Admissions, Missions, Poor Planning, Hobos, and Caught Out

So I didn't plan this particularly well.  Not as well as I could have.  Given my circumstances and propensity for utter restlessness.  I'm in a position where I'm dying to hit the road and run, but I just finished a six pack and I know if I go outside right now and try to do anything, my judgement will couple up with my reckless streak and I'll end up punching a hobo in the face in a train tunnel by the river and possibly getting shanked.  Nobody wants that.  Especially not the part of me that likes to not get knifed.  All I can think about, well not all, but most of what I can think about is getting out in that humid cool air and sucking lung fulls of it.  Then again I have to keep in mind the mileage I put on last week and make sure I rest my hooves enough to do it all again this week.  So maybe, not poor planning.  Maybe out smarting myself while out out smarting myself.  Or just poor planning.  That's easier to say.  I'm about ready to jump out of a second story window.

More importantly though I had to go in and delete some blogs.  Projects I had a vision for that never panned out.  Sometimes because they were joint efforts with other people and the other people never put in the effort and they metastasized into additional solo projects I couldn't support on my own along with the things I was already doing on the regular (and subsequently killed some of the regular efforts I was bending myself to in the brief time I tried to do both).  It is kind of tough to admit.  Sometimes things just don't work out anywhere near where I expect them to, which is why I am reluctant to do anything with anybody anymore.  Not that their real lives tend to take precedent.  Or maybe they do.  I have no real idea why anyone stops.  I know why I stop and start.  I just don't see those same reasons being relevant to others.  Not that I'm unique or anything like that.  I'm just unique in my limits and strengths.  No, I'm kidding.  Experience has taught me that is the case.  My perceptions of myself, however, may vary.

They went down easy though.  I downloaded the ones with enough content to want to reread them at some point.  Revisit the prisoners of the digital infomatic time capsulator 9000.  I glossed some of them as I downloaded and reviewed and decided yay or nay for axing.   What was lost is not worth going over explicitly.  What survived is a pair of joint efforts with the real j chen.  One not touched in forever and the other edited more recently than I expected, but still a year out from today.  I owe it a call back at least.  Wait and see, maybe.  A wait and see kind of deal.  The other survivors were all things with names I could pick up and immediately begin rebuilding or re-purpose, restructure, and give new life to, in light of new efforts forthcoming.  There's still Fingerslip (the long gestation writing space), there's Hateitalready (which will be repurposed from a place to rant about new products I hate already into an infrequent comic I've been putting off forever, but have wanted to do for easily three years now), there's Simplelongingundertow (which will be about sex and strictly so), and then the Encyclopediamechanica (a store house for made up tech stuff I want to have available to myself and searchable primarily for story construction and resolution of timeline continuity issues, but available to the public because sometimes the best parts of stories are the gadgets and I want that to be documented... assuming I can write and produce something worth reading and reviewing and delving deeper into [adding a richness perhaps I otherwise could not achieve on a short story budget... I dunno]).  Thems the survivors.

The mission becomes not letting myself get as caught out as I have been.  Focus.  Hocus focus were to be the names of my cats if I got a pair, but I didn't.  I have been a little bit caught out.  Caught between reading and reading up on old movies by watching them and reading up on old stories and rewatching (more like studying and breaking down) films I have enjoyed and disliked and plot lines I have enjoyed and passed off as trash and scripts.  A lot of time has been spent plotting and planning to the point of compulsion.  A lot of time has been spent, yes, dreaming still.  That is probably one of my top five primary functions.  Dream composition.  Now it's time to start making the faces and planes and points and lines intersect.  They're all there, even though I'm not always.  I had a thought about the sky being the limit, which is patently false.  What I came to was that the sky is not the limit, but the sooner you understand that, the sooner you can get to working toward putting yourself in a position where that might actually become the case through some luck, coincidence, and connection.  I glass ceiling implies a glass floor somewhere.

Anyway, the point is, what do I have to do to get laid in this town?  And more importantly.... you know, I don't think there's a second part to that.  At what age do you just forget about getting laid altogether.  Cause that shit is distracting.  Can I skip to that age?  That spot in the timeline where it's not even that you forget about it, but it's that your genitals transmogrify from a point of expression and emotion and even, sometimes, source of soul and self into little more than say a plumbing fixture or decorative coaster.  What I do know is that one of these days along my life span I am going to wake up with super powers and the world better hope I die before that day comes because I will be the worst superman ever.  Can superman even do crack?  Does he have to do supercrack to get an equivalent high?  I know there was that one superman movie where he got drunk, but seriously, if he went to a bar he would have to drink the entire bar to get drunk.  Unless his powers only apply to mechanical elements.  musculo skeletal systems.  Worst super power ever.  Or just not a great movie.  I don't know.  The point is, stuff is going to get did.  Because the stuff not getting done is gone.  Also because if things don't get done I will feel terrible and listless and end up down at the docks again fighting hobos.


