comm link trying to coach him and failing, instead focusing on what I can do. The work.
Knock the slag off, with air piston jacked hammers.
When I kicked this off, the intent was to put something down in writing that was blunt force enough to make me need to go further to explain it because I know I do paint myself into corners, at least I feel that I do, to add clarity to what I say. From that spark, the spark of shedding light, everything else developed.
Sitting on a crate opposite you
sitting on another,
printed in yellow block stencil
underneath, 98 mm high explosive x 75.
From that spark I imagined our meeting. What I said before about knocking off slag with jack hammers was a reference to work. From that reference, I immediately jumped into the warzone of language and how often times that is how I view my relationship with the world outside of me. It really is a, put it on whatever scale you want to, some kind of war and this blog is a bit of a foxhole and we are literally sitting on our mental ammunition boxes.
Underneath my ass 150 mm
aye pee
times 30. My feet dangling like our cigarette's
smoke mingling on a windless afternoon.
This verse is kind of a wink and a nod because I do avoid actually smoking as much as possible, but I vape pretty hard. The main thing about it though is that I am prone to large gauge action while most people are happy to work with suppressing fire. My actions are much more leaned toward "kill them all in one sweep of gun barrel barking." I can go accurate, but it is much more fun to swamp them in flames the way I have been. Hence, the large gauge ammo underneath my bum and the smaller gauge, but still deadly, ammunition box underneath the interpolated.
The front is 220 miles out
East as the crow flies.
We will have to refuel
over the mediterranean
and I am looking forward to seeing
how you do it.
This is where we bring in the mechs and how the mechs will get to the front lines, where the action is happening and a short reference to how we wage ware once we get there. This is a reference to the fact that what is about to happen is not new to either of us. We know exactly where it is and what needs to be done to get there. And also speaks to the fact that we have no problem with how the mission succeeds as long as it succeeds.
Our conversation has already broken down
into objectives and way points with a little
bet mixed in to the after action report.
This verse simply speakes to the fact that we've been there before. Our conversation does not need to be enumerated here, only indicated, hinted at, ellipsed. We've done it so many times that the only thing that needs to be done is counting up how many people, targets, installations, were destroyed by the time we succeeded.
It is unfair
to where we land and to whom we mount against,
because they are not in on the game.
Again, this verse is a reference to the previous verse, assuming we both got back home after the operation safe and sound
Us both waiting for the KA-CHUNK
of couplings leaving us in free fall
to where our bombardier's decided
we could do our best
against the populace.
This verse is a credit to the people who get us to the target zone and an acknowledgement that we do not neccessarily know who exactly it is we are going up against inside of our mechs, however. However we have full faith that they, the pilots and/or controllers of our evening will not drop us into a situation that our equipment and skills directly related to our equipment cannot handle well, if not outright destroy them.
A little cheers of coffee.
A little double check of flight suits.
Is the mic where it needs to be?
Trial fit the helmet again
after a quadruple check;
be sure the reticle is in line.
Double check my nail polish
before the glove comes on.
Smash shoulders and opposing tattoos,
before the top of the flight suit
is zipped on.
This is an inside joke to a close friend who helped me tattoo myself. It is part inside joke and part coffee joke. "the best way to start your day" when you are going over your manifest for the day. You know whatever it is that is required of your skills will take all of your skills and you have to be sure when the time comes to pull the trigger, that trigger cannot fail, take practice shots.
Finish the coffee, with pills in our mouths.
They will learn what we live for,
they will learn what is loud.
They will learn that you do need coffee and that you do live for challenges and that you do know what horrible drugs are and that you are not about it.
Our flights will be long. I'll sleep inside the mech
along the way. I don't know what happens to you
while we wait out the sandbox for play.
The thup thup thup thup thup thup
I can hear, because I never turn off
the audio input once I am strapped in.
We both understand how to get to the battlefield. I don't understand how you are so calm. I feel like you've been here before and I have not.
For me, it is a very long long long grin
to watch you work. Guilty.
You know I have not been there before but youare looking forward to my struggling.
Watching, zone cleared against spear chuckers
who happened to have come into
a fushionable pile
and needed reckoning before
something terrible happened,
you break out a "grenade"
two tons strong and willing to-\
-/Christ, where is the pin?
A mixture of edge of tommorrow and starship troopers the book. In Starship Troopers the book they had miniature nukes. Miniature nukes could clear an entire area as long as they got clear. In edge of tomorrow the whole deal was differremt.
Mech against mech. Dust to dust.
Die another day.
Why can you not understand I do
feel the same?
This is myself, dropped onto this planet trying to stop you and yrtying to fighht you hardcore because what I would like to do is save everyone but I cannot. What I would also like to do is kill everyone but I can also cannot. I'm good with figthing you though. I am good with where you RE COMING FROM.
Fire the shell in my mechanized palm
to fire it just that strong
and knock it four miles out
to change the time of day from moonlit to
high noon in a fire ball that could eat city blocks,
but she's in the air. Fair. But "what the f@#$?"
Apologies, but I turned the palm and the gun built in to accelerate it against the what? The elbow cannon that went off and blew the palm muzzle off to an odd degree shot it off toward the dark horrizon and it lit up like noon day.
Overkill......... underneath your left foot,
underneath your left pedal inside your cockpit and
underneath you left foot outside your cockpit
you are grinding human flesh into a paste. And now is
the fucking time.
Do you remember being small? I do.
You don't get conscripted by chance.
Hearing him over the comm, realizing that the action he just did with the arm of his mech just required him to smush some people with the foot of his mech....
You find detonators. You stumble upon detonators.
Land mines Mines. I've never met a land mine like you.
Me on the ground amongst the flattened human beings trying to offer encouragement to my friend (the other pilot) while shaking my head at the damage he did without thinking about the power at his fingertips.
I will know how to move forward
regardless ,after you.
Everyone talks big. Yack, yack, yak yak yak, waaaan.
Him trying to make another move and myself watching, back in my own mech while our communicators crackle and guns go boom.
Cruiser. Angry. There was someone else here. I will find them, sonavubitch. Fail. My fault. Reset.
Reset.
Reset.
Reset.
Me trying to wipe my memory and undo the entire operation in my head. Each reset a muzzle flash.
Clutch in. Match revs. Time to the light. Gas pedal. Clutch out.
Release brake.
Gas pedal down.
Slowly.
Burnout.
Me, over the comm link trying to coach him and failing, instead focusing on what I can do. The work.
9/16/14
Reason #439 Why Pancakes Are Evil
Let's just say, hypothetically there is an electromagnetic pulse attack that blankets the East Coast, or wherever it is you live, some terrible afternoon. Not that the afternoon was going terrible for you, but obviously after an EMP attack things probably went down hill pretty quickly.
Let's say following the EMP attack was to come a nuclear strike on the place, town, coast, whatever, your apartment building, and we know this because before the EMP attack wiped out all unprotected and delicate electronics we saw the missiles going up and were like "oh, damn. That's not great."
Let's say right before that horrible afternoon, you had the morning off from work and figured you would hit up the diner, because most of the time you cannot even stop to smell your coffee on your way to work. While you were sitting there, that beautiful and limitless morning you decided to go with the bacon and eggs and half bagel.
The news on the television behind the counter was interesting. The commercials were funny. Your booth was clean. The coffee was smooth. You even dropped a piece of bacon and it landed in a crease of your jean pant leg instead of on the floor. A real "hell yeah" of a morning. Even the wait staff was chipper and topped up your cup of coffee without you asking.
They ask you if you would like to try a few pancakes with syrups and flavors and chips in them and the day is going so great, and you've got the time off to take a little nap when you get home, and you say an emphatic yes.
Now lying there on your couch, people sprinting through the halls of your apartment building, policemen at street level with horns and whistles shouting the way to the nearest bomb shelters, fists pounding on walls and feet banging echoes down fire escapes and stairwells, and your belly full of more pancakes than you've eaten all year you know there is no way you can possibly get up. There is no way you are making it off of your couch. There is no way you will be able to run anywhere for at least another 4 hours, gripped in a carbohydrate coma the likes of which you've only heard stories about.
Nodding, resigned, that terrible afternoon; you always knew pancakes were going to get you killed one day. Pancakes are evil.
Let's say following the EMP attack was to come a nuclear strike on the place, town, coast, whatever, your apartment building, and we know this because before the EMP attack wiped out all unprotected and delicate electronics we saw the missiles going up and were like "oh, damn. That's not great."
Let's say right before that horrible afternoon, you had the morning off from work and figured you would hit up the diner, because most of the time you cannot even stop to smell your coffee on your way to work. While you were sitting there, that beautiful and limitless morning you decided to go with the bacon and eggs and half bagel.
The news on the television behind the counter was interesting. The commercials were funny. Your booth was clean. The coffee was smooth. You even dropped a piece of bacon and it landed in a crease of your jean pant leg instead of on the floor. A real "hell yeah" of a morning. Even the wait staff was chipper and topped up your cup of coffee without you asking.
They ask you if you would like to try a few pancakes with syrups and flavors and chips in them and the day is going so great, and you've got the time off to take a little nap when you get home, and you say an emphatic yes.
Now lying there on your couch, people sprinting through the halls of your apartment building, policemen at street level with horns and whistles shouting the way to the nearest bomb shelters, fists pounding on walls and feet banging echoes down fire escapes and stairwells, and your belly full of more pancakes than you've eaten all year you know there is no way you can possibly get up. There is no way you are making it off of your couch. There is no way you will be able to run anywhere for at least another 4 hours, gripped in a carbohydrate coma the likes of which you've only heard stories about.
