about the screaming argument that starts with "I'll get dressed when I'm dead!!!" and "I don't fucking feel like it today!!!" and "Well, neither do I!!!" is that it sometimes ends with high fives all around because you've managed to agree on something unanimously and that something just happened to be: getting dressed sucks and yeah people should be a lot less fucked up about nudity, but they aren't and we can't kill them all so we'll get dressed and file our grievances under artistic differences or something, and it's a starting point to key the rest of the day.
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.
Showing posts with label accomplishment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label accomplishment. Show all posts
1/9/18
10/16/15
The Rage Tank
When I see you. When I see myself with you. I wonder: what does he have that I do not.
I see that he has a several few things. A successful family and a family that communicates with itself. A family that loves and is open. Brothers and sisters that can get along. And then I look at myself.
A family with a brother that can get along with one sister. A sister foreign. Another brother that is foreign. Extended family that is all strangers.
I ask myself what I actually have to offer and the answer is pretty stark. Pretty stark and pretty pretty in it's own way. Pretty pretty in it's own way, but damn near not the same.
What do you want to be associated with? By definition, that.
I ask myself every day.
I tell myself 'nough said.
I hate myself more and love myself more.
I ask myself what do I need to do more to be more accessible and then I ask myself what I need to do to be more of a person. I have no idea. In all consuming rage everything makes sense. I think we were working around that. No?
The rage tank is deep and has many chambers. We will explore them soon.
I see that he has a several few things. A successful family and a family that communicates with itself. A family that loves and is open. Brothers and sisters that can get along. And then I look at myself.
A family with a brother that can get along with one sister. A sister foreign. Another brother that is foreign. Extended family that is all strangers.
I ask myself what I actually have to offer and the answer is pretty stark. Pretty stark and pretty pretty in it's own way. Pretty pretty in it's own way, but damn near not the same.
What do you want to be associated with? By definition, that.
I ask myself every day.
I tell myself 'nough said.
I hate myself more and love myself more.
I ask myself what do I need to do more to be more accessible and then I ask myself what I need to do to be more of a person. I have no idea. In all consuming rage everything makes sense. I think we were working around that. No?
The rage tank is deep and has many chambers. We will explore them soon.
7/29/15
Summer Days Are Beautiful
Summer days are beautiful. Walk around in the grass that probably should have been cut yesterday and feel how fluffy and wet it is before the sun dries it out. Take time away from watering the garden to blow a bubble of mist around you and spin yourself around to see the rainbow halo around your waist. The birds are off on their errands. By now you do not hear their 5:30 A.M. alarm, but you will miss it a lot when it is gone and cold water chills instead of refreshes.
Sit in the wet grass and feel it soak through your shorts and underwear to the hairs and through to your skin. Wiggle down a little and lean back on your elbows and wait for the sun and the breeze to start drying your hair for you. Blowing kisses on the backs of your ears and neck and every few minutes a touch of lips to cheek and eyebrow, no more. A slip of hands around your wet hips and up your back until you cannot help a giggle, no more.
I am just like you, though we are different. Thinking about what my insides look like after patching things, jumping circuits, replacing parts, swapping connections, and fabricating new ones over and over again to keep on going, to function in place of everything that was torn out or never mounted or heavily damaged from the beginning. Thinking about the engineering and trial and error and discovery it took to get there, sitting in a backyard, watering a garden, and laughing at the sun, cooing in the palm of earth's hand, content.
Though we are different. The obstacles are unbelievable sometimes. Taking responsibility sometimes crosses into blaming myself for everything and hating myself and my make up more and more and more until all I can feel or think about is killing myself and it feels so good, so great, to remember the afternoon, even as obstacles to continued or increased or even maintained success close the horizon in every direction like the lips around an enormous crater.
It makes me smile wry: 30 years old, crippling social anxieties, manic depression, paranoid schizophrenia, anger management "problems," bringing in a whopping $12,000 a year, and ... what? I don't know. I don't know what is next. I've been lied to again and lost all confidence in what I thought I would do until I retired or never retired. That sweet sweet 12k paycheck. It is a joke. At 30? Is that really the best I am going to be able to do?