///Aphex Twin - "Waxen Pith"  think time

Dear (_____)

Dear weekend,

I am going to @##$%$##!@*** your brains out.

That is all.

Sincerely,

runs with scissors

First Times and Last Times and a Limo Full of Tacos and Go, Dumby

That full feeling you get a few minutes after eating, but the feeling doesn't sit like a cannonball on your stomach, but it keeps on roiling like hookah smoke laid into a glass bowl and it just keeps flowing around and around, Baoding balls in the palm of your guts.  It's kind of like that.  The feeling is.  But saying it's like being full like you just ate is way too simplistic.  It's hard to explain.  What ever isn't.  A few things.  Gravity.  Death.  How to make a cheeseburger.  Those are pretty easy.   What a fruit salad is.  Also easy.  I could probably explain most of those things in five seconds.  Except the cheeseburger.  That's a tough one.  The definition is loose and specific at the same time.  So not everything is hard to explain, but most things are.  Things like that feeling.

Commercials are ridiculous.  Everybody knows that.  Except the people that don't.  I've been noticing a lot of things citing the first days of people's lives.  This or that was like being born.  That and this was like the first night of my life.  No one remembers what the first day of their life was like.  If anything it was probably a fairly crappy day.  The day when you had to put in your first twenty four hours of work.  Which is kind of hilarious.  I feel born again: no you don't.  If you did you would be screaming and crying and probably wanting more than anything to be forty feet under water in a hot, glassy surfaced, tropic lake with your eyes closed and dreaming.  I don't want first nights or last nights or rebirths.  How about, just a little continuation.  A little contiguity.  A little less of people skipping and dancing through the streets with ten seconds of memory.  I mean, isn't that what the drug state is all about.    Helping everyone forget their only born once?  Who knows.  Sometimes, talking about it on it's own makes me laugh enough to let it go merrily down the drain.

It's funny sometimes see shows on tv and you can immediately dissect it with enough clarity to know which guy in the four person script will end up being the one referred to as "...that's that guy from that show, right?  Oh, wait, no.  I was thinking of..." regardless of who ends up being cast in the role.  Imagining other people's heads on other people's bodies while watching television.  Other voices coming out of the other heads on top of the other bodies.  I don't know what I gain from doing that except a little personal amusement and every now and then the rising realization that someone in casting completely missed the boat on a pretty interesting matchup of screen presence and line reading.  But then you think, well maybe they had something more important or lucrative to do.  Because not everybody is like you, with your schedule that more often resembles a day in the life of Mr. Squarepants than anything else.  Which is fine.  The only down side to schedules like that is that people feel free to cancel on you.  Which is fine.  So you, just move on to the next thing on the list.  And if you're lucky, it's nothing, so you go take a nap.  Or hit the bar.  I forget.

So anyway.  Funny story.  There's this commercial for tacos.  All of these people are dressed up in a limousine and clearly a little party tipped (drunk, but you know...  tv drunk... so not drunk really, but totally drunk) and they get out what equates to a party ball of tacos and start chowing down in this limo.  All I could think of was how the air in that limo probably went from breathable air to beef gases, cheese burps, and corn flour breath in about twenty seconds.  It's basically dropping a box of grenades into the artillery hold of an aircraft carrier (is that what those are called?).  I mean, not to belabor the issue, but the last a group of 12 adults already with alcohol and sugar destabilized gastrointestinal tracts needs is a box full of greasy catalysts.  That's a recipe for 12 photo finishes.

I've kind of realized I am a junk food lightweight.  Not by conscious choice.  It just phased out with excess disposable income.  Candy bars?  Eh, I'll split one.  McDonalds?  Eh.  Can we just get some pb and j and rice?  I mean, I'll eat it if someone else buys it so I'm not turning up my nose, or if there's nothing else to eat and even then, even then I have to concede or at least add a disclaimer.  It's not you, empty food, it's me.