Nodding, resigned, that terrible afternoon; you always knew pancakes were going to get you killed one day. Pancakes are evil.
9/10/14
The Best Thing
about the mornings is that you survived another night. The evening is tremendously gorgeous, but I'm not sad to see her go. Do you believe in ghosts? The things in the wild waiting for the sun to set? I do.
9/2/14
A Brief Return to B6
After the diagnosis there was a lot of disbelief before understanding that I am wired differently and there is nothing that can be done about it besides modification. Modifying my physiology and the chains that come with modifying. Keeping schedules and junk and folding money into paying for medications and things and paying for visits to psychiatrists. You can't spell psychiatrist without tryst.
I'm golden. Understanding how I'm different was very difficult. I still don't fully comprehend it. I'm not okay with being different. Expectations change a lot. Do you want an exception or not? Yes, we do, but we do not because we are efforting being a part of common society. Aye yo, check it out, here's the baseline: getting exceptions makes us softer and enables if what we want is to be fully assimilated. When we wreck it's hard to deal with because whatever it was we did made perfect sense to us. To you, it's grounds for divorce.
And yep, my phone is officially broken. The worst part about the diagnosis, the initial one, was my ignorance. Let's keep this tight and short, but not to the point of complications.
I hated my psychiatrist. I still do. I know we are long passed the point of forgetting, but I have not forgotten him. He has forgotten me though after I lost insurance. Everyone has to get paid. I refuse to check out. I was bold before then, I am more bold now. Capital lock.
Have you got my back? I've got yours. I tried to smash my skull apart on the side of the police car when I first got reigned in. When I realized I had to reign myself in the morning after and they explained what I tried to do when they were putting me inside the squad car. And it's alright now. I'm not angry or mad. They're different things. Mad is angry without reasoning. Mad dog. Shoot him down. Angry dog... alright, he has reason still. I am neither mad nor angry.
After the diagnosis I had no idea where I could possibly go. It was a true diagnosis and I have to lie out of the ass to avoid internment again. After the diagnosis and hearing what it would cost to make me better, literally hundreds of dollars per month (and hearing too that the trial period ends, hence the name "trial period" until they get the milligrams right) and knowing what I was bound to make... it's like being stuck with a home you can't actually pay for and you cannot move either. You cannot pull up sticks and pick a new lot. It was terrifying. I had no idea where I could possibly go, so I decided to move off grid. No meds. No pills. Just force. True force.
Sometimes thing come apart a lot. Sometimes control does not talk back to you no matter how many signals you send out, out of reflex. If I could afford it, I would go. Easily and quietly, I would go. Let's go though, and keep it brief.
Back to basics. I know I need help. It's part of what I am working for. Why I go to work everyday. Start your day group was nice. It was excellent. I do not want to go back there. I am damn near 30 years old and I do not belong there. I know who I am. I have to work harder and as time increases I know I have to work harder yet and I am okay with that. I'm not and will never be a made man. I am willing to work and that's something! Diagnosis is not, I will prove it to you, ever a death sentence.
///Minamina Goodsong - "First Movement"
I'm golden. Understanding how I'm different was very difficult. I still don't fully comprehend it. I'm not okay with being different. Expectations change a lot. Do you want an exception or not? Yes, we do, but we do not because we are efforting being a part of common society. Aye yo, check it out, here's the baseline: getting exceptions makes us softer and enables if what we want is to be fully assimilated. When we wreck it's hard to deal with because whatever it was we did made perfect sense to us. To you, it's grounds for divorce.
And yep, my phone is officially broken. The worst part about the diagnosis, the initial one, was my ignorance. Let's keep this tight and short, but not to the point of complications.
I hated my psychiatrist. I still do. I know we are long passed the point of forgetting, but I have not forgotten him. He has forgotten me though after I lost insurance. Everyone has to get paid. I refuse to check out. I was bold before then, I am more bold now. Capital lock.
Have you got my back? I've got yours. I tried to smash my skull apart on the side of the police car when I first got reigned in. When I realized I had to reign myself in the morning after and they explained what I tried to do when they were putting me inside the squad car. And it's alright now. I'm not angry or mad. They're different things. Mad is angry without reasoning. Mad dog. Shoot him down. Angry dog... alright, he has reason still. I am neither mad nor angry.
After the diagnosis I had no idea where I could possibly go. It was a true diagnosis and I have to lie out of the ass to avoid internment again. After the diagnosis and hearing what it would cost to make me better, literally hundreds of dollars per month (and hearing too that the trial period ends, hence the name "trial period" until they get the milligrams right) and knowing what I was bound to make... it's like being stuck with a home you can't actually pay for and you cannot move either. You cannot pull up sticks and pick a new lot. It was terrifying. I had no idea where I could possibly go, so I decided to move off grid. No meds. No pills. Just force. True force.
Sometimes thing come apart a lot. Sometimes control does not talk back to you no matter how many signals you send out, out of reflex. If I could afford it, I would go. Easily and quietly, I would go. Let's go though, and keep it brief.
Back to basics. I know I need help. It's part of what I am working for. Why I go to work everyday. Start your day group was nice. It was excellent. I do not want to go back there. I am damn near 30 years old and I do not belong there. I know who I am. I have to work harder and as time increases I know I have to work harder yet and I am okay with that. I'm not and will never be a made man. I am willing to work and that's something! Diagnosis is not, I will prove it to you, ever a death sentence.
///Minamina Goodsong - "First Movement"
9/1/14
That Instant
you realize your language has gotten clipped to the point where simplification has erred on the side of bloated complexity.
8/23/14
Colonel Gentleman
Colonel Gentleman's list of things that should be outlawed:
1. Any non-diet soda.
2. Referring to diabetes as "the sugar."
3. Parking tickets. Be nice to each other. Don't park your metal like no one else has anything to do or look at.
4. Periods. Reproduction in general.
5. Weighted favors. You either do the favor or you do not.
6. Currency. All of them.
7. Credit. All of it.
8. Duck faces. All of them.
9. Dog people.
10. Snark. Drown them all. If I wanted a snarky answer I'd have put a bag over my head while asking.
11. Canes.
12. The cookie tray. Less plastic, more cookie.
13. Trust funds.
14. The stock market. All of them.
15. Any word that stands in for "Fuck."
16. Summer weather.
17. Age limits.
18. Passports. If you have one, you are permanently grounded wherever this edict finds you. Good luck.
19. Safety precautions on automobiles.
20. Crosswalks.
1. Any non-diet soda.
2. Referring to diabetes as "the sugar."
3. Parking tickets. Be nice to each other. Don't park your metal like no one else has anything to do or look at.
4. Periods. Reproduction in general.
5. Weighted favors. You either do the favor or you do not.
6. Currency. All of them.
7. Credit. All of it.
8. Duck faces. All of them.
9. Dog people.
10. Snark. Drown them all. If I wanted a snarky answer I'd have put a bag over my head while asking.
11. Canes.
12. The cookie tray. Less plastic, more cookie.
13. Trust funds.
14. The stock market. All of them.
15. Any word that stands in for "Fuck."
16. Summer weather.
17. Age limits.
18. Passports. If you have one, you are permanently grounded wherever this edict finds you. Good luck.
19. Safety precautions on automobiles.
20. Crosswalks.
Knowing Where You Have No Business and That You Are Expected On Occassion
You don't have to front load everything you say. You don't have to translate at the end either. You may be coming across better than you believe.
One of the most hilarious things was the whole "they took our jobs" rhetoric at the last election and the come back that they're doing jobs we do not want to do. The funny part was my challenge. It's a matter of geographics and debt. I took the challenge knowing that. Just to see. Because they were taking our jobs here too, right? What I got back was paperwork. It's a little bit a lot of bit hilarious. If you cannot laugh at that, you have no soul. I still get email updates on it, but I am passed caring. Yes. Passed. English, the most, hands down, complicated language.
My relationship with America? It's complicated. And I am dating myself. And I am dating myself too. We wreck up sometimes. Slang for fight, no? Yes. I do not agree with everything we do. I do not. Sometimes I am on damage patrol. Some times I am on altitude control. Sometimes I am just sometimes and I am, having learned, not apologetic because people do get tired of sorrys and start to ask "why the bleep do you not just do it better?"
I will not give you the run around. I'm just American. I'm a little gangster circa 1925 and a little modern circa "what's the date today" and a little 90's grunge and a little 80's synth, a little bit of a late 90's "get money" and a little 70's rhythm and blues, a little bit of #$%^'n disco and a little bit of late 80's space rock, a little bit of 1960 fuck you and a little bit of 1950 be easy and every one is working for something greater because no one actually wants to be here, and a little bit of drum and bass tongued in with a little bit of pop talked down through the ages and distilled and reanimated. I'm just American and I will make no excuses.
And I will fight you. And then discuss. And then fight you harder because I only wanted a breather and we may as well butcher language in the mean times. They only get meaner.
I wish I could get along with people like me. I cannot. I am not going to stop trying. It is a little bit of playing with where you know you have no business being. And you know it. You do not understand why you are excluded. There are the times you are expected though and you do not show up. To reverse the two would be gold out of lead. Less cameos. More booked seats? I have no idea. What I do know is this: if they ask you if you can make it, you had better go.
///Pulp - "Like A Friend"
One of the most hilarious things was the whole "they took our jobs" rhetoric at the last election and the come back that they're doing jobs we do not want to do. The funny part was my challenge. It's a matter of geographics and debt. I took the challenge knowing that. Just to see. Because they were taking our jobs here too, right? What I got back was paperwork. It's a little bit a lot of bit hilarious. If you cannot laugh at that, you have no soul. I still get email updates on it, but I am passed caring. Yes. Passed. English, the most, hands down, complicated language.
