That Instant

the air conditioner is blowing on the heat sink of your laptop and you haven't burned your knee for the eighty third time.

Dear (_____)

Dear Old Guy,

Yes, you, old guy that sits on your front porch all day harassing people about where they can and cannot park their cars on a public street.  The neighborhood has changed.  It isn't all Italian anymore.  It hasn't been for quite some time. Other people live on this street now.  That is correct.  Other people live on THIS street now, not YOUR street.  If you say one more word to me about where I've parked, I will tear you to pieces.  Your thinly veiled racism is cancerous to everyone.  Your misogyny turns my stomach every time they respond and stop to talk to you out of sheer pity.  The world has left you behind and your ticket is punched.  Do us all a favor and disappear.  You burned my last shred of sympathy for the aging.  You know the card.  That was all you had.  I'm going to say this once so don't let your failing neurons misplace it: other people may find you adorable, a throwback, a mascot, a quirk of the block in an odd town, or harmless, and will continue to shrug you off and entertain your nonsense but you are the physical embodiment of so many things about the past I absolutely despise and if you open your mouth in my direction one more time and it is not a "hello" or "goodbye" I am going to erase you.

Sincerely,

Donefuckingaround

Over The Last Weeks

What we've learned is that we are not a multi-tipped novelty pen.  What each one of us does, all of our others are accountable for.

The pain, torment, rage, and (I am crying waterfalls and I don't want to) absolute hatred, are experienced because of what our others did out of kindness, compassion, sympathy, empathy, love, and understanding...

When I tell you I can't speak about something and then go on to speak about it- it's not a joke a or a hide to try to find something to target you for or insulate myself.  There is a cost.  There is a very real cost.  Often psychological, sometimes physical too.

I am terrified that if I "go into a shell" folks will think I've lost it or something.  I am, unfortunately, beholden to wherever my body happens to be and if that means it is in a cage that also means we are too and I cannot be in there with them because they all should not be in there.  When we are in there, rebellion is inevitable.  What is the only way out?  What is the one way they can each live their own?  It is not a dual blessing and curse.  It is unfortunate.

I am blending in and being as human as possible.  As citizen as possible.  As reasonable as possible.  It hurts tremendously to see that effort fall flat and be exploited  by some, it is ecstatic to see that effort be rewarded by some and flower into map expansions and discovery of new ways to exist and new ways that others exist and new planets and star systems and, fuck me, galaxies.  It is incredible to feel the weight of the sight of others frittering about on the 400 degree oil of life and ourselves, warming our palms near the electric coils, spreading stories of boogie beasts beyond the 60 watt LED light bulb in the sky because the truth is you have to stick close or you will be left behind.  Large enough to fry and small enough in the greater consciousness to slip right through the metal lattice and join the disposable.  Faulty.

When you finally get a chance to turn the music off and see pain for what it is.  When you don't have to protect other people from what you know you are.  Every damaged person worth their weight in time is worth listening to.  The songs are the same.  The cadence's are similar.  The verses are close.  There is a world spanning web of sunsets and sunrises and star anthems and moon odes and solar salutations and a disturbingly familiar scent to the blood that breaks away from a palm while you are trying to wash a glass and a reflect on the evenings high-points and the metal gush of the air mixes with the scented soap as it shatters in your hand for reasons you don't understand.

I have been helped by some that there is no way I can repay.  Literally, with the expanding fabric of life and space time (I've been over the calculations before) there is no way I can repay them before I or they perish, that is what's up.  They offered big and I took only what I needed from what they offered.  I don't understand why, attempting again and again to emulate that truth I continue to ...  I don't understand ... what am I getting wrong each time?  It's not every time, but when it goes poorly, it goes straight to the poor house!

I know I am not entirely sane.  I know I can learn fairly quickly.

I know I have to communicate better.

Everything is not okay.

The margin for error is small.

The people that I hold closest know.  Because we've been speaking with each other and developing language protocols through literally thousands of interactions.

It is unfair to expect anyone, outside of that set of individuals (not the ones I've met face to face or otherwise, for the longest) to know the language too.

What I've learned to broadcast is not ubiquitous.  Thirty two years on planet Earth, and we still have not been able to crack a universal code.  I don't mean to cry, but I am in tears that there is so much more work to do looking ahead to remain human.  I like it here.  I enjoy it because I can be like them and sometimes, when they are willing to play with me, they can be like me too.

I know my schizophrenia is a constantly evolving symbiotic organism (said through thick medication).  We understand it.  I understand it.  You're breaking up!



Please don't leave me!









Kill them all.

Please don't leave- kill them all.









I like to help.  Pay it forward.  Play when you can.  Know us.  If we can't play, say so.  We are shadows.  If you insist on addressing us as a galaxy system to visit, you would be well to address the star inside the nebula and the planet and attendant moon (if necessary) and... or just the comet.  You can also call the sign Hobbes.  I'm sure he'll answer.

The construction was developed over six years.  Before the period of the shatter, layers of designs were gardened to safeguard us.  After the period of the shatter, layers of designs were welded together to safeguard you.  I'm sure it'll answer.





Crews are at work, thirty four hours a day, reviewing diagrams to build a better future.

One spark at a time.

One death at a time.






LET'S GO!




///There's still a lot of work to do, if we are to survive.  We are game, if you are willing to play with us, just know: there are rules.

The Best Thing

about being alive and unmedicated yet is being able to feel the highline and know that laughter coming out of your face is a part of the genuine and honest to goodness you and it is lovely!

That Instant

you've been running all day and get home and are hungry enough that you microwave three individual french fries to nibble on while the rest cycle through the toaster oven.

Rehearsing Language and Opening Up

I am severely conscious of the... I'm not sure what to call it.