After I discovered that I had no job security whatsoever and a friend explained to me how my job has allowed me to stay in place and build a foundation for my life, but that the very nature of my job would not allow me to grow much further than that, she asked me about what I wanted to do.
I always want to write, but that's not a career for me for the foreseeable future. That's for fun. My passion and deep rooted connection to writing has its origins in my inabilities to communicate and express myself and my ideas through normal everyday means a lot, I would say most, people enjoy. It is a love and desire best described as an unexpected, exceptionally useful, child of the continuous process of patching and repairing and placing new equipment where normal/standard/necessary/"born with" equipment was never mounted to begin with or ripped away or smashed in. I don't love and pursue writing as a career, I have come to realize. I love and pursue writing because it is the best developed, low loss, way I know how to communicate like a normal person. When it works the way I need it to, it allows me to bridge myself to friends and people and know that I am not howling at my otherwise mashed, screwed, and missing communications centers and abilities with nothing coming across the interface at all in line with what is being spoken from inside.
The question was strange to me and it shouldn't have been. I had to think very hard. Being used to doing whatever I had to and was allowed to do for so many years after college flamed out against my will and things fell swiftly to pieces, taking whatever work would have me and clinging to what work would have me that I could also do and do well, the thought of what I wanted to do was foreign.
After an evening, I thought "master electrician" or "master plumber," since an MLS is completely unrealistic for the next decade or two at the least and I have loved the under the table work I've been able to do to help ends meet working on peoples homes for years. I thought "how great would it be to actually be paid the way you should for what you have in the skill files inside your head." After another day thinking about it, I knew it wasn't what I really wanted to do. It is something that I am good at that I like doing that fits well around my psyche, but not at all what I really want to do. Auto-mechanic.
The realization dawned on me. All of the schematics books I used to take from the library diagramming aircraft and race cars and automobiles. The perfect mix of tinkering and testing and results and giving life to machines and mechanisms. The smiles on folks faces. The tools and machines that allow the systems to be manipulated and molded to various functions. The solitude. All there. After so many years of being forced or trying to force so many paths in an effort to put food in my mouth and stay connected to life and society and have enough to sit in a backyard and smile at a garden, I forgot that I've wanted to be a mechanic for decades. I've only been alive for three, but I'm pretty sure I knew after decade one.
Thirty years old and getting no younger. A foundation finally established in this life, though shaky at times, an undeniable starting point. I am starting to see it as leaving a dying world. You have finally broken gravity's hold, do not concern yourself with trying to undo everything and erase everyone on the world's surface that brought it to its demise. Worry about what comes next in the stars. I have to try to find some security while there is a foundation. With no real job security, what was built could go away at a moments notice, a flash, a bang, some confetti, and a "thanks for playing, best of luck." So what? One more step through the yards to the next fence further away from the cell than you have ever been. Slip your fingers through the diamond wire links. Squeeze them until your fingers hurt and sniff the air on the other side.
It tastes different doesn't it. Oh it does! When the answer to the question "what do you want to do" is longer than "live another month." I cannot be happy living in the shadow of annihilation. I do not know if I will ever escape its reach entirely the way my insides are wired, dealing with, fighting, embracing, irreparable mental dysfunction. Will I ever make living money? Money that allows me to keep growing instead of treading water? Hold a standard 40 hour a week job without exploding into fragments or medicating? I have to find out.
Summer days are so beautiful. Even with warships of uncertainty hovering in orbit and peace negotiations fraying, feeling the tiny cool pricks of water landing on every inch of exposed skin feels absolutely wonderful. Chew a dandelion stem. As far back as can be remembered, love for the outdoors. The mysteriousness of the shadows infecting the gaps in the greens of the tree canopy smothering a hill across the river. Walk fingertips through blades of grass and poke a beetle's glimmering carapace. It is pretending to sleep. T-shirts almost dry. The garden dirt probably is too. One more go 'round. It is going to be a hot one today.