My relationship with America? It's complicated. And I am dating myself. And I am dating myself too. We wreck up sometimes. Slang for fight, no? Yes. I do not agree with everything we do. I do not. Sometimes I am on damage patrol. Some times I am on altitude control. Sometimes I am just sometimes and I am, having learned, not apologetic because people do get tired of sorrys and start to ask "why the bleep do you not just do it better?"
I will not give you the run around. I'm just American. I'm a little gangster circa 1925 and a little modern circa "what's the date today" and a little 90's grunge and a little 80's synth, a little bit of a late 90's "get money" and a little 70's rhythm and blues, a little bit of #$%^'n disco and a little bit of late 80's space rock, a little bit of 1960 fuck you and a little bit of 1950 be easy and every one is working for something greater because no one actually wants to be here, and a little bit of drum and bass tongued in with a little bit of pop talked down through the ages and distilled and reanimated. I'm just American and I will make no excuses.
And I will fight you. And then discuss. And then fight you harder because I only wanted a breather and we may as well butcher language in the mean times. They only get meaner.
I wish I could get along with people like me. I cannot. I am not going to stop trying. It is a little bit of playing with where you know you have no business being. And you know it. You do not understand why you are excluded. There are the times you are expected though and you do not show up. To reverse the two would be gold out of lead. Less cameos. More booked seats? I have no idea. What I do know is this: if they ask you if you can make it, you had better go.
///Pulp - "Like A Friend"
That Instant
you realize it actually is the quiet ones you have to look out for. Not just the quiet ones. The quiet little ones. No one should be that quiet that young, so talk to them and get to know them and pay it backward when you're not entirely freaking the #$%^ out being near them.
8/18/14
What Scares You
What scares you? What scares you? What really fucking scares you? That he's better than you? That he's better than you in every way? That the choice was the right one? That she's still down there enabling him? That the paper is still blank? That the paint has gotten too old to use? That he might be angry at you instead of with you? That you are not properly equipped? That the next gas station may be out of range? That your keys are at home? That you are being entertained? That you're not incorporated? That the bug may be permanent? That there is not enough gauze? That the tuna may run out? What really scares you?
Don't make me wait. I am exceptionally patient except when I'm not. I don't know what really scares me, for what I've compensated for. I do know what really scares me. All of the above. Very long knee jerk reactions. Knee jerk reactions spanning days and weeks and months and now years. I'm okay with it, I suppose. We never do come for money, except when we specifically do.
What scares me is not the not knowing for sure. What scares me is not knowing how to respond at an appropriate volume. Of course they can tune you out at will. Which is nice. The option takes a bit of the guess work out. I typed guest work. It's true, though. You are a guest. We are guests. And they can. I'm not where the being polite or respectful or conscientious ends and being a good proper guest and friend ends. Division by addition feels like it works. The results are wishywashy. Concernedly so.
Why will you not tell me? Do you believe that I will somehow be irrevocably shattered by the information? Do you believe that I will somehow be so shaken that I cry all of the water out of my body and shrivel up and die? It makes me laugh the not good laugh to think that may be true. If you're not a friend, you're not. Friend is the worst "F" word. Loaded for no reason. If you're not an associate, you're not an associate and that's perfectly fine. You can waste time if you like. Placate me too, if it twists your earlobe good when you get the itch. I'm fine with that too.
I think what I'm trying to articulate is that what scares me the most is that I am in hot pursuit of avenues of communication and the way it comes out is a three dimensional graphics sprint into a brick wall, legs chugging, my little arrow on the map, my associates viewing and confused. What really fucking scares me is not communicating in an understandable and lagoon clear way.
Though I may be a dragon, if you speak lizard, I can talk to you. We can do dragon business. Fear doesn't scare me. Occasionally, day light does. Police officers and their flashlights too, but I am civil and citizen.
I want to listen to the Penguin Freud orchestra and hear more songs about Easter Island and travel more. Growing up American. Straight up fucking American. The child of explorers. The child of, perhaps, orphans and seafarers now land locked and fairly domesticated. The child of pressure and heat and weapons and bombs and "on threat of death." A child whose fences end where the nuclear powered ships cannot go. Yeah, I'm good with that. How long does it take to breed the grit and horizon lust out of the genes? How long does it take to saw off the hard nosed muzzle and graft in the gatherer for the hunter? Fuck if I know.
///Seatbelts - "Spokey Dokey" and they called me old fashioned. they called me old fashioned!
///
Don't make me wait. I am exceptionally patient except when I'm not. I don't know what really scares me, for what I've compensated for. I do know what really scares me. All of the above. Very long knee jerk reactions. Knee jerk reactions spanning days and weeks and months and now years. I'm okay with it, I suppose. We never do come for money, except when we specifically do.
What scares me is not the not knowing for sure. What scares me is not knowing how to respond at an appropriate volume. Of course they can tune you out at will. Which is nice. The option takes a bit of the guess work out. I typed guest work. It's true, though. You are a guest. We are guests. And they can. I'm not where the being polite or respectful or conscientious ends and being a good proper guest and friend ends. Division by addition feels like it works. The results are wishywashy. Concernedly so.
Why will you not tell me? Do you believe that I will somehow be irrevocably shattered by the information? Do you believe that I will somehow be so shaken that I cry all of the water out of my body and shrivel up and die? It makes me laugh the not good laugh to think that may be true. If you're not a friend, you're not. Friend is the worst "F" word. Loaded for no reason. If you're not an associate, you're not an associate and that's perfectly fine. You can waste time if you like. Placate me too, if it twists your earlobe good when you get the itch. I'm fine with that too.
I think what I'm trying to articulate is that what scares me the most is that I am in hot pursuit of avenues of communication and the way it comes out is a three dimensional graphics sprint into a brick wall, legs chugging, my little arrow on the map, my associates viewing and confused. What really fucking scares me is not communicating in an understandable and lagoon clear way.
Though I may be a dragon, if you speak lizard, I can talk to you. We can do dragon business. Fear doesn't scare me. Occasionally, day light does. Police officers and their flashlights too, but I am civil and citizen.
I want to listen to the Penguin Freud orchestra and hear more songs about Easter Island and travel more. Growing up American. Straight up fucking American. The child of explorers. The child of, perhaps, orphans and seafarers now land locked and fairly domesticated. The child of pressure and heat and weapons and bombs and "on threat of death." A child whose fences end where the nuclear powered ships cannot go. Yeah, I'm good with that. How long does it take to breed the grit and horizon lust out of the genes? How long does it take to saw off the hard nosed muzzle and graft in the gatherer for the hunter? Fuck if I know.
///Seatbelts - "Spokey Dokey" and they called me old fashioned. they called me old fashioned!
///
8/16/14
When You Know You've Made "It"
A little humore.
You know you've made it when what you do is mass produced. When "e" really does mean mass times light speed squared.
Emotion gets a bad rap. We all know this.
Coming in cold.
Why does everyone want hot reentry? For the fireworks?
I almost wish. I do wish for a showdown with weapons of choice with my father. I will say it. I was born on Earth. I have a father and mother. I have no qualm with her. Sometimes I say words I know without knowing their actual meaning because they light up five or six or seven or eight other words I know and I hope they light up the same other words in your mind too and I'd rather the gaggle of words with one than the perfect word for the occasion. I have no qualm with her. My mother puppet. Shield. Known totem. Enabler. Blanket. My muffle. Caste. Former. Sledge. Bleeding heart. Working toward laughter. I'd rather the gaggle of words than specifics because we're splitting hairs and getting off track, if it must be said. No I would never have sex with her. It's difficult enough to find pleasure in foreign pussy, are you really going to ask me to find pleasure in the domestic? I can put on a show, but we know where that goes. And there is an age limit, I've come to understand, but that's a conversation for another time.
Weapons of choice. I was thinking hard about how to win a fight when both parties are granted bats. The answer is whomever gets close first and can knock the other down and then use the bat. Bats are useless up close. They are. Now you know. It's all about tip velocity and multiplying force. I already knew this. The trap is getting them to use theirs first to reach out and touch somebody and being comfortable enough to get in close. It's a three dimensional fight, son!!! Get to kissing distance and take a good vertical hack to the legs. The rest is cake and joy, yes?
Beginning at the start, I do not understand the significance at all. It is a favorite song, but not a titular song. How the fugg do I know if I've made it. I'll stop and listen to a couple, I am on the clock though, so no petty. Hustle bones? Where is this anger coming from? I don't get it. Are you imaging little skull and cross bones on each individual tooth on your mouth? I don't get it.
Anyways, your mother is an enabler. No mercy. Swing away. Swing for the fences. Remember the excuses. Do not get caught up in the raising. That was granted at conception, biatch. They had their chance. Toxic horseplay. I want to crash your home with my car. Putting a document together with heard songs.
Lose your train of thought much? Yeah, anything else? No, just checking. Okay, let's go.
Let's go back to the title. When you know you've made it. Let's play the song that inspired it, the title, and see what becomes of it. Fuggit, lets replay the chain of songs that led up to the song that inspired the title that triggered your off track with the knowledge of where the off track happened and we can play again, no?
I don't know where it fits, but it's appropriate.
One thing I would like to do is this:
I have to back out a little bit because I do not know the official names for the things I am about to speak about and I wish I did have the chemistry down, I don't. It is frustrating. I will get it nailed down and be more pro.