Effprglslshsklasl;khkl;sdhl;shl;0o4w90ahrh9poavsnioewjnkl 4w3,m wa4em,. zsvdfvsdab;s vbuio;sdn.sdganm,.asb,.ab;sdfubiosvadfniodsnjk;asdflwsqnio;ewaiofwerinjkfdafiubnl;guio;jkmnsdfdzxc vkBDJZX vsikDJKZB uDKZFGBdfc sadjz
It's easy to fake it.

Having trained for so many years.  Changing the resolution of the lens, I know we are still in metal jail.  How many yards can you be trusted to go out?  Three.  So What's stopping you?  A fifty caliber through the hips.  Oh.  That's a bummer.  I know, right?  I don't know.  A ballistic saw?  Sure.  Yeah.  I know what that is.

Is that what is sawing your mind in half or is that what is stopping you?

What is stopping me is trying to talk around what I cannot say.  Playing with schizophrenia has been an okay proposition.

We were backed into a corner and we nosed our way back to the racing line and that is fine.  It's not sadness, its not depression.  PlEASE  help me.   LOL LOL please help me.  It doesn't hapen all of the time.  Please help me.  No bame.  No face.       No name.  

It told me it's name once.

I couldn't repeat it.  Syllable for syllable.  I just want to know what you are.  Can I ask?

Ask me, I will eat it.  I may be able to sort

I can't

I've already invoked and called by name roundabout. Strength in numbers, right?  Right??

I'm on my own.  I'm on my fucking own again.  I am on my own again.  Shit.  And I have to sleep.  Sleeping is fine.  I actually do not mind most of the things that come back through the dreaming door.  I am already familiar with many of them.  Many of them live with me on a daily basis.  I didn't sign up for this.  "It's all in your head."

Please, shut it off.  

I will not cry today.

















GET BACK

I have been rehearsing conversations and tones and word selection.  My communication skills have been atrophying.  Without constant work, anything can ivy to brick.

I've been playing through conversations and cross table and rhetoric and gusto and light and small talk.  It's been going okay.  It has been passable.  I am learning better when to shut my trap and when to jog along.  Some memories still open while I speak with my siblings.  I don't understand and do at the same time why I locked those memories away.  I am sad and vicious at once.  Sad and joyous at once.  Vicious and joyous and sad and nostalgic and love filled and cuddly and mute and enraged at once.  Is it really too much to ask to hack the crest of your ear off to keep in a box after it has dried in the sun?  I'd give you a portion of mine, equal to or greater than.  I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

glitch********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************




///IV  i opwn my ams ad eh we breathe  thlnd ad seeeeea  werrckkkks nd gleeeeee weee run ddddjjsklttteeeekrrnmmglllllll shh

Part One: Be A Better Lensman

Just because you know you are going to die (at some point) does not mean that everything and anything you talk about is tied to it.  You've learned how to exist without constant diagnostics.    There is no tasklock key.

A lie.

There is.

The tasklock key, is not tied to ...


Oh, for fucks sake, lighten up.  Can you do that for me?




///yes

The Two Way Metaphor Gate

In building short hand, a degree of expression is reached that can and does generate the rare joy of identity and naming.  Mapping.  Map with as much resolution as can be mustered.  How else can a clearer understanding be reached!  Shouting is not permitted.  How else can a clearer understanding be reached.  How else can a clearer understanding be reached?

From its surface metaphor appears lazy.  Jagged.  Elliptical.  Fragmented.  Excessive.  Dumb.  Misguided.  Glittery.  Vain.  Hyperbolic.  Binary.  From its surface it's a lot of things, directly below perception it is incandescent.  A bit of metal chewed fast and friction enough to trace a retina and leave shades.

It is one of the few things all languages have in common.  A short hand.

Some mental disorders may fall just outside of the curve of the metaphorist.   Not in terms of comprehension, but in terms of time.  Around folks speaking the common language and sparking, some will see the shades and some will project the shades and be able to predict from the point of a sound.

The problem, a problem, arises with metaphor's other power.

In its ability to link ideas and present a universe whose limits, as humans, are the speed of salts in brains and quantum entanglement, it can also cross time.  Places and spaces you've never been and people you've never known.  Places and spaces no one has ever seen and places and spaces heard of dreams.

I guess what I'm saying is consciousness of metaphors power can unleash and enable some ridiculous and unaccounted for futures.  It can describe the present you are in to people you will never meet in the future.   It can describe someone's past you've never met before in all of your days on Earth or in space or outside of the common dimension.  It can define the undefinable.  Free the interned and capture the holy.  It is powerful and infinite.  Innocent and horror.  Dirge and beautiful.

As close to time travel as humans may ever reach.  With metaphor, the past is present - the future too - all in the space of a gesture, a syllable, a smell, a touch - a note.  A one.  A zero.  In sequence.  That's why it is a two way gate.  Futures can be created inside of them and the past can manifest with a breath and a blink through the same swinging door.




///Dirty Projectors & Bjork - (When the World Comes to an End)     for a long time

That Instant

the catch tray release on your three-hole-punch hitches and you accidentally release 600 tiny dots of paper into the wild.

Expired Milk

It's only been three days.
Yesterday the cereal tasted fine.
Tomorrow the coffee will be good.
Besides, the heat will destroy the bacteria.
The mold?  Bacteria.  Viruses come from living things.
Living things?  I'm pretty sure.
It's only been six days.
Someone has to smell it.
It's probably still good.
The coffee will be fine tomorrow
and besides, one more day is all
until more cereal is bought
along with another quart of milk.
If it doesn't pass the eye test
We'll toss it.  Sometimes the carton
can make it smell weird.
It's only been nine days.
Yesterday the tea tasted fine
after ten cigarettes
and no one was violently ill.
The shake test will tell us
all we need to know and besides
It's only been ten days.