///The Future Sound of London - "Among Myselves"
Sit in the wet grass and feel it soak through your shorts and underwear to the hairs and through to your skin. Wiggle down a little and lean back on your elbows and wait for the sun and the breeze to start drying your hair for you. Blowing kisses on the backs of your ears and neck and every few minutes a touch of lips to cheek and eyebrow, no more. A slip of hands around your wet hips and up your back until you cannot help a giggle, no more.
I am just like you, though we are different. Thinking about what my insides look like after patching things, jumping circuits, replacing parts, swapping connections, and fabricating new ones over and over again to keep on going, to function in place of everything that was torn out or never mounted or heavily damaged from the beginning. Thinking about the engineering and trial and error and discovery it took to get there, sitting in a backyard, watering a garden, and laughing at the sun, cooing in the palm of earth's hand, content.
Though we are different. The obstacles are unbelievable sometimes. Taking responsibility sometimes crosses into blaming myself for everything and hating myself and my make up more and more and more until all I can feel or think about is killing myself and it feels so good, so great, to remember the afternoon, even as obstacles to continued or increased or even maintained success close the horizon in every direction like the lips around an enormous crater.
It makes me smile wry: 30 years old, crippling social anxieties, manic depression, paranoid schizophrenia, anger management "problems," bringing in a whopping $12,000 a year, and ... what? I don't know. I don't know what is next. I've been lied to again and lost all confidence in what I thought I would do until I retired or never retired. That sweet sweet 12k paycheck. It is a joke. At 30? Is that really the best I am going to be able to do?
After I discovered that I had no job security whatsoever and a friend explained to me how my job has allowed me to stay in place and build a foundation for my life, but that the very nature of my job would not allow me to grow much further than that, she asked me about what I wanted to do.
I always want to write, but that's not a career for me for the foreseeable future. That's for fun. My passion and deep rooted connection to writing has its origins in my inabilities to communicate and express myself and my ideas through normal everyday means a lot, I would say most, people enjoy. It is a love and desire best described as an unexpected, exceptionally useful, child of the continuous process of patching and repairing and placing new equipment where normal/standard/necessary/"born with" equipment was never mounted to begin with or ripped away or smashed in. I don't love and pursue writing as a career, I have come to realize. I love and pursue writing because it is the best developed, low loss, way I know how to communicate like a normal person. When it works the way I need it to, it allows me to bridge myself to friends and people and know that I am not howling at my otherwise mashed, screwed, and missing communications centers and abilities with nothing coming across the interface at all in line with what is being spoken from inside.
The question was strange to me and it shouldn't have been. I had to think very hard. Being used to doing whatever I had to and was allowed to do for so many years after college flamed out against my will and things fell swiftly to pieces, taking whatever work would have me and clinging to what work would have me that I could also do and do well, the thought of what I wanted to do was foreign.
After an evening, I thought "master electrician" or "master plumber," since an MLS is completely unrealistic for the next decade or two at the least and I have loved the under the table work I've been able to do to help ends meet working on peoples homes for years. I thought "how great would it be to actually be paid the way you should for what you have in the skill files inside your head." After another day thinking about it, I knew it wasn't what I really wanted to do. It is something that I am good at that I like doing that fits well around my psyche, but not at all what I really want to do. Auto-mechanic.
The realization dawned on me. All of the schematics books I used to take from the library diagramming aircraft and race cars and automobiles. The perfect mix of tinkering and testing and results and giving life to machines and mechanisms. The smiles on folks faces. The tools and machines that allow the systems to be manipulated and molded to various functions. The solitude. All there. After so many years of being forced or trying to force so many paths in an effort to put food in my mouth and stay connected to life and society and have enough to sit in a backyard and smile at a garden, I forgot that I've wanted to be a mechanic for decades. I've only been alive for three, but I'm pretty sure I knew after decade one.