It will. It won't. I'm joshing myself. SKO! SKO! SKO! SKO! FANTHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
not saying goodbye to sky at all. at all. at alll. jusgt fucking smile and i'll talk to you later. okay?
hahahahhahaa fanthaaaaaaaa! fucking panther fuck. lol.
it hurts like a .... im trying not to cuss. I said I wouldnt' cuss. I'm not going to cuss. I just want to get it out so I can on to the next one. I want awe. I want power alot, but I want fucking awe. No two ways about it and I don't know how to ask for it or even if I should be because I know I'm a little shit, no fooling. I know. Am an angry fuck of a fuck. and it's hard to play nice. lol it's hard. let's killl them. i know, right? let's not and seee where it goes. see what the fuck it grows too. stop loppin off your feet, you fuck.
You know you've made it when what you do is mass produced. When "e" really does mean mass times light speed squared.
Emotion gets a bad rap. We all know this.
Coming in cold.
Why does everyone want hot reentry? For the fireworks?
I almost wish. I do wish for a showdown with weapons of choice with my father. I will say it. I was born on Earth. I have a father and mother. I have no qualm with her. Sometimes I say words I know without knowing their actual meaning because they light up five or six or seven or eight other words I know and I hope they light up the same other words in your mind too and I'd rather the gaggle of words with one than the perfect word for the occasion. I have no qualm with her. My mother puppet. Shield. Known totem. Enabler. Blanket. My muffle. Caste. Former. Sledge. Bleeding heart. Working toward laughter. I'd rather the gaggle of words than specifics because we're splitting hairs and getting off track, if it must be said. No I would never have sex with her. It's difficult enough to find pleasure in foreign pussy, are you really going to ask me to find pleasure in the domestic? I can put on a show, but we know where that goes. And there is an age limit, I've come to understand, but that's a conversation for another time.
Weapons of choice. I was thinking hard about how to win a fight when both parties are granted bats. The answer is whomever gets close first and can knock the other down and then use the bat. Bats are useless up close. They are. Now you know. It's all about tip velocity and multiplying force. I already knew this. The trap is getting them to use theirs first to reach out and touch somebody and being comfortable enough to get in close. It's a three dimensional fight, son!!! Get to kissing distance and take a good vertical hack to the legs. The rest is cake and joy, yes?
Beginning at the start, I do not understand the significance at all. It is a favorite song, but not a titular song. How the fugg do I know if I've made it. I'll stop and listen to a couple, I am on the clock though, so no petty. Hustle bones? Where is this anger coming from? I don't get it. Are you imaging little skull and cross bones on each individual tooth on your mouth? I don't get it.
Anyways, your mother is an enabler. No mercy. Swing away. Swing for the fences. Remember the excuses. Do not get caught up in the raising. That was granted at conception, biatch. They had their chance. Toxic horseplay. I want to crash your home with my car. Putting a document together with heard songs.
Lose your train of thought much? Yeah, anything else? No, just checking. Okay, let's go.
Let's go back to the title. When you know you've made it. Let's play the song that inspired it, the title, and see what becomes of it. Fuggit, lets replay the chain of songs that led up to the song that inspired the title that triggered your off track with the knowledge of where the off track happened and we can play again, no?
I don't know where it fits, but it's appropriate.
One thing I would like to do is this:
I have to back out a little bit because I do not know the official names for the things I am about to speak about and I wish I did have the chemistry down, I don't. It is frustrating. I will get it nailed down and be more pro.
It will. It won't. I'm joshing myself. SKO! SKO! SKO! SKO! FANTHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
not saying goodbye to sky at all. at all. at alll. jusgt fucking smile and i'll talk to you later. okay?
hahahahhahaa fanthaaaaaaaa! fucking panther fuck. lol.
it hurts like a .... im trying not to cuss. I said I wouldnt' cuss. I'm not going to cuss. I just want to get it out so I can on to the next one. I want awe. I want power alot, but I want fucking awe. No two ways about it and I don't know how to ask for it or even if I should be because I know I'm a little shit, no fooling. I know. Am an angry fuck of a fuck. and it's hard to play nice. lol it's hard. let's killl them. i know, right? let's not and seee where it goes. see what the fuck it grows too. stop loppin off your feet, you fuck.
The Best Thing
about getting honked at on Main street, there is only one main street in my town is that, after the fear subsides and the nerves settle down and the wind wicks the sweat away and you see the green chevy driving up the road and know that your friend was in there and high alert was not necessary at all,
you can relax and know that you can send a happy text to him because you thought he left town ten months ago and he's still circling for whatever reason and now you get to know that you have to know what the hell he was doing on your side of the river in your town on that day and jumping out of your skin was completely justified on your grocery run because, to be honest, you thought he was either dead or escaped.
you can relax and know that you can send a happy text to him because you thought he left town ten months ago and he's still circling for whatever reason and now you get to know that you have to know what the hell he was doing on your side of the river in your town on that day and jumping out of your skin was completely justified on your grocery run because, to be honest, you thought he was either dead or escaped.
8/8/14
Shut The Gate
I know I need to shut up. I know saying I don't understand only flies for so long, but this is something I wanted to float out there that I've been mulling over for several months. So I'll get it out of the harbor. I don't understand, and I swear it'll be the last time for a long time I start with something like it or around it, but I don't get how I can be outside of it looking in and inside of it and trying to look out. I'm getting one or both wrong.
Either I think I'm looking out or I think I'm outside looking in and, regardless of the math, I'm not getting it right enough. Not to be doe eyed, but I'm at a loss. Did I mess something up? The tracers are not lining up with where the rounds are actually hitting, is my suspicion. I'm donking something up.
No, it's not a missing piece. I am underthinking? Overthinking? Which one is it? Shit. Which one is it. No, I don't need to sleep. That's stupid. That's putting shit off. I need to cuss less is somethin, though it keeps you honest. I'm missing something. Not sure what. God knows it's not religion.
I'll figure it out. I know I need to shut up. I will. I have some work to do. It would be nice to collect teeth at will. That would be fabulous. Just wear a mane made of collected teeth. It would be nifty. They're not easy to come by.
Either I think I'm looking out or I think I'm outside looking in and, regardless of the math, I'm not getting it right enough. Not to be doe eyed, but I'm at a loss. Did I mess something up? The tracers are not lining up with where the rounds are actually hitting, is my suspicion. I'm donking something up.
No, it's not a missing piece. I am underthinking? Overthinking? Which one is it? Shit. Which one is it. No, I don't need to sleep. That's stupid. That's putting shit off. I need to cuss less is somethin, though it keeps you honest. I'm missing something. Not sure what. God knows it's not religion.
I'll figure it out. I know I need to shut up. I will. I have some work to do. It would be nice to collect teeth at will. That would be fabulous. Just wear a mane made of collected teeth. It would be nifty. They're not easy to come by.
Dealing & Check In
Gotta change the motor oil now and then. S'not the first time or the last. I was concerned. The panels were lighting up in not so good ways and it's kind of like changing your alarm because sometimes the tune you design to play goes doot doot doot and then you start dancing instead of waking up and that's no good, ya know? It's no good.
Instead of waking up you get like "aw, this sounds great, who made this? I can jam all day" and that's no good at all. Time to change the motor oil.
An overactive imagination they said. Spirits was put past me too. Talking to angels got floated. Talking to demons got floated too. "Just pick which ones" got floated too. Hawky talk. All of it trash. Waking up to the signals again. The check engine light. Sky zoe frania. I hate that word so much. I hate that word so fucking much. I hate that word so fucking much! I hate that word. I hate that word. I hate that word. I hate that word. I hate that word. I hate that word. I hate that fucking word.
Delusions of grandeur. I don't understand! I don't get it. I'm very happy. I'm working on a concussion free year and I think I'm gonna be able to get it this year. The first one in five without one. The first year in three that I haven't broken my nose. I'm looking forward to it. It is going to be a gold belt when I check off December. I'm dealing.
Six years without a pain killer (minus alcohol but that only halfway counts.... a pain putter offer). Nothing to the significance of a tylenol. I'm not allowing myself to sniff anything near an edible. It's good though. It's a bad track to go down, plus pain lets you know where the line is. There's nothing wrong with that. I'm dealing and it's great and terrifying because I'm - not sure when the line happens, ya know? When we click over and aren't talking to people anymore or are extremely unreasonable.
The concern comes from knowing that an existence without you is doable, highly doable, but not nearly as ... well, not that far. I won't go that far. Within the framework of citizenship, yes, absolutely. An existence without you is by a landslide far more favorable and speaks to my heart in ways I don't always and can sometimes not do at all. A self starter to a degree; turn the dial far enough and hydrolock blows the push rods to bits and reduces the engine block to a 300 lb paperweight.
Does that make me dependent? I hope not. I guess, what I'm saying is if I was the last man on Earth, my reign would be fairly brief. We laugh saying it out loud, but it's true. Maybe a decade or two, if that. I hope I am doing a reasonable job of it. I know I slip sometimes and the clutch engages and I am two gears off of first and I don't always know whose driving the damn thing to begin with and sometimes ... talking out of school. Nope nope nope. None of that. Enough of that.
I want a fucking present. I want a parade and a band and a fucking float. I want the parade, the band, the float, and a present. I tore after my pap paps for talking to me in snippets of things he's seen and not actually talking and here I am doing it too. Anger management was neither of our strong suits. I wonder who talks to him. Who did he have to talk down. Did he? It would certainly explain a lot of a few things. It really fucking would. He's not talking though so I guess I'll grill him in heaven or hell. Chaa! Have the rest of eternity to exchange phone books. Wouldn't that be the fucking cats.
I'm dealing though. The committee deals back and we play our cards and try to beat the dealer sometimes. Sometimes we just fill the house coffers and call it.
