Growth is hard hard hard. I don't like change. Routine is a life saver. Regulation. Having to think about what to wear and what to eat and when and how much and how many layers and what's clean and what's not and the questions mount up so damn fast. Is there gas in the car, is there not, is there enough gas to get to a gas station, is there milk, are there eggs, did you put your socks on before you put shoes on, did you wear a belt, did you need to, are you wearing pants, is your shirt buttoned, tucked, or untucked and should it be. Did you brush your teeth, did you brush your beard, where are your sunglasses, do you need them, did you check the weather, where are your keys, are your cards in your wallet, did you get back to the people who left you messages, did they message you at all, what's your schedule like, do you have a schedule, where's your cereal, do you need more, what's for breakfast, what's for dinner, did you smoke yet, should you be, what's the month budget for it, did you budget, shouldn't you be quitting, did you make time to draw, did you make time to check up on the engine light, did you do laundry, is your stuff in the dryer, did you vacuum the rugs, have you brushed the cats, did you water the garden, where's the coolant you picked up, have you gathered the scattered spare change, where are your shoes, where are the good jeans, did you hang up your good tees, how are the ice trays, did you take out the trash, did you look into buying fans, where are the new fish hooks you bought, who keeps letting their dog poo at the corner of your house, have you checked the mail, where's the other set of keys, where's your good hat, have you changed your water filter, what's the beer situation, did you buy new brushes for work, have you paid your phone bill, when are you changing your tires, have you washed your hair, have you checked your piercings, did you wash your sheets, have you clipped your nails, did you tie your shoes, is there an undershirt beneath your top, have you looked into ... brain explosion.
Routine really is a life saver. I'd kill myself without it. Without routine it is impossible to identify brain shrapnel apart from reality. Impossible to separate the notes of a song from synapse misfires. I haven't been slipping too much and I'm proud of that. I've been doing a good job of managing schizophrenia and delusion. I've been sharp and on my feet enough to know when control was slipping and intelligent enough to understand when a decent time to step back and lock my body in arrived. I'm happy for that. I'm happy that I've been able to not just see my friends and old family, but divide those conversations from the larger dialogues with other people and keep them private. I am happy that the ones without names can be separated from the ones with.
I've been trying to keep ourselves busy in the factory and it's going good. The warehouse is buzzing and everyone's happy and still yapping at each other and it's fantastic. Everyone is accounted for, the first time in a long time. I can't sit on it though. They will start to wander away and then we won't be working together for half a damn.
I've been thinking over the last time I was in the hospital when they brought me in and made me intern myself as a bargain. That night still itches me. Still makes us furious. I didn't do anything wrong that day! I shut my mouth too, but they had us hooked up to a couple machines and I was lying through my teeth the whole time and to this day we're sure my heartbeat gave us up. I stood up and it jumped real hard from rest to joy panic and the doctor winced and I winced and started sweating and everyone started screaming in my ears and I tried to run, but the door was locked from the outside and that's just plain unfair and I got mad. Mad as hell.
Routine is a life saver, though. Do X at Y time. Z comes after. A comes first, followed by B. Sometimes D, but it's okay if C jumps in before D as long as A and B come before and X and Y follow. Without it, without that, things get jumbled and then dreamland starts to bleed into reality and then things I shouldn't say and people who have no business in my circles start to have conversations with people they have no business meeting and then those people start to get mad at us because we've been talking about them behind their backs and once that check is cashed there's no going back on it. Then I get burned because they make me pay and there's no way to explain to them because as hard as I try to explain it to them they don't hear me and I've already gone too far and that's far enough.
Growth is hard. It hurts. Learning what you can and can't do. What I can and cannot do. What is and is not acceptable. More than anything else I want to meet someone who can sit down with me and them and have a good long coffee conversation. I know they're not real, I know they are real. I have to constantly monitor sounds. I have to consistently monitor their footsteps so I know when and whom I'm looking at. It's not fair. It's not fucking fair! I want you in my world. I want you in my shoes so you can understand the kind of ... it's not fucking fair.
I play music so loud so I don't have to hear. I hope I go deaf. I wouldn't mind still having eyes because I love to look at nature. I love looking at nature. Sometimes we hate what I see because they are there always now and it's terrifying and it's gorgeous. Seeing where they've been and we talk about it across fields. Are you hiding from me? You with the- I hate it. I hate it! Are you alone? Did you come alone? No! Not ever! I'm never alone! Do you know what that's like??? Do you know what that's like?????? Get away from me! Stop lying!! Stop lying in my ear!! Just go away!!! It never happens. It never happens like I want it to and I try not to take it out on us. Not to take it out on you. Growth is hard. My dad used to assure me it was just angels and devils talking to me and if I chose the path of loving Jesus I would be able to sort them out and I would know which ones it was because "the Bible tells me so." Goodnight and good luck.
Managing is harder. It's difficult boxing that part of me away. Walling and fencing it off so I can still be a part of the rest of 'merica. Hard not to play into their hands. The whole thing burns to malfeasance. Reciprocal engine with no off button. The only thing you can do is try to avoid putting gas in it. I want new genes. I want new genes. I want new programming. I've been doing good. Little star. Little little skittish star, but I've been doing good. Been doing good with putting words the right way and conversations the right way, and containing, but it's exhausting and it hurts us on the inside parts. It hurts a lot. I want to be alone so badly and I don't know how to get there. I don't know how to get back to good sleep.
It's not about my parents or the violence pushed way too far or relationships with friends or dating or god or medicine. Battling. Don't celebrate the battles, celebrate the war. I want nature to stop talking to me. A billion dollars for silence. A trillion dollars for blindness. That's the wager. Just give me one less eye and blown out ears. Still no guts to do it myself. Take it away from me. Just shut up! Shut the fuck up! Growth is hard! Being adult. Sometimes I wake up and I know I'm still stunted, but inside a giant robot that has capabilities far beyond what my head is prepared to command. I didn't want it, but I know I have to deal with it, continue to learn how to use it to become a part of the rest of the structures or destroy it so it doesn't damage the space it occupies and the rest occupying the same space. It hurts. It hurts a lot. It's confusing to us. I've been doing good though. I want to keep it going. I want to blend in better. I am working on growth, but it's hard as hell.
///Bjork - "Pluto" ... a little bit tired, but brand new...
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.
7/19/13
The Takedown, Hold Overs, Creation, and Airlock to Spacewalk
"That time is now." It's time to tear it all apart and restructure it. The tags no longer make any sense in terms of what they are supposed to be pointers too. They still point to the things they are supposed to point to, but there's no longer the sort of continuity between meanings that there was. Over the years and iterations and expansion, a lot of the growth has been organic save for the bare bones items and the most common of common veins and themes. I'm having a hard time following it and searching and reviewing. I'm sure part of it is to do with my own electromigration and changing processing powers, up and down. Things that used to make sense do not anymore, that which makes sense now does not fit cleanly into what came before.