Thirty years old and getting no younger. A foundation finally established in this life, though shaky at times, an undeniable starting point. I am starting to see it as leaving a dying world. You have finally broken gravity's hold, do not concern yourself with trying to undo everything and erase everyone on the world's surface that brought it to its demise. Worry about what comes next in the stars. I have to try to find some security while there is a foundation. With no real job security, what was built could go away at a moments notice, a flash, a bang, some confetti, and a "thanks for playing, best of luck." So what? One more step through the yards to the next fence further away from the cell than you have ever been. Slip your fingers through the diamond wire links. Squeeze them until your fingers hurt and sniff the air on the other side.
It tastes different doesn't it. Oh it does! When the answer to the question "what do you want to do" is longer than "live another month." I cannot be happy living in the shadow of annihilation. I do not know if I will ever escape its reach entirely the way my insides are wired, dealing with, fighting, embracing, irreparable mental dysfunction. Will I ever make living money? Money that allows me to keep growing instead of treading water? Hold a standard 40 hour a week job without exploding into fragments or medicating? I have to find out.
Summer days are so beautiful. Even with warships of uncertainty hovering in orbit and peace negotiations fraying, feeling the tiny cool pricks of water landing on every inch of exposed skin feels absolutely wonderful. Chew a dandelion stem. As far back as can be remembered, love for the outdoors. The mysteriousness of the shadows infecting the gaps in the greens of the tree canopy smothering a hill across the river. Walk fingertips through blades of grass and poke a beetle's glimmering carapace. It is pretending to sleep. T-shirts almost dry. The garden dirt probably is too. One more go 'round. It is going to be a hot one today.
///The Future Sound of London - "Among Myselves"
12/28/12
Redrum and Other Origins and Valuation
Is it wildly addictive, yeah of course. Does it change you? No not really. There's a certain amount of disappointment that comes with it. A certain amount of asking yourself questions that persist despite the time of day. It's a pretty weird thing. A confluence of circumstance and luck so thick I can talk about it now almost a year removed. Can you imagine sitting on anything for a year?
I tried to talk to my friend about it and she pretty much shut me out. That sucks. I did not anticipate at all how I would be re evaluated. That part of it has been hard to parse and it really has been across the board with each person I've shared it with, chosen to share it with. It's an odd difficulty but I can understand the rejection. I can understand it, but I don't have to accept it, I would like to think.
Do I feel better? Not really. Not as good as I thought I'd feel. Kind of reminds me of paint snuffling. Very short lived and very gorgeous and very forgettable, but so far away from everything enjoyable on a common basis. A rare sadness that presents some unforgettable joy. It's difficult to talk about. Because I know there are people missing her and all that. It's difficult to relate because on top of that there is the knowledge of the missing and maybe that's why I don't sleep so good these last years. Getting away without really getting away (heart in the floor kinda shit except ...)
The most difficult thing has been trying to relate this story without who I relate it to drastically reevaluating who I am as a person. I'm still the same. What's so difficult to understand about needing and finding practice? I understand that I am a very strange and enchanted boy and eventually luck runs out, but how does that mean love evaporates? Or should evaporate? How come once suddenly doesn't mean enough? I could understand trust lost. I could understand that. Total abandonment still stymies me. I don't care what you did or what you do. If I love you I love you. That's it. Where it starts and ends I guess. I think that's all I wanted in return. That's all. Step by stepped is what I got. Oh well. let's explore more. It's a big world and I've a small heart and there's a hell of a lot of music along the way. we'll see where this goes, but honestly i want more comedy. I don't think that's too much to ask. Trying to increase my value to others, you know? It is the first and last time I'll talk about it, so enjoy.
The Seatbelts - "Rain" - its a strange balance. even to me. the worst being that i dont know its been struck yet. knowing how i feel afterward i will try, but i cannot promise anything and i never will.