It's a juggling act with a little bit of severed limbs when the chainsaw comes down two seconds earlier than expected or turns a rotation before it was supposed to or hangs in the air a tad bit longer for no god damn reason whatsoever and control goes out like a tungsten bulb and its tomorrow already and you're talking to people in daylight and how the hell what the fuck am i doing here happens and you have to review your notes. I really hope it's not like this when I'm fifty. I'm afraid it might be, or worse. Da fuck is paranoia anyways? Why can't I sleep in the dark? What is out there? What the hell is out there??? I've been looking for you. I've been searching for you. Come out! I know you're there. I can fucking smell you, you fuck. I can fucking hear you! Why can no one else hear you! It's not fair. It's not fair. You know what, 'ats fine. We're fine with that. For fucks sake, just once, speak to someone else too. I dunno. It's tiring and very difficult to explain how energy is expended without losing traction altogether and paying for it in a big way because I am just like you. I want to be. Let's trade. S'not a grift if it's an even trade. Keep routine. Stay alert. Routine will rescue you. I don't like change. I'm not stubborn. I'm not antisocial. I just have to maintain parameters and readings and locations to the "t" and to the dot. Please don't be offended if I whip donuts and drive like a madman when designated play time comes about. It's the only time I have to spend when high alert can be tuned down to "we are all present and accounted for." Why won't you fucking die!? Time to change the oil.
My tracking is suffering again on certain very important things. We are not enthused. It is unacceptable.
///Nancy Sinatra - (Bang Bang)
Instead of waking up you get like "aw, this sounds great, who made this? I can jam all day" and that's no good at all. Time to change the motor oil.
An overactive imagination they said. Spirits was put past me too. Talking to angels got floated. Talking to demons got floated too. "Just pick which ones" got floated too. Hawky talk. All of it trash. Waking up to the signals again. The check engine light. Sky zoe frania. I hate that word so much. I hate that word so fucking much. I hate that word so fucking much! I hate that word. I hate that word. I hate that word. I hate that word. I hate that word. I hate that word. I hate that fucking word.
Delusions of grandeur. I don't understand! I don't get it. I'm very happy. I'm working on a concussion free year and I think I'm gonna be able to get it this year. The first one in five without one. The first year in three that I haven't broken my nose. I'm looking forward to it. It is going to be a gold belt when I check off December. I'm dealing.
Six years without a pain killer (minus alcohol but that only halfway counts.... a pain putter offer). Nothing to the significance of a tylenol. I'm not allowing myself to sniff anything near an edible. It's good though. It's a bad track to go down, plus pain lets you know where the line is. There's nothing wrong with that. I'm dealing and it's great and terrifying because I'm - not sure when the line happens, ya know? When we click over and aren't talking to people anymore or are extremely unreasonable.
The concern comes from knowing that an existence without you is doable, highly doable, but not nearly as ... well, not that far. I won't go that far. Within the framework of citizenship, yes, absolutely. An existence without you is by a landslide far more favorable and speaks to my heart in ways I don't always and can sometimes not do at all. A self starter to a degree; turn the dial far enough and hydrolock blows the push rods to bits and reduces the engine block to a 300 lb paperweight.
Does that make me dependent? I hope not. I guess, what I'm saying is if I was the last man on Earth, my reign would be fairly brief. We laugh saying it out loud, but it's true. Maybe a decade or two, if that. I hope I am doing a reasonable job of it. I know I slip sometimes and the clutch engages and I am two gears off of first and I don't always know whose driving the damn thing to begin with and sometimes ... talking out of school. Nope nope nope. None of that. Enough of that.
I want a fucking present. I want a parade and a band and a fucking float. I want the parade, the band, the float, and a present. I tore after my pap paps for talking to me in snippets of things he's seen and not actually talking and here I am doing it too. Anger management was neither of our strong suits. I wonder who talks to him. Who did he have to talk down. Did he? It would certainly explain a lot of a few things. It really fucking would. He's not talking though so I guess I'll grill him in heaven or hell. Chaa! Have the rest of eternity to exchange phone books. Wouldn't that be the fucking cats.
I'm dealing though. The committee deals back and we play our cards and try to beat the dealer sometimes. Sometimes we just fill the house coffers and call it.
It's a juggling act with a little bit of severed limbs when the chainsaw comes down two seconds earlier than expected or turns a rotation before it was supposed to or hangs in the air a tad bit longer for no god damn reason whatsoever and control goes out like a tungsten bulb and its tomorrow already and you're talking to people in daylight and how the hell what the fuck am i doing here happens and you have to review your notes. I really hope it's not like this when I'm fifty. I'm afraid it might be, or worse. Da fuck is paranoia anyways? Why can't I sleep in the dark? What is out there? What the hell is out there??? I've been looking for you. I've been searching for you. Come out! I know you're there. I can fucking smell you, you fuck. I can fucking hear you! Why can no one else hear you! It's not fair. It's not fair. You know what, 'ats fine. We're fine with that. For fucks sake, just once, speak to someone else too. I dunno. It's tiring and very difficult to explain how energy is expended without losing traction altogether and paying for it in a big way because I am just like you. I want to be. Let's trade. S'not a grift if it's an even trade. Keep routine. Stay alert. Routine will rescue you. I don't like change. I'm not stubborn. I'm not antisocial. I just have to maintain parameters and readings and locations to the "t" and to the dot. Please don't be offended if I whip donuts and drive like a madman when designated play time comes about. It's the only time I have to spend when high alert can be tuned down to "we are all present and accounted for." Why won't you fucking die!? Time to change the oil.
My tracking is suffering again on certain very important things. We are not enthused. It is unacceptable.
///Nancy Sinatra - (Bang Bang)
A Quick Thought on Authenticity and (ffs) Go Protocol
Knowing what you are and what you're not is where it begins, that's the baby step. There's nothing wrong with being a baby. Complaining let's you know, if you've ears for it, that you are not necessarily happy with the way things are or how they're going. Everyone's a baby. At some point. Everyone complains.
The option is to take the turn or drive the motivation straight over the edge and hope you land somewhere nice. Hope you land in something like a pillow factory or a bin of sand, or just anything more forgiving than concrete. Take the turn. Complain like a baby and then adjust. You can take your authenticity to the grave with you or you can exist within it. Sounds pretty simple. It's a bit more complicated, unfortunately. Sometimes you just have to realize that you are striped and a tiger and sometimes imaginary in a pack of lions. Doesn't mean you have to be at war with the lions. You're both after the same things. There's nothing wrong with that. You've honed your way and they've honed theirs and you're on the same field now so you have to learn how to play together effectively that you not step on one another's paws and sink teeth too close together on the same kill.
It's "go protocol." It's trigger pull. It's losing my train of thought and getting heckling from the rest of the committee and continuing to ball because YOURE NOT THE BOSS OF ME YOU @#$%S.
Fight through the noise. Embrace the sound. Love who you want to. It does not matter if they love you back. You have the right to love whomever and whatever you choose to, whomever and whatever you can't refuse to. If they cannot respect that, it's their loss. In a world lessed for loves lost, why waste it? Let it fly. Untenable as it may be, let it fly. Let it fly! Allow it to cross the distance that must be enforced for whatever reasons are reasonable. Include a few that are not.
Remain authentic. Stick to the protocol. You have not lived as long as you have by ignoring protocol. When the Go sign says go, go! Think twice, for sure. "Fo Sho!" does not mean for show. I can put on a fantastic show when I want to. I can put on a show for the fucking ages. Fo sho means for sure and it's pretty much a miniature pact. A handshake and a signature of gumption. With no risk comes no reward and you know what comes without whisk? I do. I'll give you another second to guess. Time's up. Without whisk you get a big old cup of pineapple pulp and undissolved sugar at the bottom of your pitcher of pineapple tea. Gross. Also, really hard to drink.
Obey Go Protocol. Stay authentic. Bow to be courteous, not to fit better. If you win the single combat and fit well, you'll hate them later because they will know what you did. They will talk about the event, if not active, in passing. You will know too.
The combination is not friendly. They are not looking for maps the same way you do. The same way you are. Do not expect assistance when you go. Do not expect support. Do not armor for resistance either. You were invited for a reason. You were on their wing for a reason. That reason may not be for back up should combat come down. That reason may not be for mounting an assault that day. That reason may not be for humor or for "to hell with them"s. You may never know what that reason's reasoning inside their head was, but there was a reason.
So go. Go! Stay authentic. There was something asked of you. Think about what you've asked of them in return by answering the howl. The details will work themselves out, if they do. The details will work themselves out, if they don't pull your card again. Through the noise, through the fire, through the poise, through the ire. For once,
allow yourself to see it their way and do not Chameleon. Do not lock up. For @#$%s sake, remain authentic. Uncertainty is a bitch, be certain of this.
///Girl Talk - (Ask About Me) chapter one... still writing the jacket
The option is to take the turn or drive the motivation straight over the edge and hope you land somewhere nice. Hope you land in something like a pillow factory or a bin of sand, or just anything more forgiving than concrete. Take the turn. Complain like a baby and then adjust. You can take your authenticity to the grave with you or you can exist within it. Sounds pretty simple. It's a bit more complicated, unfortunately. Sometimes you just have to realize that you are striped and a tiger and sometimes imaginary in a pack of lions. Doesn't mean you have to be at war with the lions. You're both after the same things. There's nothing wrong with that. You've honed your way and they've honed theirs and you're on the same field now so you have to learn how to play together effectively that you not step on one another's paws and sink teeth too close together on the same kill.
It's "go protocol." It's trigger pull. It's losing my train of thought and getting heckling from the rest of the committee and continuing to ball because YOURE NOT THE BOSS OF ME YOU @#$%S.