The main problem is, because I enjoy writing so much, getting other things done becomes tedious and overly difficult. Discouragingly difficult. Task lock kicks in and nothing gets done at all because I have that loop constantly running with no way to put an end to it. "What do you want to do tonight?" Get some writing done, maybe do some doodling. "Okay, go!" Wait, I want to do that first and then- "Okay, go!" But I don't know how what I'm thinking about writing is going to seat next to the last thing I did so I need to find out what I was planning on accomplishing last week that's still in proc- "Okay, go!" You're not hearing me. I'm still trying to lay out the sequence so that when I get to the part where I start to lay down tracks I'll be able to begin to set up the next step into- "Okay, go!" God damn it!! Forget it. I'm going to go jerk off and try to sleep. And sleep refuses to kick in because my mind is still circling a world light years away from planet sleep even though my body arrived days ago. Ghost ship.
There are hold overs. Artifacts. A lot of what I am doing is cataloging artifacts. The overall design, however, is a massive artifact of another time. A thing I've fallen in love with deeply. When the entire interface and blog structure updated to a new design structure a few years ago, was it years, I retained mine because what I wanted to express was inexpressible within the new structure available. The only real issue with doing it, at the time, was being cut off from any possible further updates beyond my own. I liked what I put together. I liked looking at it. I liked making small adjustments here and there and watching it completely change it's feel without losing it's theme. It's time to let go of the tinkering. Save the memory.
Fun in creation. Unique pleasure in drawing resources together into a whole. This piece of code and that drawing on that server together with a banner you put together and stored on another server and watching it all spin to life at the click of a button. Part of the enjoyment in keeping the ship alive after this or that part died or stopped responding was the puzzle of rerouting connections, solving them, and kicking off into space again. One of the reasons why I love writing is pulling the parts and pieces together, memories, fragments, dreams, real and unreal, and at one point I got that same buzz from design, but it's wearing me out trying to do it across multiple platforms. Time to retool and tighten up creation. Focus on what matters the most and let that drive what comes next instead of allowing the platform to drive production. The factory and the caucus and everyone working within should be governing what comes out of the warehouse, not the shape and color and how many windows the warehouse has. Flight inversion.
Airlock to spacewalk, it is. Time to park it in an orbital bone yard and piece together a new ship. Maybe not one that incorporates everything, but one that simplifies so we're not flipping sixteen switches and checking three different read outs before tuning dials to accomplish what could be done in one cycle. I'm looking forward to it. I don't know what I'm going to do about the tag situation. A problem for another day. We'll see what's out there. Never forget the mission. Never forget how beautiful the Earth looks from afar. When you can't see past your own control panel, it's time. "Next time you go out to space, how about leaving yourself a little free time?"
///Plaid - "Air Locked"
The main problem is, because I enjoy writing so much, getting other things done becomes tedious and overly difficult. Discouragingly difficult. Task lock kicks in and nothing gets done at all because I have that loop constantly running with no way to put an end to it. "What do you want to do tonight?" Get some writing done, maybe do some doodling. "Okay, go!" Wait, I want to do that first and then- "Okay, go!" But I don't know how what I'm thinking about writing is going to seat next to the last thing I did so I need to find out what I was planning on accomplishing last week that's still in proc- "Okay, go!" You're not hearing me. I'm still trying to lay out the sequence so that when I get to the part where I start to lay down tracks I'll be able to begin to set up the next step into- "Okay, go!" God damn it!! Forget it. I'm going to go jerk off and try to sleep. And sleep refuses to kick in because my mind is still circling a world light years away from planet sleep even though my body arrived days ago. Ghost ship.
There are hold overs. Artifacts. A lot of what I am doing is cataloging artifacts. The overall design, however, is a massive artifact of another time. A thing I've fallen in love with deeply. When the entire interface and blog structure updated to a new design structure a few years ago, was it years, I retained mine because what I wanted to express was inexpressible within the new structure available. The only real issue with doing it, at the time, was being cut off from any possible further updates beyond my own. I liked what I put together. I liked looking at it. I liked making small adjustments here and there and watching it completely change it's feel without losing it's theme. It's time to let go of the tinkering. Save the memory.
Fun in creation. Unique pleasure in drawing resources together into a whole. This piece of code and that drawing on that server together with a banner you put together and stored on another server and watching it all spin to life at the click of a button. Part of the enjoyment in keeping the ship alive after this or that part died or stopped responding was the puzzle of rerouting connections, solving them, and kicking off into space again. One of the reasons why I love writing is pulling the parts and pieces together, memories, fragments, dreams, real and unreal, and at one point I got that same buzz from design, but it's wearing me out trying to do it across multiple platforms. Time to retool and tighten up creation. Focus on what matters the most and let that drive what comes next instead of allowing the platform to drive production. The factory and the caucus and everyone working within should be governing what comes out of the warehouse, not the shape and color and how many windows the warehouse has. Flight inversion.
Airlock to spacewalk, it is. Time to park it in an orbital bone yard and piece together a new ship. Maybe not one that incorporates everything, but one that simplifies so we're not flipping sixteen switches and checking three different read outs before tuning dials to accomplish what could be done in one cycle. I'm looking forward to it. I don't know what I'm going to do about the tag situation. A problem for another day. We'll see what's out there. Never forget the mission. Never forget how beautiful the Earth looks from afar. When you can't see past your own control panel, it's time. "Next time you go out to space, how about leaving yourself a little free time?"
///Plaid - "Air Locked"
7/6/13
Cliffside Funeral Wedding Dream
Massive dream. There was a procession across a hill side and on that hill side there were hundreds of tombstones. The hill side was a little over grown and as it sloped down the entire thing was cut off at the far edge by a cliff. There was a procession happening there, the women dressed in gowns with all kinds of frillies and big brimmed hats with white flowers in them and all of the men dressed in tuxedos with black ties and shiny shoes
I was watching it from where the birds sit in the air and I wanted to get a closer look so I dove down and sat on one of the tomb stones to watch them walk. They were hiking on a narrow trail that led around the curve of the hill top and I couldn't see where they were going or from where they walked. I noticed some of the men wearing top hats and it was kind of cool. It made me want to have a top hat of my own, but not enough to actually make one. There was no music, only the sound of their feet kicking up dirt, but it rained the day before so there was no dust.
Some of the women had really thin canes and used them to help themselves push farther up the hill while they walked. Everyone there looked so stately and I wanted to be a part of it so I pressed myself into the grid, but I wasn't thinking and ended up there with a football and shorts and a dirty tee once I got the address right. That was the only hard part.
I kept throwing the football at people, but my resolution wasn't good enough and it kept passing through their bodies like they weren't even there. It would take a bounce or two and go off the side of the cliff and I felt worse and worse trying to make it happen and every time I kept saying "I'll go get it" and I would hike down the hill, navigating the gray and black and mossed over tombstones to the cliff side and then start the climb down. The view was incredible. There were birds flying beneath my feet dipping in and out of the canyon and there were trees growing down there where the cliff would ledge for a few feet and then drop down hundreds.
I fast forwarded the climb and return and clicked back on when I got back to the top. The procession must have been miles long. I was doing it all day. Another pass, another pass through, another climb. "I'll go get it." And they kept on walking. Some of the men had taxidermy turtles on the tops of their hats, spray painted black. I started to follow the procession to see where it was going. I liked being up in the air, but I liked being in shorts better and the football felt good to hold and toss even though I couldn't make anyone in the procession catch it. It felt good to walk.