I was doing laundry today and as I'm looking at it I'm thinking it would be a lot easier to decide what to wear if it were all in color order.  But then as I'm looking at the heap of colors I realize I should organize the colors by hue.  And then organize the hues by saturation.  That way even as I use up the t-shirts it'll still look pretty hanging there and I can spend time looking at it.  Then I realized that's what a crazy person would do. So I didn't do it.  Then I thought it was a little pointless too since they are mostly hanes brand tees.  Therefore mostly either flat gray, flat black, flat army green, or white or brown.  Not that complicated.  And then I realized what the shirts really need is not more variety, but more writing on them.  As they are all blank.  And that would take at least thirty permanent markers to do.  But I can't trust myself with thirty markers.  It would be maybe five markers down before I started sniffing them.  And then I would end up sniffing all of them until they dried out.  And then I would feel terrible all over again and have a bunch of blank t shirts and no money too.  And then I realized that was also a crazy person thing to do.

Finally I decided the only safe thing to do, really, was put the shirts on the hangars in random order or randomize it when adding shirts to the closet.  Because that was the only sane thing I could possibly do.  And I congratulated myself on an hour well spent.  So there.  I'm not crazy.  

So I have to get started.  I've already gotten to the point of forgetting what I dream because I have been tearing them off six at a clip twice a day.  Voice recording has gotten to be a hassle.  I lost my ear phone/mic.  Which means I have to sit in one place.  Purpose defeating.  The small voice in my head is a large voice now.  Just go do it, dumby.  A lot has changed.  What do you want?  Clarity?   I got that.  No, that's funny.  Way too aggressive.  I'm not going to be an idiot and proclaim last times or first days.  That's all bullshit.  I've learned.  Again.  After forgetting.  This time it's going to stick though.  Rediscovered outlets. Emissions.  Things I thought I couldn't do anymore.  Did get into another row along the way, but even that was minor, just a blip of the larger needle that I guess I'm still not far enough away from to ignore or full throttle straight by and not notice.  Which is good.  Road speed governor.  You and I.  I'm still taking two.  Except with an eye toward more of that feeling and less outright destruction.  It's all physics.   Kind of.  I don't know these days.  Line items.

Hi.

Have a Try

I'm trying.  No apologies out of respect for you.  No explanation necessary, I know.  Up and down and up and down.  Sometimes more down than left.  More left than right.

It's an odd scale.  Coming from actually having stabbed someone to being free and clear.  Your head tells you that you've  gotten away with something and you're heart tells you otherwise.  Every day.  I guess I would never make it in prison. Or something like that.

I'm trying to get back to writing.  Like substantial writing.  Or something like that.  Evolutions and all of that jazz.  All of that jazz.  Jazz and jazz and jazz.

I read a book recently, where am I now?  I read a book recently.  Where am I now?  Angry.  Still.  Still angry. Happy, of sorts.  But still angry.  And sorry.  And angry.  And Sorry.  With a capital S.  I never know how to describe it.  I never know how to tell you their names.

I am starting again though.  Power.  Redesgn is in the works.  The aural port is getting a summer face.  OEM is getting a new face too.  I'm sorry.  I'm broken, but functioning.  I don't know how else to put it.  There's a space in my heart for me and a space in my heart for you and a space in my heart for the things I can not deny myself and ... and what?  Tears are for the dead.  And the dying.  So  I'll try to breath or something like that..............................................................





...............Muster the gorgeous.














....................place holders.  Place holders.  Consider this a place holder.

That Instant

you realize that, yeah, that dream you had when you were ten years old, the one where you a had a tail and life was awesome because you had a big bushy tail, is a dream you still wish could come true.

Dear (_____)

Dear cake,

Please stop giving me boners.  Not that I feel it's inappropriate for a man to be turned on by thoughts of eating cake, because cake is delicious.  And there are probably fifty other less appropriate things that turn me on.  It's just that when I'm not thinking about sex, I'm probably thinking about either cake or early 80s Japanese imports (cars), and, quite frankly, no one should have to walk around with a chubby for that many of their waking hours.

sincerely,

did I really just lose an hour and a half of my life masturbating?

The Best Thing

about headphones is that no one knows if you're listening or paying attention or not.  I reserve all interpolation rights.  In other words, you can't talk to me unless I want to be spoken to.  There's no real way to do that effectively, except through wearing some type of obstructing device, whether it operates as an obstruction or is inoperable and in so being operates as a symbol of obstruction just as powerful.   So yeah.  Nice.

That Instant

you realize your cat has captured, executed, and disposed of every single headband you owned and your bad hair day is about to get a lot rougher than you ever imagined.

The Super L33t Effect

The l33t effect in salary capped sports, and to a lesser degree uncapped sports, in America is a shame.  It has nothing to do with LeBron as a person, or his mental toughness, or what he does in "winning" time, or crunch time, or whether or not he steps up in big moments, or is "passive", or whatever.  The only thing it has to do with is the perception that you have to, absolutely have to be paid requisite to your abilities and relative to your peers at all times and to do anything less would be an admission of some kind of failing in your skill set, relative to everyone else playing the same game, and is absolutely unacceptable.