Fight through the noise. Embrace the sound. Love who you want to. It does not matter if they love you back. You have the right to love whomever and whatever you choose to, whomever and whatever you can't refuse to. If they cannot respect that, it's their loss. In a world lessed for loves lost, why waste it? Let it fly. Untenable as it may be, let it fly. Let it fly! Allow it to cross the distance that must be enforced for whatever reasons are reasonable. Include a few that are not.
Remain authentic. Stick to the protocol. You have not lived as long as you have by ignoring protocol. When the Go sign says go, go! Think twice, for sure. "Fo Sho!" does not mean for show. I can put on a fantastic show when I want to. I can put on a show for the fucking ages. Fo sho means for sure and it's pretty much a miniature pact. A handshake and a signature of gumption. With no risk comes no reward and you know what comes without whisk? I do. I'll give you another second to guess. Time's up. Without whisk you get a big old cup of pineapple pulp and undissolved sugar at the bottom of your pitcher of pineapple tea. Gross. Also, really hard to drink.
Obey Go Protocol. Stay authentic. Bow to be courteous, not to fit better. If you win the single combat and fit well, you'll hate them later because they will know what you did. They will talk about the event, if not active, in passing. You will know too.
The combination is not friendly. They are not looking for maps the same way you do. The same way you are. Do not expect assistance when you go. Do not expect support. Do not armor for resistance either. You were invited for a reason. You were on their wing for a reason. That reason may not be for back up should combat come down. That reason may not be for mounting an assault that day. That reason may not be for humor or for "to hell with them"s. You may never know what that reason's reasoning inside their head was, but there was a reason.
So go. Go! Stay authentic. There was something asked of you. Think about what you've asked of them in return by answering the howl. The details will work themselves out, if they do. The details will work themselves out, if they don't pull your card again. Through the noise, through the fire, through the poise, through the ire. For once,
allow yourself to see it their way and do not Chameleon. Do not lock up. For @#$%s sake, remain authentic. Uncertainty is a bitch, be certain of this.
///Girl Talk - (Ask About Me) chapter one... still writing the jacket
8/1/14
Shove Off
Often times, many times, too many times, you cannot shove off where you left go. It's just fact. There are no two ways about it. It's not that not alright, you know? Sure, it's rotten. We all get that. It's not all rotten. You cannot advance without memory. You can not advance without recall, dispute me!
They're different. They are very different things. Hypothesis and road up to where the pages were included, had you possession of the expansion boxed set.
It's unusual? Maybe I never picked it up while growing up. It feels very weird as I've come to understand my body... am I now finally full grown?
Twenty nine. The number feels okay, reasonable. Going backwards my last/earliest memory is looking at the park next to preschool.
Weight is the question. Topped out around 155 +- 5, third year of college jumped to 160 +- 10 then ten years later topped out around 195 no matter what I do. Am I now growing into my body? After all this time? Laughing indignation? I do not get it. I don't get it. I don't fucking understand it. Why did it take so long. How come no one warned me?
Feels reasonable. Seems reasonable. I'm pretty sure puberty is not supposed to last 16 years. That doesn't sound right. I've noticed my footfalls are heavier with the extra weight. I have to think farther ahead to not step on or run into things. Am I officially stocky? Dear God! Am I stocky? Am I permanently 5'11", no less than 190 lbs, arms and legs damn near equal in length? Well, I'm not okay with that! It's unsettling. Why couldn't I have had an abnormally long ring finger or something.
It is a nuisance: having to understand your body and check back to understand the trouble codes on the high line.
They're different. They are very different things. Hypothesis and road up to where the pages were included, had you possession of the expansion boxed set.
It's unusual? Maybe I never picked it up while growing up. It feels very weird as I've come to understand my body... am I now finally full grown?
Twenty nine. The number feels okay, reasonable. Going backwards my last/earliest memory is looking at the park next to preschool.
Weight is the question. Topped out around 155 +- 5, third year of college jumped to 160 +- 10 then ten years later topped out around 195 no matter what I do. Am I now growing into my body? After all this time? Laughing indignation? I do not get it. I don't get it. I don't fucking understand it. Why did it take so long. How come no one warned me?
Feels reasonable. Seems reasonable. I'm pretty sure puberty is not supposed to last 16 years. That doesn't sound right. I've noticed my footfalls are heavier with the extra weight. I have to think farther ahead to not step on or run into things. Am I officially stocky? Dear God! Am I stocky? Am I permanently 5'11", no less than 190 lbs, arms and legs damn near equal in length? Well, I'm not okay with that! It's unsettling. Why couldn't I have had an abnormally long ring finger or something.
It is a nuisance: having to understand your body and check back to understand the trouble codes on the high line.
7/26/14
The Changed Landscape of Warfare, Want, and The Spacefarer's Bible
I won't say I will not continue to try to make myself happy. That's foolish and, honestly, a little bit petty and a lot of bit lie no matter whose mouth it comes out of. I do and will (most of the time). Sometimes I completely screw it up and ruin everything for all of us. Life is about that sometimes. Let's begin and find our ending and hopefully put a bow on it so we can assault the next stronghold.
We're a consumer organism. Advancement, the byproduct. That's easy to yank out of the air because it's been floating around there since I was a kid. "We don't make stuff anymore!" "We export everything!" "We import everything!" And on and on and on. It's very easy to get lost in macro markets and who owes whom X amount of ... have you ever watched a history show?
A show where they talk about ancient constructs or modern constructs or ancient economies or modern economies or ancient populations or modern populations? Have you ever watched a speculative show where they talk about what could be at X time in Y space if A and B happen or if C continues to happen or if D changes to a ridiculous extent and ceases to be or metastasizes into some sort of creature all it's own? Have you ever watched the news or an informative program or a program garbed as one that is vested in speculation or sometimes vested in pure facts?
If you have not laughed, laugh the next time you watch one. Not because what they're saying is true or false. Not because what they're saying could be true or could be false and massive death or infinite life may be just around the corner. Not because what they're saying is a ridiculous analogy or because what they are saying makes no damn sense at all given what we know about the world, given how long human beings have been recording information and analyzing information and the fact that even the people that were completely off were still right by a few degrees and it's largely been a war of precision and infomatic attrition.
Laugh because it is hilarious when they tell you the heart pumps enough blood in your life time to fill an olympic swimming pool. Okay, that's not that outlandish. Bad example. Are you laughing yet? Laugh when they tell you the sun produces as much energy as two billion nuclear power plants over the course of their lifetimes in a single second. Laugh when you hear the Hoover dam can power 900,000 refrigerators for ten days with one day of it's output. Laugh when you know a bullet packs the same punch from a .357 as 200 horse power driving a single 30 cm diesel piston pushing a ten mile rod one inch into glacial ice. The scales get insanely arbitrary, but sound impressive.
We're not a consumer organism. Advancement is the byproduct. Want does make excellent bedfellows, though. Maybe it's just the people I know, or choose to know and the ones I choose to not associate with. Yeah there are a lot of consumers. It gets me down. Who doesn't it get down? Silly question. Programs and users. It get's depressing. On this little operating system. It does. I'm not going to lie and even if I did, you'd know. Consumers give the rest of 'Merica a bad rap.
Where you going to put it? What's your percentage of consumer to user? Well, if you must know and you must because we must... 30% - 70%. The thirty percent gets all the play though. Eventually the 70% become dull eyed. The economy does love the 30%, but some of them, many of them keep the seventy employed or at least in cummed.
The other best two words in the English language? You guessed it: "I'm cumming." And no, that's still not three words. Niggler. I'm on to you and your detail oriented cant.
I came to this point what for was for this: (partly to make a cup of tea and nod off to sleep knowing my books are clear for whatever's next but also the following point) driving through an upscale neighborhood, enclave, everything was out for display in the mid afternoon light. Every garage had a car parked outside of it. Every garage was parked outside of high square footage whatever you want to call it, shoulder to shoulder with the one beside it. Parked outside each was a fit human being. Parked beside them was a fit child or bicycle or motor bike or domesticated animal. Parked beside them was a very well attended tree, beside it a clean swatch of cement and occasionally a glittering sign or hydrant. Parked between them was a fine manhole cover. All of it a strange display.
All of it begging to be wanted. Not to be contrarian. All of it unreal. All of it horribly unreal. All of it violently upsetting at it's worst and unsettling at it's least. Who want's to live in a gift shop? Do you really want to know those people? Do you really want perfect? Do you really want to consume that violently? By all means, take care. Take care and maintain and perform and do not give in to kipple. Kipple only breeds more kipple. It's disconcerting.
Yes, my kingdom is of sand and tied together bits, but they're well taken care of bits. That, I do not mind. When you want me to want yours because someone informed you that it is something to be wanted because someone taught them that it is something to be wanted it get's a little gross and wretchworthy. It get's a little arson worthy because I wonder what you'd be without it. If you'd still be you. Ostentaaaaaaaaaaagh! -tatious. Fueling the economy with your fanned feathers.
My own hang up. I know we're a country of makers, producers, writers, painters, builders, organizers, innovators, capturers, battlers, warriors, sportsmen and women, communicators, grifters, flippers, destroyers, and outright creators. Why are the consumers the most flagrant?
I feel bad taking money sometimes. Earned money. I can't remember the last time I outright stole something from someone and didn't tell the person I stole it from what I did and why within 48 hours. That doesn't count as stealing. Especially when I give it in it's original state or better than I left it, right back to them. It's aggravating. I would be so much further ahead if I could steal better. I would like to think. I dunno if that would work out. I don't believe so. I feel bad taking money sometimes and I have to remember why I had to convert to pay for play a couple years ago. Allow me to relate it briefly. It's a very short, kind of funny story.