I got distracted though. One of the tombs was a mausoleum. I wandered off of the trail because I was really interested in the iron work of the gates. They rusted over beautifully and I wondered about the hands that made them so pretty. The tomb itself was a simple white box of big blocks. No angels or ridiculous adornments. No saints. Nothing grew on it. The gate was unlocked so I walked inside.
The floor sloped down and into the hill side. There was nothing inside of it except a stone work tunnel. Inside of the tunnel there was a waterfall that arched through it. Thinking back the water probably was blown up from the right side and across the roof to terminate in the left side gutter. I started walking down it and then running because the air smelled so good and earth filled and wet and oxygen rich and I wanted to blow as much of it down my lungs as I could. I wanted to take my shirt off so it dissolved in bits of dust, pixel for pixel, and while I was running my friend started running too and caught up to me. I heard him and his shoes going step for step, but he still caught up to me because his stride was longer and I was thinking I could beat him to the end. I started off with quick feet, the same tempo, but we both got to our top gears and once you're there the only thing that matters is how far your footfalls can distance themselves from the one coming before.
He said "do you want to race?" I said "Hell yes." We booked it toward the light, running underneath the procession. I still had the football in the crook of my arm. I beat him out by a step and came to a skidding halt. The tunnel was a field of gravel on the other side. All of the pebbles we kicked up stopping went over the other side of the cliff and made little pock pock noises on their way down. I looked over my shoulder and the hill top was still dotted with tombstones. Some of them broken and graffiti on them. The procession was gone though.
Catching my breath I realized I was breathing hard outside of dreamland and it woke me up before I was ready to leave that place.
/// Lionrock - "Packet of Peace (Chemical Brothers Mix)"
I was watching it from where the birds sit in the air and I wanted to get a closer look so I dove down and sat on one of the tomb stones to watch them walk. They were hiking on a narrow trail that led around the curve of the hill top and I couldn't see where they were going or from where they walked. I noticed some of the men wearing top hats and it was kind of cool. It made me want to have a top hat of my own, but not enough to actually make one. There was no music, only the sound of their feet kicking up dirt, but it rained the day before so there was no dust.
Some of the women had really thin canes and used them to help themselves push farther up the hill while they walked. Everyone there looked so stately and I wanted to be a part of it so I pressed myself into the grid, but I wasn't thinking and ended up there with a football and shorts and a dirty tee once I got the address right. That was the only hard part.
I kept throwing the football at people, but my resolution wasn't good enough and it kept passing through their bodies like they weren't even there. It would take a bounce or two and go off the side of the cliff and I felt worse and worse trying to make it happen and every time I kept saying "I'll go get it" and I would hike down the hill, navigating the gray and black and mossed over tombstones to the cliff side and then start the climb down. The view was incredible. There were birds flying beneath my feet dipping in and out of the canyon and there were trees growing down there where the cliff would ledge for a few feet and then drop down hundreds.
I fast forwarded the climb and return and clicked back on when I got back to the top. The procession must have been miles long. I was doing it all day. Another pass, another pass through, another climb. "I'll go get it." And they kept on walking. Some of the men had taxidermy turtles on the tops of their hats, spray painted black. I started to follow the procession to see where it was going. I liked being up in the air, but I liked being in shorts better and the football felt good to hold and toss even though I couldn't make anyone in the procession catch it. It felt good to walk.
I got distracted though. One of the tombs was a mausoleum. I wandered off of the trail because I was really interested in the iron work of the gates. They rusted over beautifully and I wondered about the hands that made them so pretty. The tomb itself was a simple white box of big blocks. No angels or ridiculous adornments. No saints. Nothing grew on it. The gate was unlocked so I walked inside.
The floor sloped down and into the hill side. There was nothing inside of it except a stone work tunnel. Inside of the tunnel there was a waterfall that arched through it. Thinking back the water probably was blown up from the right side and across the roof to terminate in the left side gutter. I started walking down it and then running because the air smelled so good and earth filled and wet and oxygen rich and I wanted to blow as much of it down my lungs as I could. I wanted to take my shirt off so it dissolved in bits of dust, pixel for pixel, and while I was running my friend started running too and caught up to me. I heard him and his shoes going step for step, but he still caught up to me because his stride was longer and I was thinking I could beat him to the end. I started off with quick feet, the same tempo, but we both got to our top gears and once you're there the only thing that matters is how far your footfalls can distance themselves from the one coming before.
He said "do you want to race?" I said "Hell yes." We booked it toward the light, running underneath the procession. I still had the football in the crook of my arm. I beat him out by a step and came to a skidding halt. The tunnel was a field of gravel on the other side. All of the pebbles we kicked up stopping went over the other side of the cliff and made little pock pock noises on their way down. I looked over my shoulder and the hill top was still dotted with tombstones. Some of them broken and graffiti on them. The procession was gone though.
Catching my breath I realized I was breathing hard outside of dreamland and it woke me up before I was ready to leave that place.
/// Lionrock - "Packet of Peace (Chemical Brothers Mix)"
That Instant
You realize you need to brace yourself for the next undertaking and without it you will stumble. Hard. On your face. And your only excuse for a bloody chin will be "I didn't pause." And you will know that it was, without a doubt, a "you" problem.
6/30/13
Dear (_____)
Dear Summer,
I will walk with the wind on your mind. And we'll have inside jokes. The trees never pipe down and I'm okay with it. They can laugh too. I'll be there to give you a wink and a nod, Summer. I'll learn the song you whistle and we'll walk with the wind on our minds.
sincerely,
Mr. Bubblegum
I will walk with the wind on your mind. And we'll have inside jokes. The trees never pipe down and I'm okay with it. They can laugh too. I'll be there to give you a wink and a nod, Summer. I'll learn the song you whistle and we'll walk with the wind on our minds.
sincerely,
Mr. Bubblegum
6/23/13
That Instant
you realize you may have to live longer than you originally planned on, back when you realized you weren't going to live forever.
6/22/13
Dear (_____)
Dear artists,
Thanks for coloring my world. Whatever it takes, I'll try to ping back. Sometimes I feel like the least artistic of my siblings. Survival consumes so much. Sometimes I forget life doesn't end at survival.
Thanks for coloring my world. Whatever it takes, I'll try to ping back. Sometimes I feel like the least artistic of my siblings. Survival consumes so much. Sometimes I forget life doesn't end at survival.
That Instant
you realize you've been grinding your teeth awake and that thing you just swallowed was a piece of tooth.
4 Years Is a Lifetime, Music, and Summer What?
Sometimes I wake up and it's hard to believe it's been four years since I made it clear of the 24 years that came before when it comes to my parents. When people ask about them, I'm still tempted to say they died. They are dead to me, but just because they're dead in my mind doesn't make them dead in real life, even though it would be great if they were. It's hard to believe I ever did love them. I suppose I once did. My mother anyway. Is it better to be feared or loved? They decided it was better to be feared. It is easy to receive gratitude for putting out a fire. I suppose it is easy to cling to those firemen and women rescuing you from that fire and believing you owe them a life debt. A water debt. A blood debt.
It is easy, until you find out, when the blinders come off, that they set that fire that took your body down to it's foundations. Then it's not so easy. When that sun dawns and the city you've been inhabiting in the dark comes into sharp relief and you realize you've been living downtown for 24 years and didn't know it and from the tallest skyscraper there you can't even see the city limits, you cry. And I did. For years. I wanted to jump back then. Break my heart on the pavement into beads of pomegranate flesh crushed. I didn't.