I mean, I get it: professional athletes are competitive in every aspect of their game and it makes sense that the competitive "I am the best, I will get the best" mentality bleeds over into other aspects of their lives.  I wasn't terribly shocked when Tiger Woods slept with other women.  The guy's a competitor.  Were you really shocked back in the day when Tanya paid that guy to smash Nancy's leg with a hammer?  Did I get those names in the right order?  I hope I'm remembering that correctly.  Anyway, when athletes do ridiculous things, why is anyone terribly shocked?  9/10ths of their lives is spent growing up in their sport and continuing that sport on an adult level against other people who have devoted the greater parts of their lives to the same game would, could, and does warp them with respect to 9 to 5 human beings who don't do what they love (not even close) and who haven't been doing it since they were old enough to... I dunno... carry a plate from the kitchen to their table and back when they were done eating.

What I've been thinking is that the LeBron effect basically makes it harder to win as a team, rather than easier.  Maybe call it the A-Rod effect, or don't.  That wouldn't be all that accurate as there aren't salary caps in baseball.  You can throw away as much money as you want depending on your market.  It's still there though, but a shadow of what it is in capped sports.  In salary capped leagues the ultra l33t athlete effect is real.  Basically, you are awesome.  Well, I should start off by saying "this is where it starts."  So, basically, you are awesome at what you do.  Top twenty in the country.  In the top fifty human beings on the face of the Earth at whatever thing it is that you do.

However, the only way you get to do it, is by signing on with a team and the team only has so much money to spend.  On top of that, there is already an established amount of money everyone else who can't do it as well as you gets paid.  So you have to be paid more because you're better than them.  It'd be like a CEO of a grocery store being paid bagger money.  The money establishes, or rather, confirms hierarchy.  Pay grades are like school grades in that way.  The problem arises when you are so good that a team has to pay you so much money that there is none left to pay the baggers or cashiers or maintenance staff and the grocery store eventually folds, but damn there was a good CEO leading them straight into the ground.    You could take less money, but taking less money would be the same as saying "I'm not the best at what I do and I want to acknowledge it publicly."

The super l33t effect basically rots out the infrastructure, completely blows it out.  So as contracts inflate, the model of a few super l33ts surrounded by dreck grows less and less tenable.  I guess what I'm getting at is this:  every time something goes wrong with the Miami Heat NBA team and the finger pointing starts up, I cringe a little bit.  It is a no win situation for that team and everyone involved.  If they do eventually win a championship or two, it will be great, but I think it will be the last time, at least for the foreseeable future, that any general manager will make moves that will eat the massive majority of their available folding money on a massive minority of their players (the elite few on the team).  It's a bit ridiculous.  It's a self perpetuating system.  If LeBron could take less money to bring in a better supporting cast, would he?  I guess that's up for debate too.  But, we'll never know.  So screw it.

Either way, athletes are paid way too much money regardless.  Average people aren't paid enough.  And God, if he exists, is a Steelers fan.  That is all.

Not Again. Yes Again

  I pretty much exploded just about every single breaker on my mind this past weekend.  It was rough.  Massive overload.  Massive violence.  Memory loss.  Found things in my apartment that did not belong to me that were covered in blood that was not mine.  Strange stuff.  Just a complete collapse that was punctuated by a friend in bad straits and there was nothing I could do really to help her, but god damn it I tried and I will try again if it happens again.  Powerlessness.  Is a terrible thing.  Drives me to do and exercise the things I can do.  Which are few.  And most of those things lead to bad circumstances.

I know at some point my luck is going to run out and things will not go anywhere near the way I planned them.  I will be on the wrong end of the violence and rage.  Over my head without even knowing it.  Without realizing it until it happens.  I don't think I'll be all that upset though.  A way out.  Not the way out I would want, but how far I would go to resist is questionable.  I don't think I would, beyond reflex.  I did set out to specifically kill someone.  Ended up in tears and bloodless.  I suppose that was the second time.  I don't remember what happened the first time.  The point is I've got stop letting go like that.  Gotta stop letting myself be provoked.

Control.  Without control there is nothing.  I can't afford to lose like that.  Not yet.  Still too much work to do.  Gotta get my head back on straight if I'm going to live through the bull shit and the slippage and the blow outs and the


///Tosca - "Oscar"  I've had the most fantastic dreams over the last two days about stories I need to write.  I need to do it.  I'm not really afraid of running out of time.  I just know that time is running out of me like blood from a head wound.