I tried to talk to my friend about it and she pretty much shut me out. That sucks. I did not anticipate at all how I would be re evaluated. That part of it has been hard to parse and it really has been across the board with each person I've shared it with, chosen to share it with. It's an odd difficulty but I can understand the rejection. I can understand it, but I don't have to accept it, I would like to think.
Do I feel better? Not really. Not as good as I thought I'd feel. Kind of reminds me of paint snuffling. Very short lived and very gorgeous and very forgettable, but so far away from everything enjoyable on a common basis. A rare sadness that presents some unforgettable joy. It's difficult to talk about. Because I know there are people missing her and all that. It's difficult to relate because on top of that there is the knowledge of the missing and maybe that's why I don't sleep so good these last years. Getting away without really getting away (heart in the floor kinda shit except ...)
The most difficult thing has been trying to relate this story without who I relate it to drastically reevaluating who I am as a person. I'm still the same. What's so difficult to understand about needing and finding practice? I understand that I am a very strange and enchanted boy and eventually luck runs out, but how does that mean love evaporates? Or should evaporate? How come once suddenly doesn't mean enough? I could understand trust lost. I could understand that. Total abandonment still stymies me. I don't care what you did or what you do. If I love you I love you. That's it. Where it starts and ends I guess. I think that's all I wanted in return. That's all. Step by stepped is what I got. Oh well. let's explore more. It's a big world and I've a small heart and there's a hell of a lot of music along the way. we'll see where this goes, but honestly i want more comedy. I don't think that's too much to ask. Trying to increase my value to others, you know? It is the first and last time I'll talk about it, so enjoy.
The Seatbelts - "Rain" - its a strange balance. even to me. the worst being that i dont know its been struck yet. knowing how i feel afterward i will try, but i cannot promise anything and i never will.
10/18/12
Crying and Everybody Gets One
Sometimes I feel like all the tears I did not get to cry from the age where my memory starts in patches, five and sometimes six, to where it starts to form a continuous timeline, ten and on, are coming now. Balancing books and things. I've been thinking about it somewhat hard nosed and what I came to was, especially given what came down the pipe at twenty, I'd rather have them now than not at all.
Playing emotional catch up.
I'd rather be emo now, however, than be emo at age fifty (assuming I can make it to fifty iterations. that's a pretty tall order, nah mean?). Part of what I was taught, in writing classes that were worth their weight in gold when they weren't taught by tenured dick faces and holier than though masters ph.d cock tip cum nuggets whom I would still like to punch in the craw and who prevent me from going back to the English department because I will try to strangle them with their own belt, was that you have to exorcise the junk first and everything else will come with time.
That's what she said. Still, there's some merit to that. Problem is I have junk for years. When did everything turn into a fifteen year plan?
Anyway, when I'm rich and famous I'm going to work out my short list of simple assaults. When I'm set for life I'll start chipping into my kill list. First things first. Gotta lay down the work first. Get the junk out of the way. Everything else will come in due time. I can abide by that principle. The hard part is not letting other people jump your gun.
///Vangelis - "One More Kiss Dear"
4/21/12
T minus two
T minus two. My knuckles are throbbing, but feeling my pulse and not feeling it inside my ears like standing on railroad ties and hearing the rails twang in the New York tubes is pretty nice. Kind of reminds me of the travel of time. Well, not kind of, it definitely does. Tracking time has always been a weak point of mine. Part of why I like to wear my keys where I can hear them jingle. It reminds me that I'm not dreaming and what is happening is real. You get used to tracking time properly, and then the uses you've made of common things become common place and you start to lose it. Start to lose tracking.
Part of why one of the best gifts I ever received was a watch that set itself. I never wear a watch in my dreams. Part of how I know I'm dreaming. Part of why I get so unsettled when I don't have it. Endless wrist rubbing. Still driving back from the depths of space, but making good time. That's all I can really ask of myself. Crisis averted. Not really. Postponed. Defaulted? I don't know what the hell the word is. All I know is that the boards went up red and one by one the status lights and checks are coming back green and blinking yellow and I'm not dead.