I walked. I ran. And then I walked some more when my lungs and legs quit. I camped. I broke into abandoned homes and raided food and threw it in my back pack and kept going. I slept on concrete and hid in basements when creatures roamed and cached weapons to defend myself. Taught myself how to use them, because the day you come face to face with the monsters will be the day you are least prepared to fight for your life and the blood in your veins and your heart beat. I walked for years until the buildings and bridges grew smaller. The shells of "civilization" as I knew it grew fewer and far between, and one day I was outside of it all, on a hill top looking back in and I could see the towers so tall back then. I could see the flag poles and radio towers atop the things so massive they crowded out the sky and blanked the stars at night with their ferocious brilliance.
And it's strange to be outside of it. Strange to feel myself breathing. There was a time, right after I took myself away from it all, that it felt odd not to be hurt. I felt like my skin didn't fit. My face didn't feel like my face. It was difficult to walk, like my legs forgot how to do it in this new frame unburdened. It felt strange to stand up straight. Strange to deal with my bosses because I was constantly afraid that they might hit me if I messed something up or forgot to do something or did what they wanted, but they changed their minds halfway and did not tell me. It never occurred to me that people are not supposed to be allowed to do that to other people. It never occurred to me that people are not naturally inclined to do that necessarily. It never occurred to me that there would and could be legal recourse for me if they did. Shedding the things, piece by piece, that I once thought to be absolute truths of power relationships and interchange with "authority".
It was a difficult transition and four years removed from it, it feels like a lifetime away. The longest four years of my short life. I've done so much living, it amazes me and I love it. I love being able to look forward without immediate apprehension. Some days I wake up and my first thought is "so this is what everyone else has been feeling like all this time." I wish that I did still retain the good memories from when I was little. I've spent so much of myself and so much time eradicating the bad ones, but you can't pick and choose when it comes to that. There are huge blank spaces in my memory now. Massive expanses that I should have some recall about, but I don't. Struggle with whether that's a good or bad thing comes up sometimes, but I'd rather recall nothing than wake up sweating at night.
A choice I decided to make. The most vivid memories still remain, both good and bad; the worst of the worst and the best of the best. Every time I speak to my siblings something new and minor comes to light for better and for worse and I forget all over again. Strike it from the library. Continue on my way. I feel like, really for the first time in a long time, like I'm going the right way and ... there's no price to put on peace. Peace at any cost. Call it selfish. Call it whatever you want to. There's beauty in grace and grace is not killing your parents to square your own books.
There's music stored up in there. I have about 120 tracks and sounds and machine sounds stocked up. I really do want to do it, I haven't made the time to learn. Really learn. I'm passion infused about it. I need it. I'm terrified of failure the same way I used to be years ago when I first decided to share and open myself up to criticism. Not just open myself up, but open myself up to criticism on something I thought I was pretty good at. Music is an entirely different bucket. I want to do it, I've taken the first steps, and now I just have to make one foot follow the other. Never did download that manual for the autoharp. It's not collecting dust though. Every few days, I drag it out from under my bed and lay it down and pluck it's strings and see what comes out of it, but I'm happy to be a dabbler. And unhappy to be just.
Beats, notes, and rhythms in my head and the struggle, I know, will be exhausting. It's a problem of effort and I know that's a me problem, not an environment problem. I've had some trouble with scheduling. Trying to keep yourself out of trouble by sleeping on a max schedule will only drive you so far. Eventually you have to step out of safety if you want to accomplish anything. No one ever won a football game by kneeling down in the first quarter. Crunch time is never convenient and I can't imagine the force of the crush that will drive me to try and I don't want to experience it. I'll get on it someday. To do lists grow long like finger nails. Eventually you have to cut it down or at least paint them.
On another note, you know it's summer when the girls are out in flip flops and the guys are losing their shirts. That's the usual metric. Everyone is out in their Ed Hardy tees and old men are jogging, red skinned, down the middle of side streets and kids are pushing their strollers and little carnivals with tractor trailer ferris wheels start popping up. You know it's summer when you can't get a spot to fish on the river shore if you show up any later than noon on a Tuesday. Opening your car door is like opening an oven door and you sweat from the effort of fixing yourself a bowl of cereal for breakfast. You know it's summer when you head down to the basketball court and you'd rather stand than sit when you're not playing because the asphalt is just that hot.
The real tell about summer, though, is when the ladies start to come out doors in shorts and Ugg boots. I have no idea when that nonsense caught on. What I do know is that every year it happens. Inevitably. It makes no sense. I am a huge fan of form following function, but there is no function to it! None whatsoever! I am taking a stand against it. I was walking down to the gas station in the middle of the day and a nub wearing Uggs and a jean jacket strolled by on the other side of the street and I tried to contain it, but I couldn't. I guffawed for a second, choked, and then laughed at the top of my lungs. It's okay though. She's doing her and I'm going to do me. No big deal.
Still though, come on! Really? Watching it from the corner of my eye all I could think about was gross, stanky, lady feet. I don't care how pretty your face is, guy or girl, but if your feet stank something awful or are horribly deformed or even noticeably deformed, that's a deal breaker. Call me shallow. I don't mind, but there has to be limits. Still chuckling while I walked into the gas station I was at a loss as to what planet that was considered attractive.
I'm not the style police. 90% of what I wear serves a function and a purpose and if that purpose or function requires something off putting or ugly, hey... go f#$% yourself. Form will always follow function for me. If I happen to net up some good form along the way it's just the bonus. I love summer. I love the absurdity of it all. I got into a long back and forth with a girl friend about style. Sometimes I do make style considerations when it comes to choosing the best function/form ratio. She was dressed to the nines and I asked her why she would put herself into such nice clothes. Turned out she just wanted to dress up on a Friday. I scratched my beard. She elaborated. "Sometimes I'm just in the mood to feel a little different."
I got it, then. When function governs there's less room for expression. Everything can't be mechanical the way I want it to be or would like it to be. Input equals output not always and it shouldn't always be. Reproduction being what it is and kind of necessary. Hard wiring. And there I go, back to the mechanical. I can't help it. She had a point though. After the conversation I felt myself starting to want to be a slacks and button up guy. She explained that even though she was dressed to the teeth with shiny earrings, they were still her play clothes because if anything bad happened to them, they're not her actual dress clothes. I might try to wear button up shirts more often. Without buttoning them. To pull that off I'll probably need pants without latex paint all over them. That takes money. Maybe not. I love function.
I'll have quiet dreams about wearing dumb slacks and ripping the crotch out of them doing what I do. In the meantime, I'll just do me and wear what I want. I guess, in very short retrospect, I respect that Ugg jean jacket girl. If I see her again I'm still going to laugh. The same way people probably laugh at me strolling down the main drag in clothes with no form, scratching their heads like "did you look at a mirror before you left your house or did you grab the first four garments you could find on your floor and jump out of your door to conquer the world?"
And that's how you know it's Summer.
Kisses. Later on, kids.
///Ladytron - "Soft Power" ...daylight is the enemy... I love the night. Everything smells wet and good at night. I want to sleep by the river again and talk to the fish while the fire goes out.