One day someone asked me to help them move furniture. After another round of my long standing slug fest with who is and who is not a friend, I realized I could not continue to accept a hug and a few beers for my services. The first time I did it, it was a great time and chummy and sexy and kind of fun to laugh and live and love and help build a new space. It was fantastic. It was downright fantastic. The second time was the same. The second, too. The third, as well. The four, you guessed it, the same.
A sensation began to creep in. A very woeful sensation. As I filled the gas tank and counted bruises and counted unvitations to normal events and counted invitations to things I could not attend for lack of fuel and bodily integrity it dawned on me that myself and my peers were no longer fighting the same war.
One of the great equalizers is college. University. Call it what you will. We're all, more or less, fighting the same battles: studying, trying to eat, trying to have money on the side for fun, trying to pay for housing, trying to connect, (some of us) trying to work too, trying to keep up with family. The war has changed and it took me years and years afterwards to identify the change.
I was doing too many favors. Far too many favors. Far far too many favors. My peers and I are not in the same trenches anymore. Not nearly as close as they were. When they fire their rifle their elbow does not knock my shoulder. When I miss a beat and drop my canteen it does not land near their boot heels at all. When I want a smoke I cannot shout for one and catch their ear. When I slop lunch at the mess hall they do not hear my fork and I do not hear theirs when they do the same. We're on entirely different fronts altogether. Not that we're not still friends, bunk mates, and lifers. We're not all infantry anymore.
What I would and have done for them for free, nearly without asking, no longer applies. Changing watch shifts means little to them and the world to me still. An extra half apple means the world to me. To them, it's something to throw in a pocket for later, ya know, just in case. An extra magazine is the world to me. To them, it's something to leave at home because they're operating beneath air superiority and, hell, the whole god damn squad will be resupplied at the push of a button if need be. The war has changed for many and damn near all of them. Not for me, though. Not yet. When a comm line has been shelled to hell I have to army crawl out to fix it, but they don't.
So now, when they ask me to, it's not a favor anymore. It's mercenary work. I hope it doesn't distance them. I hope they understand. If anything, I hope they are amazed I am only now realizing it. Realizing that "smoke em if you got em" still applies, but now, if you ask me for one of mine I will ask you if you have my back when we get back home after we've shared the same trench because when you get shot you get to go back to the forward base and when I get shot, I get to sit down with a bowie knife and a lighter and a rag and a few minutes, and hope it doesn't get infected.
We're not nearly as close as we used to be. I miss those days. I miss loaning out clean dishes with the only caveat being you had to return them. It's pay for play now. On the big stuff. The little stuff, as long as you can promise I will not get shot, I'll still do for you. May not be the same war, but as long as your fighting, I'll fucking see what I can do and keep my own chatter to do or die please and thank yous.
Do not get offended if I flip out because you spent $250 dollars on a fucking chair. A fucking chair!? Are you kidding me? Different theaters, I know, but that could have kept me and my unit supplied for two months. Just saying, mickey.
A clean ship is a very happy ship. Returning to kipple. It really does breed. Kipple makes it difficult to wake up. More difficult even to think once you are awake. It breeds violence too. They never spoke about that part of it. Kipple particles that flake off of the kipple and get breathed in and become a part of your insides and work their way into your nerves like heartworms. The effect isn't the same as a neurological disorder that causes you to lose motor control and not like the effect (if they existed) of ingesting some sort of nanobot that takes over your musculature or even the effect (I would assume) of incorporating some sort of particulate life form or virus that forced signals. Breathing in kipple dust provokes a profound loss of fidelity. It is very important to keep a clean ship.
More importantly, in the vacuum of space, it is critically important to know what is wrong exactly, or as close to exactly, to diagnose the problem effectively and come to a solution quickly. The margin for error is thin. Part way out of the necessity for distance and part way out of the necessity for the fact that calls for support will take a lot of time to travel to the nearest waypoint or planet or orbital station that you happen to be near and an answer will not, regardless of distance, be able to be assumed available before your ships integrity has been completely compromised and you have to either float until you are picked up or hope the entire structure was lost somewhere close enough to another grave yard to piece something back together. The bonus of being a ship builder and engineer by trade and everything else by passion. It gets hairy sometimes.
Whatever planet I'm on, whatever city I occupy, whatever vessel I visit, whatever waypoint I frequent, when I talk about going home, I'm talking about my ship in orbit and my airlock with my key code and my pressure settings and o2 mix. Sometimes I leave I leave the radio on because it's nice to come home to tunes banging through the tunnels.
Admittedly, we've learned to entertain ourselves. There is no slight to the galaxy outside ourselves or Sol. We just don't get along. I remember the shit times and the good times dragging around the inner system. It was pretty fun sometimes. It was pretty hell too. There's a disconnect. I understand that. I'm not going to stage a war against it. The book taking precedence over the rest is the composition of the Spacefarer's Bible. Not to be confused with the Hitchhiker's Guide. It will be a handbook (so I have to keep it short) on how to not screw up when you are responsible for every single last little thing that happens to and for and within your ship. It's taking some precedence. Should I even be talking about it here? I don't know how that shit works. Let's stop cussing so fucking much. How about that?
I woke up yesterday with the realization that since the cessation of communication with my birth parents life has been a very pax by comparison. I had to remind myself not to forget new memories while running from the blacked out ones. I was going willy nilly, erase that one, and that one, n'at, n'at, n'at!!!! I think everything that should be glass is finally glass and god damn I feel pretty nice about it. I will not say mission accomplished just yet, but almost. Not 'til they're dead and I can move freely. Then, yes. Camo theory. The double fake. The triple fake? Off grid: suspicious. On grid: innocuous. Off grid: hello. On grid: hello. Who has the discipline for that?
Do not forget to look up. Every summer I think about and pain over how hard summer is going to hurt me. It's hot. It's bright. It's humid. The days are long. The nights are too short. The world is busy. Kids run everywhere screaming. Teens judge you and you want to knock them down with a well placed baseball to the teeth and then beat their ears in with rocks for having the nerve to say shit to someone they do not fucking know. And the little children run around bewildered at how green everything can be and you want to spin around in circles with them too and pick flowers and the littler ones just scream and cry because they're too hot and the pool is too cold and you want to scream too because it seems like good fun and one hell of a way to get to a good nap for a few hours until it cools off enough to sleep alright if you want to or run around alright if you want until you're too tired to run around and then take a good long nap under the stars or maybe go fishing and start a fire and find some dumb ass tweens to beat to death with a rock you found at the river while they're getting high and being rebels in the woods behind your fishing spot or find the guy who lives there each year or open your mouth in the 10 A.M. sun shower and just look up at the sky and the thunderheads and the moon all up at once and see lightning at ten in the morning. Don't forget to look up when the air is hot and thin at night and the stars come clearer.
I know I'm not a write off or disposable. Scratch that, I am disposable. That I do know. I'm okay with that. The challenge is making yourself indisposable for stretches. Making yourself available. Laying out the factory floor. Not changing the blueprint for the map's sake, but changing it because you've changed. Because we've changed. "WHO DO YOU WORK FOR" shaken by the collar. I work for you. Don't you remember me? I came in during operation sea hawk midway through mission wolf noose. You don't remember me?
Save things for a good time. Save nothing for a perfect time.
///Django Django - "Zumm Zumm" sometimes you yawn and realize you still have 8 bit roots
We're a consumer organism. Advancement, the byproduct. That's easy to yank out of the air because it's been floating around there since I was a kid. "We don't make stuff anymore!" "We export everything!" "We import everything!" And on and on and on. It's very easy to get lost in macro markets and who owes whom X amount of ... have you ever watched a history show?
A show where they talk about ancient constructs or modern constructs or ancient economies or modern economies or ancient populations or modern populations? Have you ever watched a speculative show where they talk about what could be at X time in Y space if A and B happen or if C continues to happen or if D changes to a ridiculous extent and ceases to be or metastasizes into some sort of creature all it's own? Have you ever watched the news or an informative program or a program garbed as one that is vested in speculation or sometimes vested in pure facts?
If you have not laughed, laugh the next time you watch one. Not because what they're saying is true or false. Not because what they're saying could be true or could be false and massive death or infinite life may be just around the corner. Not because what they're saying is a ridiculous analogy or because what they are saying makes no damn sense at all given what we know about the world, given how long human beings have been recording information and analyzing information and the fact that even the people that were completely off were still right by a few degrees and it's largely been a war of precision and infomatic attrition.
Laugh because it is hilarious when they tell you the heart pumps enough blood in your life time to fill an olympic swimming pool. Okay, that's not that outlandish. Bad example. Are you laughing yet? Laugh when they tell you the sun produces as much energy as two billion nuclear power plants over the course of their lifetimes in a single second. Laugh when you hear the Hoover dam can power 900,000 refrigerators for ten days with one day of it's output. Laugh when you know a bullet packs the same punch from a .357 as 200 horse power driving a single 30 cm diesel piston pushing a ten mile rod one inch into glacial ice. The scales get insanely arbitrary, but sound impressive.
We're not a consumer organism. Advancement is the byproduct. Want does make excellent bedfellows, though. Maybe it's just the people I know, or choose to know and the ones I choose to not associate with. Yeah there are a lot of consumers. It gets me down. Who doesn't it get down? Silly question. Programs and users. It get's depressing. On this little operating system. It does. I'm not going to lie and even if I did, you'd know. Consumers give the rest of 'Merica a bad rap.
Where you going to put it? What's your percentage of consumer to user? Well, if you must know and you must because we must... 30% - 70%. The thirty percent gets all the play though. Eventually the 70% become dull eyed. The economy does love the 30%, but some of them, many of them keep the seventy employed or at least in cummed.