Coming back in touch with reality. Tuning down the squelch that ran far enough out of control to induce panic. I had a dream that I could remember. It was an odd reassurance. The absence of breath snatching night terror. Sleeping without sweating. I'm learning again how to let go. The reemergence of the bridge and the division of real and manufacture. How to converse and relate. Even though I am still refusing conversation beyond essentials. I am forcing myself to do it. Because without it, people eventually forget you. I can and do spend days without actually talking. I used to have fairly corrupted speech patterns. Hearing sentences try to come out of my mouth was offensive to my own ears. Still is sometimes. Because I know I can be so much clearer on paper. That and conversation was such a weapon so often used against me growing up. I never much liked it. I guess if I had my way everyone would have their vocal chords cut out of them at birth and we would all speak through written word.
But I don't have my way. And it's not a bad thing. I am a minority intelligence. Trapped in a minority format. Cased in a pretty decent body. I've got that going for me. Can't complain on that front. I could use an extra few inches of height though. Went to get a new license before my birthday and current one expired and the woman at the motor vehicle administration desk asked me if I was still 5'10". I thought: yes, you feckless drawn on eyebrowed 60 year old duffle of a snootch! Gotta work on my height complex. Because there was no way in hell any stranger deserves that sort of first response over an honest question. What I said was: yep, still short as hell. She laughed. I was glad I made the right choice on that one.
I stepped out into the alleyway beside my house and the sun was oppressive. My eyes have been unprepared for bright days for as long as I can remember. When I look directly at the sky it feels like it vibrates my skull. When I was younger, the winter sky was the worst to suck into my sockets. It literally hurt to look up against a flat noon overcast. It hurt to look near it. You get used to the pain though. And then you spend a few days indoors and the pain takes your breath away.
I don't hate the daytime. I know it's necessary. My skin feels better after a good sun drenching. Mechanically, I operate better with higher fidelity in my eye reads to mind writes. Fewer hallucinations, sometimes, but not a tight enough correlation to make me believe the two are connected, but enough in common to at least give it a shot on the regular. And then, sometimes, I just hate being seen. Sometimes I think, people simply knowing someone like me exists is a burdensome thought they'd probably not entertain if they didn't have to. I suppose I wouldn't if I had my way. But who ever really does.
Something smells like cloves around here and I have no idea what.
I started a serial, but have yet to publish it. A bad beginning. There is a massive disconnect between my ability to express the images I want to express and the images I am envisioning that I want to express. I'm thinking I will do it anyway and learn as I go. Not like I'm getting into a graduate program in my lifetime. Aw don't say that? Just being pragmatic so I don't waste energy pining for nonsense. My chances are probably somewhere in the atmosphere of spaceman and race car driver by now. So I'm just going to continue to try to develop on my own. Can't really ask for more, and with everything flaming out so unpredictably, why would you or I really want more? You can't get in trouble if you're asleep. You can't fail out of school if you're not in. You can't crash a motorcycle into a freight train if you don't own one. However, you can die in space, without ever once going to space camp. That is a fact. Write that one down. There will be a test. At some point.
The good thing, probably the best thing, about damaging yourself without ruining yourself is that it makes it impossible to damage yourself again, without maximum effort and eating one hell of a lot more pain, until you've healed. The down side is you now know where the line used to be and can take it a little farther. Sometimes a lot farther. The up side of knowing where the line lies is knowing how to skirt it and test it again without making the same mistakes (e.g. whatever doesn't kill you makes you more than you were). That is the usual application for me. It's not always expanding limits. Sometimes it's just learning the rules that govern your unique physiology. Your unfortunate mind body marriage.
Staring into the barrel of another alley morning. It burns, but we deal. You can't hide from the sun forever and the world is calling. I am looking forward to 27. I hope 27 is looking forward to me with eyes just as hard. Just as star drowned. Just as ready. If you want to avoid serious injury, you have to pull the knife almost as hard, but no harder, than you push.