It is easy, until you find out, when the blinders come off, that they set that fire that took your body down to it's foundations. Then it's not so easy. When that sun dawns and the city you've been inhabiting in the dark comes into sharp relief and you realize you've been living downtown for 24 years and didn't know it and from the tallest skyscraper there you can't even see the city limits, you cry. And I did. For years. I wanted to jump back then. Break my heart on the pavement into beads of pomegranate flesh crushed. I didn't.
I walked. I ran. And then I walked some more when my lungs and legs quit. I camped. I broke into abandoned homes and raided food and threw it in my back pack and kept going. I slept on concrete and hid in basements when creatures roamed and cached weapons to defend myself. Taught myself how to use them, because the day you come face to face with the monsters will be the day you are least prepared to fight for your life and the blood in your veins and your heart beat. I walked for years until the buildings and bridges grew smaller. The shells of "civilization" as I knew it grew fewer and far between, and one day I was outside of it all, on a hill top looking back in and I could see the towers so tall back then. I could see the flag poles and radio towers atop the things so massive they crowded out the sky and blanked the stars at night with their ferocious brilliance.
And it's strange to be outside of it. Strange to feel myself breathing. There was a time, right after I took myself away from it all, that it felt odd not to be hurt. I felt like my skin didn't fit. My face didn't feel like my face. It was difficult to walk, like my legs forgot how to do it in this new frame unburdened. It felt strange to stand up straight. Strange to deal with my bosses because I was constantly afraid that they might hit me if I messed something up or forgot to do something or did what they wanted, but they changed their minds halfway and did not tell me. It never occurred to me that people are not supposed to be allowed to do that to other people. It never occurred to me that people are not naturally inclined to do that necessarily. It never occurred to me that there would and could be legal recourse for me if they did. Shedding the things, piece by piece, that I once thought to be absolute truths of power relationships and interchange with "authority".
It was a difficult transition and four years removed from it, it feels like a lifetime away. The longest four years of my short life. I've done so much living, it amazes me and I love it. I love being able to look forward without immediate apprehension. Some days I wake up and my first thought is "so this is what everyone else has been feeling like all this time." I wish that I did still retain the good memories from when I was little. I've spent so much of myself and so much time eradicating the bad ones, but you can't pick and choose when it comes to that. There are huge blank spaces in my memory now. Massive expanses that I should have some recall about, but I don't. Struggle with whether that's a good or bad thing comes up sometimes, but I'd rather recall nothing than wake up sweating at night.
A choice I decided to make. The most vivid memories still remain, both good and bad; the worst of the worst and the best of the best. Every time I speak to my siblings something new and minor comes to light for better and for worse and I forget all over again. Strike it from the library. Continue on my way. I feel like, really for the first time in a long time, like I'm going the right way and ... there's no price to put on peace. Peace at any cost. Call it selfish. Call it whatever you want to. There's beauty in grace and grace is not killing your parents to square your own books.
There's music stored up in there. I have about 120 tracks and sounds and machine sounds stocked up. I really do want to do it, I haven't made the time to learn. Really learn. I'm passion infused about it. I need it. I'm terrified of failure the same way I used to be years ago when I first decided to share and open myself up to criticism. Not just open myself up, but open myself up to criticism on something I thought I was pretty good at. Music is an entirely different bucket. I want to do it, I've taken the first steps, and now I just have to make one foot follow the other. Never did download that manual for the autoharp. It's not collecting dust though. Every few days, I drag it out from under my bed and lay it down and pluck it's strings and see what comes out of it, but I'm happy to be a dabbler. And unhappy to be just.
Beats, notes, and rhythms in my head and the struggle, I know, will be exhausting. It's a problem of effort and I know that's a me problem, not an environment problem. I've had some trouble with scheduling. Trying to keep yourself out of trouble by sleeping on a max schedule will only drive you so far. Eventually you have to step out of safety if you want to accomplish anything. No one ever won a football game by kneeling down in the first quarter. Crunch time is never convenient and I can't imagine the force of the crush that will drive me to try and I don't want to experience it. I'll get on it someday. To do lists grow long like finger nails. Eventually you have to cut it down or at least paint them.
On another note, you know it's summer when the girls are out in flip flops and the guys are losing their shirts. That's the usual metric. Everyone is out in their Ed Hardy tees and old men are jogging, red skinned, down the middle of side streets and kids are pushing their strollers and little carnivals with tractor trailer ferris wheels start popping up. You know it's summer when you can't get a spot to fish on the river shore if you show up any later than noon on a Tuesday. Opening your car door is like opening an oven door and you sweat from the effort of fixing yourself a bowl of cereal for breakfast. You know it's summer when you head down to the basketball court and you'd rather stand than sit when you're not playing because the asphalt is just that hot.
The real tell about summer, though, is when the ladies start to come out doors in shorts and Ugg boots. I have no idea when that nonsense caught on. What I do know is that every year it happens. Inevitably. It makes no sense. I am a huge fan of form following function, but there is no function to it! None whatsoever! I am taking a stand against it. I was walking down to the gas station in the middle of the day and a nub wearing Uggs and a jean jacket strolled by on the other side of the street and I tried to contain it, but I couldn't. I guffawed for a second, choked, and then laughed at the top of my lungs. It's okay though. She's doing her and I'm going to do me. No big deal.
Still though, come on! Really? Watching it from the corner of my eye all I could think about was gross, stanky, lady feet. I don't care how pretty your face is, guy or girl, but if your feet stank something awful or are horribly deformed or even noticeably deformed, that's a deal breaker. Call me shallow. I don't mind, but there has to be limits. Still chuckling while I walked into the gas station I was at a loss as to what planet that was considered attractive.
I'm not the style police. 90% of what I wear serves a function and a purpose and if that purpose or function requires something off putting or ugly, hey... go f#$% yourself. Form will always follow function for me. If I happen to net up some good form along the way it's just the bonus. I love summer. I love the absurdity of it all. I got into a long back and forth with a girl friend about style. Sometimes I do make style considerations when it comes to choosing the best function/form ratio. She was dressed to the nines and I asked her why she would put herself into such nice clothes. Turned out she just wanted to dress up on a Friday. I scratched my beard. She elaborated. "Sometimes I'm just in the mood to feel a little different."
I got it, then. When function governs there's less room for expression. Everything can't be mechanical the way I want it to be or would like it to be. Input equals output not always and it shouldn't always be. Reproduction being what it is and kind of necessary. Hard wiring. And there I go, back to the mechanical. I can't help it. She had a point though. After the conversation I felt myself starting to want to be a slacks and button up guy. She explained that even though she was dressed to the teeth with shiny earrings, they were still her play clothes because if anything bad happened to them, they're not her actual dress clothes. I might try to wear button up shirts more often. Without buttoning them. To pull that off I'll probably need pants without latex paint all over them. That takes money. Maybe not. I love function.
I'll have quiet dreams about wearing dumb slacks and ripping the crotch out of them doing what I do. In the meantime, I'll just do me and wear what I want. I guess, in very short retrospect, I respect that Ugg jean jacket girl. If I see her again I'm still going to laugh. The same way people probably laugh at me strolling down the main drag in clothes with no form, scratching their heads like "did you look at a mirror before you left your house or did you grab the first four garments you could find on your floor and jump out of your door to conquer the world?"
