Prelude

Yesh, we are gaming up toward a pouring out of emotion and bad sets.  Better than bad sets, though, we're gaming out toward a pouring out of hearts and fauxpaux.   Toward an analysis.  It's been a long time coming.  Put offs and put offs and further put off.  Decision time.  Decision time not ready.  One hard month survived can make another, no?  Yes.  If we do not go, what can be said.  If not now, when? Go!

The Best Thing

about growing older is that you learn how to master certain tastes that are familiar to you and the ongoing challenge becomes learning how to make them tasty in other's pallets.  Bringing out the flavors others will be able to recognize.

Gun Barrel

It's hard to play it off.  I'm trying to.  There's only so much research that can be done.  After that it's active study.  Games.  It's not about mercing.  Very much emulation.  That will never cease to be important.  It's very difficult to know though.  Unfortunate maybe.

To see the difference between emulation and actual love the way that I know how.  I have gotten better than a parrot.  A yak bak.  Sometimes I have to force conversation to get a response that is not in the library.

When I get that response, that cherished one, I can take it straight to the cpu and analyze it and that little click where the trap snaps shut and before I burp out some human garbage are the words where I was just me again.  It happens very quickly.  Running down the library of what you're supposed to says and the lists of what you did says and running the numbers between and all the other variables.  I'm trying not to cuss on this one.  Cussing keeps you honest, but it keeps you too blunt.

Long story short, it's hard to play it off and hard to not calls it like I sees it without completely seizing up.  It's hard to play it off and I think people can notice and do not ever give me a flyer on the game.  Please do once in a while.  Whether I admit it or not I need them.  I'm no dummy.  I'm no barrel sucker.  I'm a fighter and a lover.  The two can be combined.  Just know that whatever you try I am trying three times as hard to keep up.




///The White Stripes - "Conquest"

Cause for Concern

There are very real causes for concern.  I didn't want to say anything, but I am getting backed into a corner sooner than I imagined.  I'm having some, many a several, difficulties with normal conversation.  Even trying to meet up with people makes me violently ill.  I'm not used to that.  Who should be?  Introversion is supposed to be a quiet thing.  I'm tired of having to wear sunglasses in grocery stores because the lights vibrate too much and it makes me tear up and then everyone thinks you've gone through some sort of tragedy, but really you just wanted to buy some apples and you had to gut it out beyond your normal radius to get them.

I am a violent person.  I know this.  no matter what we do we always try to do our best to take ownership and clean up our messes.  Something my papa never did.  Or maybe he did do in his own way.  Whatever he did, it was thorough in its reach.  At any rate he never explained so I have license and agency.  Because I asked him.  Passive aggressively.  He made a woman out of me I suppose.  A woman with more power than mama ever had.  And that's good.

I'm losing the war on my chemistry and I do not like.  I do not want it.  Pain is one thing.  Passenger is another.  I do not like not being able to express clearly.  It's taking more and more work to maintain clear communication and it's not the drugs because I've been free and clear of paint and coke and pretty much every sniffable and injectable and I'm not fucking with my chemistry set at all.  That's what's been so frustrating.  No assists.  No boosters.  And still fracturing.  It makes no sense.

That I can do this, type on a keyboard easy peasy, and then struggle mightily with trying to string words together in real time.  And I've been very good about tuning down the violence too.  There is no reward for that.  There should be.  THERE SHOULD BE.  I should fucking be paid for that.  

I keep and will continue to argue that I am not a reject. I am a citizen.  It is not my planet, but I don't just live on it.  I am a part of it.  I do need the means and I will subject you to retribution at some point and these are my life goals and everything is building to it and I have no sex and I am an agent of a movement and you will know me when it's done and I will never place a gun to my own skull and I will be responsible and I will find you and force you to answer for everything you have done because I am not God, but I am me and whether you like it or not I just want to be safe with you.

It's difficult to think and be reasonable.  Reason out the voices.  They must be reasoned with.  They aren't monkeys.  They are to be unnamed and it's very frustrating to know that I get to know them and they can never be ....  it hurts.  It hurts less than naming and that's acceptable.  It's not about ferocity.  They punish me in ways you may understand.  Even with that understanding there is no equivalent exchange.  I know I need to get back on medicine.  I know I have to.  I refuse.

It's not a team effort.  It's just me.  No metaphor.  I refuse.  I will fucking burn this house to the ground before I do that again and I'm not happy about it.  I am furious.  Why does everything boil down to money?  Why did you leave me here?  What kind of advice do you fucking expect me to give that does not play directly back into history or roundabout to the same spot?  I don't understand.  I do.  Normalcy.  I can do normalcy.  I have it, down pat.  What I do not have is normalcy.  There's a difference between the two.

I will not quit the battle.  There is very real cause for concern.  Things are developing faster than expected.

Delusions.   I will not cash out.  I have faced the dragon, but no apotheosis.  There is no way out and it's not a death grip.

I wish you had more time.

I was ill prepared, but armored well.  Armor is no workable substitute.

///Count Basic - "Gotta Jazz"   there are things i have to do.  things that must be done, come hell and high water.  fault me.  these are faults.  they must be done, but i am a citizen and you will not deport me today, or tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that.

Woven

Sometimes you pick up old threads.  You smell them and lick them to try to gauge where they've been since last they touched your fingertips.  You blow dust off the fibers and sneeze and cough in the cloud of dust, but watching it settle, holding the thread tight, the cloud looks and smooths the same way the cloud grew to the point where you knew you had to close your eyes or bite your lip through opened eyed pangs.