///Deadmau5 - "One Trick Pony"
///Deadmau5 - "One Trick Pony"
10/9/11
Stand Up Act 5
Stand Up Act 4
So we've come a long way. As always with nothing but love. All I've got is love for yinz. I know I'm not the only one reading this, but I'm most at home believing otherwise. In some ways. Part of me still believes that I am and that's the part of me that says "hey, da fuck you been at?"
Outside the vein of what I originally attempted I actually took four cracks at this. I literally wrote out four different iterations of act 5. There was the act 5 that was a ridiculous racist rant that was so far disposed from who I actually am that I had to leave it in draft. There was the iteration that was absolutely bitter about my ex and the potential situation that she might be having ravenous sex while I am probably borderline asexual at this point, there was the iteration that was racist, bitter, and absolutely obsessed with lambasting my lot in life, and then there was the iteration that was just being a pure cunt. So I had four bad sets before this one. So this time is the real deal.
Not that the previous deals were not real deals. There was still no usage of backspace. Back pedaling? Sure. Lots of that. But I'm fairly certain it was for the best. I even tried to explain previous one hundred forty character twitter rants because I got so defensive. So pencils down. No defense. And no provisos for defenses generation. Keepin it light. Because the opposite of personal is accessible. And that's what I want and I hope you want, so in the words of a film referenced in a song I can't remember the name of: "into it."
No backspacing, per stand up. You can't take that back once it's loosed. So I'm gonna stand up.
Commuting on a bicycle. Great for staying in shape. Awful in practice.
Getting high, however, awful for staying in shape, but great in practice. I had two thoughts before that, but I was way too good to remember what they were. I have two empty seats in my classroom where those two thoughts were and I feel kinda sad that they skipped out. Probably the downside of getting high is exactly that. You get so many gems and it's like that last scene in the Goonies where that kid gets that little satchel of plastic gems and he's like "ah mah sheeeeet" and you think momentarily about all the good he can do for that rundown town that is still somehow susceptible to three man bank heists and prison breaks , but really he's going to buy a sweet ass Camaro with turn out mufflers and a mobile home with central air and the rest he'll blow on lottery tickets and before you know it he'll be on daytime television in one of those "you are not the father" micro telethons. Empty seats suck. It's like losing your baby teeth except they are your adult teeth and forever more, in every gay porn film you shoot because you are financially bankrupt and morals follow dollars, everyone will see you spreading jaws wide and wonder what you did to get a mouth of gold, but the answer won't be anything interesting.
The answer won't be something like "I took a bite out of a shark and killed it with the power of my jaws and also mind bullets." It won't be anything close to "I got into a telekinetic battle with a Sith lord and instead of throwing me out of a window he shifted all of my teeth two inches to the left and then I cut off his head with a flaming sword of laser focused light." The answer will be more akin to what a trailer park owner says when asked if he's living the American dream. I don't know what that answer would be, but I assume I would laugh like a kid who done caught his first fish at the local reservoir.
Actually that's one of those things that's kind of difficult to deal with. Gonna take a jump cut right there as I see the hole and the prize (it's a football analogy, as baseball is basically for sort of athletic obsessive compulsives who couldn't hack it at chess. Baseball is the D.D.S. of sports).
Everybody dreams. I dream, you dream, we dream. Sometimes weird things happen while we're dreaming. Last night was one of those times. It wasn't a weird dream like Abraham Lincoln walked in on me filming cat themed pornography and aliens landed on my front lawn and vaporized the loud ass people with Marvin the Martians disintegrater ray while they shouted at each other because they were crossing the street against the traffic lights and thought it would be a great idea to break out their catwalk stroll while rush hour traffic did the herky jerk trying to get around them.