And that's how you know it's Summer.
Kisses. Later on, kids.
///Ladytron - "Soft Power" ...daylight is the enemy... I love the night. Everything smells wet and good at night. I want to sleep by the river again and talk to the fish while the fire goes out.
6/21/13
Captions Less Pictures, Bagging, Girls, Cracked Year, and Making Time
I saw a zebra printed Cadillac coupe today. I saw it coming around the S curve, my favorite turn in the road in the two mile city where I live, and I was in awe from the get. "Who is so ballsy as to paint their car in zebra camouflage print and rock it like: this is how I always dress" is what was going through my mind. Then it got closer. The car had a blacked out grille, but I could see a Cadillac logo nested in there, completely blacked out. I looked harder while it got closer and I realized it was going, far and away, over the 25 mile-per-hour speed limit for the main road in my city and there was another blue Cadillac in its shadow going just as fast. That's when it hit me: "its a test mule!"
Sometimes car manufacturers will throw a new suspension geometry and engine and transmission underneath an old cowl and body work to shake it out and make sure it does what its supposed to do. I thought that might be what it was, so I didn't go for my camera. There are thousands of pictures of test mules and chasis that won't match when it comes to production or even car shows that are wrapped in zebra camo and it was nothing special, until I started to make out the lines.
The lines did not match up to anything I saw before. Two doors. Shorter C pillar. Thin B. A really long A. The thing was going pretty fast, but once I could start to see past the clutter of the zebra print I knew it was something new. I ripped at my pockets and threw off my backpack to try and find my phone so I could take a picture of it. It blew past me, with the chase car in tow and I was getting ready to chase it down just in case the streetlight changed. The lines were awesome. Way better than the last Cadillac coupe, but the light did not change and it went on. The exhaust note was kind of weird, but I'm sure they'll fix that in post. Watching it blow away, I knew I would never see it again. Possibly never see another prototype in action again, underneath the zebra wrap. If I do, from whatever distance, I know I should get my camera ready just in case. I don't know why I love machines so much. I do. I envy them. So damn sexy. So damn easy. So damn difficult at the same time.
I was going to tell my friends about it. The backlog of knowledge was overwhelming. They're good people, but they wouldn't get it. They wouldn't get it and on top of it all there was no picture. What I would be talking about would be a caption without a picture. I'd ramble on and on and on and in the end I would say something like "whatever, you had to be there." My heart shook watching it slip by like a knife into skin. The thing itself was so beautiful. Once my brain resolved the lines of the machine, I felt like a cheetah caught sleeping while a gazelle pranced on by in a giant Sunday flower hat on its way to church. Missed meals.
I'm not bagging on myself though. It's the first time that's ever happened. It wasn't a mule. It wasn't a prototype. It was the body design that will probably see production. I guess part of me just wanted to be as cool as everyone else who breaks photos on the car blogs and magazines. What it brings me to is bagging on things. "Baggin." Where does that come from? I found myself saying it the other day after thinking about something I said earlier to someone.
It's the writer in me. When you know you're a writer, you think about what you thought about when you said what you said and why you said it that way instead of another way. I don't count myself as a writer anymore. I see myself as a tool. Sometimes as a tool and sometimes as a tool. A tool that sometimes produces. Maybe I'm just a producer. Hah, no. I hate producing. A tool that generates? Yes. I'm a generator. Autonomic generator, that's as far as I can take ya, do you wanna be a part of, oh yes, yeah, I'm on it.
Bagging. I thought about it way too much. Bagging. To bag on someone. Bag on something. The Urban Dictionary was no help. What I think it means, as I've understood it, is to understand that what you are going up against is not at all what you wanted or needed and so you bag. You bag your street clothes because there's no work to be done. No actual work. Bag your street clothes. Whatever was thought to be done was already done or otherwise not doable, so bag your street clothes because the minute you get there is the same minute you know you didn't need to be there. Bag your drugs. The minute you get there and get a feel for what's going on you know you didn't need to be there, but you are, so you might as well enjoy the time you've already set aside. Get to a good place and everything else will follow for you. Maybe not for them, for you it's golden. Bag your expectations. Bag 'em up. Bag 'em up. Take them home with you and flush them down the toilet when you get there. Bag your lunch. Remember how they said you were going to eat good when you got there and lunch turned out to be finger sandwiches and punch and sandwich cookies? Nope, because I brought my own from home and I gotta tell you this chipped ham sandwich with springs and spicy brown mustard and pepperoni tastes so much better than. Bagging.
Hedging is bagging. Hedging is bagging with a backhand because everyone knows when you're doing it. Everyone knows, once you bag, that you came in with low expectations and those expectations played out. It's not an insult to get bagged on. If anything, besides an insult, it says your friends love you enough to show up at all and your enemies did too. To see you fail, maybe. Faces get scarce the older you get when life changes veins. We all know that. Most of us know that. At least make their ticket fee worthwhile. It's not easy to bag. Sometimes you have to take a chance. Everyone bags sometimes. Sometimes bagging on someone or something is as simple as making back up plans or coinciding plans so there can be an ejector seat button that lands you somewhere more comfortable. Nothing wrong with bagging. Most of the time.
Girls are crazy. I'll just say it. They are. I sat through a very long exposition about how some other girl was going crazy and kicked people out of her house even though it wasn't her house or her right to kick anyone out (I would have felt the same if it was a guy doing it and relating the story). While she was telling the story,I kept remembering all of the times she went ape shit while we were hanging out. A diagram. A verbal diagram. Ladies take note. They don't teach you this in college orientation. They only teach the rape threshold.
1 drink: Guys) alright it's official. Girls) Did I get my ride home set up?
3 drinks: Guys) what time is it. Girls) oh my god, why is no one dancing?
6 drinks: Guys) games? how about yes! Girls) i feel sick. this is the song I requested!
9 drinks: Guys) game two, muthafucka! I rule you. Girls) this is fun. I'm having fun. Can you see my tits? I can see my tits. I bet he can see my tits.
11 drinks: Guys) game two, I'm up! Girls) what are you guys playing? Can I play?
14 drinks: Guys) game three, I'm in. Fugg that. I'm winning this round. Girls) You look great, what are you talking about? Oh my god, I go to the same place!
16 drinks: Guys) hah, no way. what he should have done in that fight is... Girls) oh please. That's bullshit. You're better than that. Have you seen my shoes yet? They're discount, but...
22 drinks: Guys) no, let me show you. Okay, okay, okay, let's finish this. We're too grown up to fight... unless you want to. Girls) [throwing up and/or passed out.... if not the latter, forward to the next...] I'm tired/want to go home/what time is it/i'm fine {not fine}.
24 gender war
Girls are crazy. It was simply hilarious though, hearing a woman rail against another about her behavior at a party and it was a kettle calling the pot black. I kept snickering while she was relating the story and getting really into it and painting her as this kind of horrible villain. At the same time, I was thinking about her moments and she's a fiery girl too. It was beyond me to try to explain to her that she did the exact same things except she was hanging out in my place and there's no way to kick anyone out of my house so she left and tried to kick her boy toy out of my place by proxy, but the attitude and acclimation that I have is: if you want to stay you can stay; if you want to leave you can leave. It's that simple. Feel obligated if you want to. If you don't then don't. If you're invited in, you're in for as long as you want to be. I'll do what I want and you can do what you want and if you over step I'll let you know. If you don't over step I'm good too. It might become uncomfortable for you and that's fine with me. I'll be comfortable. Do what makes you. If you don't like it, cash out. No one's holding you here so don't feel obligated, because I don't. Girls are crazy.