And then you have it again.  Like a goonie boobie trap.  Wonder where it will go.  Wonder what will come of it and how you will get out of it this time.

Restraint is flagging.  I don't know why.  Because it's easy?  How many times can you be rabbit punched with no referee interference before you are allowed to say "I do not want to play anymore?"

We'll see.  The tapestry is reduced to threads,  With fingers we make.




///coming soon

Dear (_____)

quarters.  I want to put you in my mouth and play with you against my gum.  I want to hear your rattle while I toss you against my cheek and try not to let you slip behind my tongue into my esophagus.  It's a game.  You know that.  We know that.  Come on, quarters.  There's no such thing as chump change, there is chomp.  And you know nickles aren't the same!

yours truly,

the perpetually metal mouthed

The Best Thing

about finding change in your pocket and rattling it around between your fingertips is knowing there was a time when you sucked on coins and now you know better, because it is no fun to suck a quarter into your wind pipe. And, besides, you'll never see it again anyways.

If you're going to catch rain in your mouth, don't do it with a quarter on your tongue.

(typed while thumbing pennies between fingers.  i can't explain the fixation)

That Instant

you realize you're not a fan of lyrics in music and prefer instrumentals near to a fault and are still ever obsessed with churning them out and refining them.

Reel

Sometimes I wonder if it's real.  Outside and inside at the same time.  Odd shifts.  I can explain them, but explanation goes so far.  I still want, to the point of near desperation, to cut you apart and examine the individual pieces.  It can be done.  There is never a good time for it.  It has to be a final project or at least somewhere near final.  Very close to final before another change.

The hardest part is finding a reasonable candidate.  We can do it.  It is far from impossible.  Especially if it is the beginning of a stout library.  There's no foul there.  Storage space must be brought into consideration.  On top of that is figuring out how to pay for capacity because storage space is worth gold by volume, plain and simple and the library will be extensive.

The other question being the simple fact that availability will be a major issue.  Think it through.  There's no impossible in "can't."  There is some cant in can't though.  Cannot get too canted because nothing flies right canted.  All the control surfaces get way off and then holding the stick upright leads to poor action.  We're gonna need a lot of jars.  Like a fuck ton.  Jars are cheap though and so is water.  Things are going to rot, but that's fine.  Lids contain stank.  That's really good.  It's not beyond our capacity so that's good too.  Temporary storage.  I still need more practice and it is an unfortunate obstacle.

You have to be better about taking out the trash though.  If you can't take out the trash how can I possibly trust you to store things properly?  You can't.  We both want this though and how hard do you work to make shit happen when it's only you on the line?  That's not fair to me.  At all.  Fuck progress, stop short changing me.  It's not fair, plain and simple, Mr. plain and simple, and you know that.

All I'm saying is, sit the fuck down, have a smoke, and think about it for a minute.  How retarded would it be to buy two dozen mason jars at once?  For two, you haven't really thought out the actual land routes or air routes yet.  For three, you have not worked out the cash because last I checked gas still costs money.  And for four, your exit strategy is ill formed at best.  I'll throw a five in there because you're actually listening now so it's pretty much a one: you still have a lot of work to do.  I know it's very... open ended... but you know what I'm talking about.  Talk to me when you've actually got some shit laid down.

It's hard, difficult, to think with you shouting.  It's not easy to know if it's real.  Hard, but challenge accepted.  I'm not sure about you.  I don't like it.  Othering.  Too much othering.  To be honest, I'm disappointed in you.  You can do better.  It's flummoxing.  Diagnostics failure?  Yes, for chryssakes, yes.  How many different ways do I have to paint it?  We were born different.  We weren't.  I'm nothing like you.  I know.  We are the same.  No, we are not.  Yes we are.  NO, we are not.  That is unacceptable.




///Goldie - "Dragon Fly"        next to Fury, top ten. new music is great but i am happy to rewind the classics.  songs i hope to someday play for my children. when theyre ready.  when we get there.

What Was Meant and What Was Done

I have a hard enough time sleeping at home, let alone sleeping in other places.  Always believing I am going to be raped again for passivity or robbed or worse.  They're coming for you.  They always are, it's just that sometimes you get to see them coming and sometimes you do not.

I'm not afraid of death.  That's silly.  Everyone dies.  Everyone suffers.  I've gifted you the daylight hours so stay out of my evening.  Is simple enough to say.  Much more complicated to live by.  Why is it necessary?  A matter of control?  To an extent.  A matter of provocation?  Also, to an extent.  Consider it a dictation of terms.

If I am to die, let it be beneath a sun.  That's not asking too much.  Constantly hunted, can a body be blamed for wanting a reversal of roles?  Outfoxed the ghosts.... this time.... not really.  Still outside.  Every time I open my front door they're there.  Monsters underneath the bed, if you will.  Acceptable terms of endearment.

I don't understand.  Call me atheist or call me fractured.   Or call me by my name so that I know you are and are not a glitch trip.  I'll appreciate it.  I may not say so, but I'll appreciate it.  I may not say so because I know they're listening too and watching too and it took them some years to be vocal as they are and a division had to come or risk carrying on with, for lack of a better term, phantoms.

Paranoia has been nibbling.  I've been thinking very long and very hard about a reasonable solution.  What we came to was, this year, we will wear a straw woven hat.  It'll look good on me.  And that's something!  Something to roll on with.

No one means to stand watch all night.  Everyone breaths a little easier knowing another one has passed and the weapons can be laid down again because the sun is a very very very reliable and undeniable night light.




///Sneaker Pimps - "Wife By Two Thousand"  mr. noename