The other best two words in the English language? You guessed it: "I'm cumming." And no, that's still not three words. Niggler. I'm on to you and your detail oriented cant.
I came to this point what for was for this: (partly to make a cup of tea and nod off to sleep knowing my books are clear for whatever's next but also the following point) driving through an upscale neighborhood, enclave, everything was out for display in the mid afternoon light. Every garage had a car parked outside of it. Every garage was parked outside of high square footage whatever you want to call it, shoulder to shoulder with the one beside it. Parked outside each was a fit human being. Parked beside them was a fit child or bicycle or motor bike or domesticated animal. Parked beside them was a very well attended tree, beside it a clean swatch of cement and occasionally a glittering sign or hydrant. Parked between them was a fine manhole cover. All of it a strange display.
All of it begging to be wanted. Not to be contrarian. All of it unreal. All of it horribly unreal. All of it violently upsetting at it's worst and unsettling at it's least. Who want's to live in a gift shop? Do you really want to know those people? Do you really want perfect? Do you really want to consume that violently? By all means, take care. Take care and maintain and perform and do not give in to kipple. Kipple only breeds more kipple. It's disconcerting.
Yes, my kingdom is of sand and tied together bits, but they're well taken care of bits. That, I do not mind. When you want me to want yours because someone informed you that it is something to be wanted because someone taught them that it is something to be wanted it get's a little gross and wretchworthy. It get's a little arson worthy because I wonder what you'd be without it. If you'd still be you. Ostentaaaaaaaaaaagh! -tatious. Fueling the economy with your fanned feathers.
My own hang up. I know we're a country of makers, producers, writers, painters, builders, organizers, innovators, capturers, battlers, warriors, sportsmen and women, communicators, grifters, flippers, destroyers, and outright creators. Why are the consumers the most flagrant?
I feel bad taking money sometimes. Earned money. I can't remember the last time I outright stole something from someone and didn't tell the person I stole it from what I did and why within 48 hours. That doesn't count as stealing. Especially when I give it in it's original state or better than I left it, right back to them. It's aggravating. I would be so much further ahead if I could steal better. I would like to think. I dunno if that would work out. I don't believe so. I feel bad taking money sometimes and I have to remember why I had to convert to pay for play a couple years ago. Allow me to relate it briefly. It's a very short, kind of funny story.
One day someone asked me to help them move furniture. After another round of my long standing slug fest with who is and who is not a friend, I realized I could not continue to accept a hug and a few beers for my services. The first time I did it, it was a great time and chummy and sexy and kind of fun to laugh and live and love and help build a new space. It was fantastic. It was downright fantastic. The second time was the same. The second, too. The third, as well. The four, you guessed it, the same.
A sensation began to creep in. A very woeful sensation. As I filled the gas tank and counted bruises and counted unvitations to normal events and counted invitations to things I could not attend for lack of fuel and bodily integrity it dawned on me that myself and my peers were no longer fighting the same war.
One of the great equalizers is college. University. Call it what you will. We're all, more or less, fighting the same battles: studying, trying to eat, trying to have money on the side for fun, trying to pay for housing, trying to connect, (some of us) trying to work too, trying to keep up with family. The war has changed and it took me years and years afterwards to identify the change.
I was doing too many favors. Far too many favors. Far far too many favors. My peers and I are not in the same trenches anymore. Not nearly as close as they were. When they fire their rifle their elbow does not knock my shoulder. When I miss a beat and drop my canteen it does not land near their boot heels at all. When I want a smoke I cannot shout for one and catch their ear. When I slop lunch at the mess hall they do not hear my fork and I do not hear theirs when they do the same. We're on entirely different fronts altogether. Not that we're not still friends, bunk mates, and lifers. We're not all infantry anymore.
What I would and have done for them for free, nearly without asking, no longer applies. Changing watch shifts means little to them and the world to me still. An extra half apple means the world to me. To them, it's something to throw in a pocket for later, ya know, just in case. An extra magazine is the world to me. To them, it's something to leave at home because they're operating beneath air superiority and, hell, the whole god damn squad will be resupplied at the push of a button if need be. The war has changed for many and damn near all of them. Not for me, though. Not yet. When a comm line has been shelled to hell I have to army crawl out to fix it, but they don't.
So now, when they ask me to, it's not a favor anymore. It's mercenary work. I hope it doesn't distance them. I hope they understand. If anything, I hope they are amazed I am only now realizing it. Realizing that "smoke em if you got em" still applies, but now, if you ask me for one of mine I will ask you if you have my back when we get back home after we've shared the same trench because when you get shot you get to go back to the forward base and when I get shot, I get to sit down with a bowie knife and a lighter and a rag and a few minutes, and hope it doesn't get infected.
We're not nearly as close as we used to be. I miss those days. I miss loaning out clean dishes with the only caveat being you had to return them. It's pay for play now. On the big stuff. The little stuff, as long as you can promise I will not get shot, I'll still do for you. May not be the same war, but as long as your fighting, I'll fucking see what I can do and keep my own chatter to do or die please and thank yous.
Do not get offended if I flip out because you spent $250 dollars on a fucking chair. A fucking chair!? Are you kidding me? Different theaters, I know, but that could have kept me and my unit supplied for two months. Just saying, mickey.
A clean ship is a very happy ship. Returning to kipple. It really does breed. Kipple makes it difficult to wake up. More difficult even to think once you are awake. It breeds violence too. They never spoke about that part of it. Kipple particles that flake off of the kipple and get breathed in and become a part of your insides and work their way into your nerves like heartworms. The effect isn't the same as a neurological disorder that causes you to lose motor control and not like the effect (if they existed) of ingesting some sort of nanobot that takes over your musculature or even the effect (I would assume) of incorporating some sort of particulate life form or virus that forced signals. Breathing in kipple dust provokes a profound loss of fidelity. It is very important to keep a clean ship.
More importantly, in the vacuum of space, it is critically important to know what is wrong exactly, or as close to exactly, to diagnose the problem effectively and come to a solution quickly. The margin for error is thin. Part way out of the necessity for distance and part way out of the necessity for the fact that calls for support will take a lot of time to travel to the nearest waypoint or planet or orbital station that you happen to be near and an answer will not, regardless of distance, be able to be assumed available before your ships integrity has been completely compromised and you have to either float until you are picked up or hope the entire structure was lost somewhere close enough to another grave yard to piece something back together. The bonus of being a ship builder and engineer by trade and everything else by passion. It gets hairy sometimes.
Whatever planet I'm on, whatever city I occupy, whatever vessel I visit, whatever waypoint I frequent, when I talk about going home, I'm talking about my ship in orbit and my airlock with my key code and my pressure settings and o2 mix. Sometimes I leave I leave the radio on because it's nice to come home to tunes banging through the tunnels.
Admittedly, we've learned to entertain ourselves. There is no slight to the galaxy outside ourselves or Sol. We just don't get along. I remember the shit times and the good times dragging around the inner system. It was pretty fun sometimes. It was pretty hell too. There's a disconnect. I understand that. I'm not going to stage a war against it. The book taking precedence over the rest is the composition of the Spacefarer's Bible. Not to be confused with the Hitchhiker's Guide. It will be a handbook (so I have to keep it short) on how to not screw up when you are responsible for every single last little thing that happens to and for and within your ship. It's taking some precedence. Should I even be talking about it here? I don't know how that shit works. Let's stop cussing so fucking much. How about that?
I woke up yesterday with the realization that since the cessation of communication with my birth parents life has been a very pax by comparison. I had to remind myself not to forget new memories while running from the blacked out ones. I was going willy nilly, erase that one, and that one, n'at, n'at, n'at!!!! I think everything that should be glass is finally glass and god damn I feel pretty nice about it. I will not say mission accomplished just yet, but almost. Not 'til they're dead and I can move freely. Then, yes. Camo theory. The double fake. The triple fake? Off grid: suspicious. On grid: innocuous. Off grid: hello. On grid: hello. Who has the discipline for that?
Do not forget to look up. Every summer I think about and pain over how hard summer is going to hurt me. It's hot. It's bright. It's humid. The days are long. The nights are too short. The world is busy. Kids run everywhere screaming. Teens judge you and you want to knock them down with a well placed baseball to the teeth and then beat their ears in with rocks for having the nerve to say shit to someone they do not fucking know. And the little children run around bewildered at how green everything can be and you want to spin around in circles with them too and pick flowers and the littler ones just scream and cry because they're too hot and the pool is too cold and you want to scream too because it seems like good fun and one hell of a way to get to a good nap for a few hours until it cools off enough to sleep alright if you want to or run around alright if you want until you're too tired to run around and then take a good long nap under the stars or maybe go fishing and start a fire and find some dumb ass tweens to beat to death with a rock you found at the river while they're getting high and being rebels in the woods behind your fishing spot or find the guy who lives there each year or open your mouth in the 10 A.M. sun shower and just look up at the sky and the thunderheads and the moon all up at once and see lightning at ten in the morning. Don't forget to look up when the air is hot and thin at night and the stars come clearer.
I know I'm not a write off or disposable. Scratch that, I am disposable. That I do know. I'm okay with that. The challenge is making yourself indisposable for stretches. Making yourself available. Laying out the factory floor. Not changing the blueprint for the map's sake, but changing it because you've changed. Because we've changed. "WHO DO YOU WORK FOR" shaken by the collar. I work for you. Don't you remember me? I came in during operation sea hawk midway through mission wolf noose. You don't remember me?
Save things for a good time. Save nothing for a perfect time.
///Django Django - "Zumm Zumm" sometimes you yawn and realize you still have 8 bit roots
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