I miss my crack year. It was fun. A couple bars closed near me. You'd think they'd have the courtesy to let their patrons know. I miss the not knowing. The not knowing where you're going to get it. Those were the original adventure times... hold on... gotta change to headphones with better bass response... not knowing where you were going to wake up, but knowing who you were going to wake up with because there literally was no one else. I loved it. Still do love it. We're not low lifes. Don't put us there. Every night was time well spent. Now it's like those plastic chatter wind up teeth, except you're sitting on them. They're in your chair. All wound up. Every time you get up to do something, your butt holding them fast shut, they go off. CHA CHA CHA CHA CHA CHA CHA CHET CHET CHET CHET CHET CHET CHET CHET CHATATATATATARATATARATATATARATATARATARAATARATARAT. Wish they whispered. They don't.
They go ritttttereretetetet and I second guess what I'm doing and wonder if I could do it better breathing it, because some things I can. I don't know if that makes addiction. I don't want to know the answer. I just kicked paint. That was harder than kicking rock. Bad things, really bad things are still too fresh in my head from kicking it. At least with paint everything got super buttery. Like, seeing light, sunlight, made me taste green butter buds with fuzzy tips on my tongue when I saw leaves of plants and leaves of flooring interlocking. Endless energy came to me like I was whispering into the ear of Zeus himself when I was smoking. Something above and away beyond cannabis. There's no replacing that. I wish I could, but there is no way beyond it past pretending it never happened. You sit on that set of spring activated teeth and they don't go off until you stand up and then doubts crowds in hard and fast. Hundred million ----ing strong like a riot where your brain meets your mouth. How your ears get hot when you're about to fuck except it's right there in the back of your skull where you can't scratch and you know if you did itch it the entire thing you are trying to do will treat you so good you will never troll craigslist again looking for the desparate night flyer fuck to help you feel better without the peace between your lips. Fuck.
I miss the time I spent already. Only 4 years removed from abuse. 4 years of being myself. 4 years of knowing how to be and who I am and how to enjoy and how not to be. Her name came up in my head today. I was walking. It came up right after I saw the zebra and I was thinking about one times. I'll live it down. I will. She was nothing. I like to think I got lucky.
Growing up fast. I will give his name that shall never be spoken this one credit: he once said to me "you didn't have time, or you didn't make time" that was before he beat me for not cleaning my room. It stuck with me for different reasons than. What it taught me was that sometimes you just have to make what it is that you want. If you're always short of coke by the end of the week and have to go through the hassle every friday, what you should be doing is budgeting out to double or triple up your order. If you keep running out of fresh fruit by mid month, you need to buy the unripe fruits and mix them in with the ones ready to eat so that by week three you're golden.
A little planning goes a long way. You will find a way to make time for the things that you want. You will make time. What you do with that time is debatable. Once you have that time it's a matter of control. It's a matter of control and liberation because that freedom comes at cost to your doorstep and there's no way to flip it for profit out of the gate. Photoshoot? Writing? Sleeping? Everything that you paid to get that time free bears down guns blazing, Which bullet strikes your heart is not up to you. At least not as often as the wounds would love it to be.
Life is viscous.
Life doesn't care.
Life is what you can make out of it.
Life does not turn the other cheek. Ever.
Don't kid yourself.
Love yourself.
Never. Ever.
Lock yourself
into fear.
///Hot Chip - "You Ride, We Ride, In My Ride" its out here I may find my reasons for. ... found some distance. The distance that I needed to be... whatever the hell it is I am supposed to. Still figuring it out. Ghosts have returned. Hallucinations. I want the simpler times. But where you're going you never really come back from. Some of you comes back. A little bit always stays out there. I just wonder when the numbers run over years what it is that adds up to. How far away is it do you have to stay to make sure everyone else is safe.
Sometimes car manufacturers will throw a new suspension geometry and engine and transmission underneath an old cowl and body work to shake it out and make sure it does what its supposed to do. I thought that might be what it was, so I didn't go for my camera. There are thousands of pictures of test mules and chasis that won't match when it comes to production or even car shows that are wrapped in zebra camo and it was nothing special, until I started to make out the lines.
The lines did not match up to anything I saw before. Two doors. Shorter C pillar. Thin B. A really long A. The thing was going pretty fast, but once I could start to see past the clutter of the zebra print I knew it was something new. I ripped at my pockets and threw off my backpack to try and find my phone so I could take a picture of it. It blew past me, with the chase car in tow and I was getting ready to chase it down just in case the streetlight changed. The lines were awesome. Way better than the last Cadillac coupe, but the light did not change and it went on. The exhaust note was kind of weird, but I'm sure they'll fix that in post. Watching it blow away, I knew I would never see it again. Possibly never see another prototype in action again, underneath the zebra wrap. If I do, from whatever distance, I know I should get my camera ready just in case. I don't know why I love machines so much. I do. I envy them. So damn sexy. So damn easy. So damn difficult at the same time.
I was going to tell my friends about it. The backlog of knowledge was overwhelming. They're good people, but they wouldn't get it. They wouldn't get it and on top of it all there was no picture. What I would be talking about would be a caption without a picture. I'd ramble on and on and on and in the end I would say something like "whatever, you had to be there." My heart shook watching it slip by like a knife into skin. The thing itself was so beautiful. Once my brain resolved the lines of the machine, I felt like a cheetah caught sleeping while a gazelle pranced on by in a giant Sunday flower hat on its way to church. Missed meals.
I'm not bagging on myself though. It's the first time that's ever happened. It wasn't a mule. It wasn't a prototype. It was the body design that will probably see production. I guess part of me just wanted to be as cool as everyone else who breaks photos on the car blogs and magazines. What it brings me to is bagging on things. "Baggin." Where does that come from? I found myself saying it the other day after thinking about something I said earlier to someone.
It's the writer in me. When you know you're a writer, you think about what you thought about when you said what you said and why you said it that way instead of another way. I don't count myself as a writer anymore. I see myself as a tool. Sometimes as a tool and sometimes as a tool. A tool that sometimes produces. Maybe I'm just a producer. Hah, no. I hate producing. A tool that generates? Yes. I'm a generator. Autonomic generator, that's as far as I can take ya, do you wanna be a part of, oh yes, yeah, I'm on it.
Bagging. I thought about it way too much. Bagging. To bag on someone. Bag on something. The Urban Dictionary was no help. What I think it means, as I've understood it, is to understand that what you are going up against is not at all what you wanted or needed and so you bag. You bag your street clothes because there's no work to be done. No actual work. Bag your street clothes. Whatever was thought to be done was already done or otherwise not doable, so bag your street clothes because the minute you get there is the same minute you know you didn't need to be there. Bag your drugs. The minute you get there and get a feel for what's going on you know you didn't need to be there, but you are, so you might as well enjoy the time you've already set aside. Get to a good place and everything else will follow for you. Maybe not for them, for you it's golden. Bag your expectations. Bag 'em up. Bag 'em up. Take them home with you and flush them down the toilet when you get there. Bag your lunch. Remember how they said you were going to eat good when you got there and lunch turned out to be finger sandwiches and punch and sandwich cookies? Nope, because I brought my own from home and I gotta tell you this chipped ham sandwich with springs and spicy brown mustard and pepperoni tastes so much better than. Bagging.
Hedging is bagging. Hedging is bagging with a backhand because everyone knows when you're doing it. Everyone knows, once you bag, that you came in with low expectations and those expectations played out. It's not an insult to get bagged on. If anything, besides an insult, it says your friends love you enough to show up at all and your enemies did too. To see you fail, maybe. Faces get scarce the older you get when life changes veins. We all know that. Most of us know that. At least make their ticket fee worthwhile. It's not easy to bag. Sometimes you have to take a chance. Everyone bags sometimes. Sometimes bagging on someone or something is as simple as making back up plans or coinciding plans so there can be an ejector seat button that lands you somewhere more comfortable. Nothing wrong with bagging. Most of the time.
Girls are crazy. I'll just say it. They are. I sat through a very long exposition about how some other girl was going crazy and kicked people out of her house even though it wasn't her house or her right to kick anyone out (I would have felt the same if it was a guy doing it and relating the story). While she was telling the story,I kept remembering all of the times she went ape shit while we were hanging out. A diagram. A verbal diagram. Ladies take note. They don't teach you this in college orientation. They only teach the rape threshold.
1 drink: Guys) alright it's official. Girls) Did I get my ride home set up?
3 drinks: Guys) what time is it. Girls) oh my god, why is no one dancing?
6 drinks: Guys) games? how about yes! Girls) i feel sick. this is the song I requested!
9 drinks: Guys) game two, muthafucka! I rule you. Girls) this is fun. I'm having fun. Can you see my tits? I can see my tits. I bet he can see my tits.
11 drinks: Guys) game two, I'm up! Girls) what are you guys playing? Can I play?
14 drinks: Guys) game three, I'm in. Fugg that. I'm winning this round. Girls) You look great, what are you talking about? Oh my god, I go to the same place!
16 drinks: Guys) hah, no way. what he should have done in that fight is... Girls) oh please. That's bullshit. You're better than that. Have you seen my shoes yet? They're discount, but...
22 drinks: Guys) no, let me show you. Okay, okay, okay, let's finish this. We're too grown up to fight... unless you want to. Girls) [throwing up and/or passed out.... if not the latter, forward to the next...] I'm tired/want to go home/what time is it/i'm fine {not fine}.
24 gender war
Girls are crazy. It was simply hilarious though, hearing a woman rail against another about her behavior at a party and it was a kettle calling the pot black. I kept snickering while she was relating the story and getting really into it and painting her as this kind of horrible villain. At the same time, I was thinking about her moments and she's a fiery girl too. It was beyond me to try to explain to her that she did the exact same things except she was hanging out in my place and there's no way to kick anyone out of my house so she left and tried to kick her boy toy out of my place by proxy, but the attitude and acclimation that I have is: if you want to stay you can stay; if you want to leave you can leave. It's that simple. Feel obligated if you want to. If you don't then don't. If you're invited in, you're in for as long as you want to be. I'll do what I want and you can do what you want and if you over step I'll let you know. If you don't over step I'm good too. It might become uncomfortable for you and that's fine with me. I'll be comfortable. Do what makes you. If you don't like it, cash out. No one's holding you here so don't feel obligated, because I don't. Girls are crazy.
I miss my crack year. It was fun. A couple bars closed near me. You'd think they'd have the courtesy to let their patrons know. I miss the not knowing. The not knowing where you're going to get it. Those were the original adventure times... hold on... gotta change to headphones with better bass response... not knowing where you were going to wake up, but knowing who you were going to wake up with because there literally was no one else. I loved it. Still do love it. We're not low lifes. Don't put us there. Every night was time well spent. Now it's like those plastic chatter wind up teeth, except you're sitting on them. They're in your chair. All wound up. Every time you get up to do something, your butt holding them fast shut, they go off. CHA CHA CHA CHA CHA CHA CHA CHET CHET CHET CHET CHET CHET CHET CHET CHATATATATATARATATARATATATARATATARATARAATARATARAT. Wish they whispered. They don't.
They go ritttttereretetetet and I second guess what I'm doing and wonder if I could do it better breathing it, because some things I can. I don't know if that makes addiction. I don't want to know the answer. I just kicked paint. That was harder than kicking rock. Bad things, really bad things are still too fresh in my head from kicking it. At least with paint everything got super buttery. Like, seeing light, sunlight, made me taste green butter buds with fuzzy tips on my tongue when I saw leaves of plants and leaves of flooring interlocking. Endless energy came to me like I was whispering into the ear of Zeus himself when I was smoking. Something above and away beyond cannabis. There's no replacing that. I wish I could, but there is no way beyond it past pretending it never happened. You sit on that set of spring activated teeth and they don't go off until you stand up and then doubts crowds in hard and fast. Hundred million ----ing strong like a riot where your brain meets your mouth. How your ears get hot when you're about to fuck except it's right there in the back of your skull where you can't scratch and you know if you did itch it the entire thing you are trying to do will treat you so good you will never troll craigslist again looking for the desparate night flyer fuck to help you feel better without the peace between your lips. Fuck.
I miss the time I spent already. Only 4 years removed from abuse. 4 years of being myself. 4 years of knowing how to be and who I am and how to enjoy and how not to be. Her name came up in my head today. I was walking. It came up right after I saw the zebra and I was thinking about one times. I'll live it down. I will. She was nothing. I like to think I got lucky.
Growing up fast. I will give his name that shall never be spoken this one credit: he once said to me "you didn't have time, or you didn't make time" that was before he beat me for not cleaning my room. It stuck with me for different reasons than. What it taught me was that sometimes you just have to make what it is that you want. If you're always short of coke by the end of the week and have to go through the hassle every friday, what you should be doing is budgeting out to double or triple up your order. If you keep running out of fresh fruit by mid month, you need to buy the unripe fruits and mix them in with the ones ready to eat so that by week three you're golden.
A little planning goes a long way. You will find a way to make time for the things that you want. You will make time. What you do with that time is debatable. Once you have that time it's a matter of control. It's a matter of control and liberation because that freedom comes at cost to your doorstep and there's no way to flip it for profit out of the gate. Photoshoot? Writing? Sleeping? Everything that you paid to get that time free bears down guns blazing, Which bullet strikes your heart is not up to you. At least not as often as the wounds would love it to be.
Life is viscous.
Life doesn't care.
Life is what you can make out of it.
Life does not turn the other cheek. Ever.
Don't kid yourself.
Love yourself.
Never. Ever.
Lock yourself
into fear.
///Hot Chip - "You Ride, We Ride, In My Ride" its out here I may find my reasons for. ... found some distance. The distance that I needed to be... whatever the hell it is I am supposed to. Still figuring it out. Ghosts have returned. Hallucinations. I want the simpler times. But where you're going you never really come back from. Some of you comes back. A little bit always stays out there. I just wonder when the numbers run over years what it is that adds up to. How far away is it do you have to stay to make sure everyone else is safe.
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