It was strange because I said some ignorant stuff to a girl at a party I was attending. Sure, not the first time I went ape shit on someone I didn't know. Definitely not the first time I went ape shit on a lady. I was once smoking potent smokables with friends and it was a very chill environment. Everyone was pretty relaxed and happy, but there was this one girl who would not, for the life of her, just shut her mouth for any span of time. I know I talk a lot. I don't get to talk all that often and when I do I tend to err on the side of saying way too much, not because I am actively trying to say more than I want to, but because talking is like water and I'm thirsty as hell most days. Anyway, she was just rattling off and off and I thought my ears were going to catch fire with the rate she was asking me, in a subdued state, to process information so I eventually just screamed at her "would you please shut the fuck up" or something to that effect and long story short I was not included in further get togethers, because I can sometimes be "that guy". But anyway, had this dream where I was in attendance at a party and said some ignorant mean things to a girl.
Optional responses to having mean things said to you are A: devise a bulletproof retort. B: devise a bullet riddled retort that is delivered so well the point can't not be well taken. C: punch the offender in the face. D: engage in sober-esque dialog. D was basically off the table by then. I was expecting an A or a B, because when I'm good with words I am really good. And you can't punch a girl in the face. Or the boob. I don't know which one they dislike more, and frankly I'm not trying to find out.
I got C. In this dream, this girl balled up a technically sound fist and gave my face the business. Not proud of that. It is afterall, my dream. I should have seen it coming. I should have seen her angry little eyes and my smile was way too wide and easy. It didn't deck me, but it still shut me the fuck up and I figured I would be the bigger man and not cry about it. Of course the bigger man would also not just flatten her, but that was already off the table so the list of bigger than the situation things I could do was already pretty limited. I did the biggest thing I could do without looking like a complete fairy and went back to sipping at my sippy cup and then I woke up into 4 PM.
Not that I'm lazy or anything. I could wake up at 8 AM on my day off, but doesn't that defeat the purpose of having a day off if you're waking up incredibly early for no reason. Granted 8 AM is fantastic if you have a reason to be up then, but why would you intentionally deprive yourself of comfort on your day off? You have the whole rest of your life for people to tell you when you should be awake and the whole rest of your life to have places to be. Seriously, take one day out of the week and burn it. Just burn the fuck out of it. What is that? One seventh of your lifetime? Why does that even matter when you're going to spend some unholy fraction of your life on a toilet? You will probably spend more time eating, pooping, watching television, and deciding what to do next than you will spend asleep so you might as well get it while you can because when you're dead you'll regret that you didn't spend more time dreaming.
To get back into it though, the dream was fairly whack. About as whack as it gets. I wasn't even hitting on her. I think I said something about her hair and her eyeliner. Something to the affect of "did you pay someone to do that to you" or something. And the sad thing is I've probably said that to some girl at some bar who I didn't know, and my propensity for dumbass cutting observations got the best of me and also got me black balled for service because she was also the bartender. True story. I think I say that mostly because I'm entirely immune to similar comments because I so clearly couldn't afford to pay someone to do much of anything to me. It's all self inflicted. Pride badge right there. Did you pick out those clothes or- I can interrupt that thought instantaneously. Yes. The answer is yes, yes I did. I look this awesome for free. Now what? Yes, that's right. Scoff. Scoff because that's all you have because you paid good money to look like a douchebag and I pulled it off at zero cost, but anyway the whack thing about it was when I woke up my face hurt like hell where she laid her fist into the side of my jaw.
Now, the thing is, a normal person would wake up and work their jaw bones and rub their face and think "what the hell, that's not supposed to happen. I'm not supposed to suffer injury in a dream and then wake up with my nerves thinking it actually happened." I woke up and rubbed my tender face and thought "god damn, what a cunt." It wasn't until I was at work many hours later still rubbing my sore cheek that it occurred to me that getting punched in the face in a dream should not by any means carry over into the real world and then I was like "wait a minute, what the fuck? That was the worst dream ever!" So now I have to look out for that. Dreaming is my hobby and like many hobbies that include hard drugs I don't want it to start taking a toll on my body. Or maybe I should just sleep less. Either way, whack ass dream.
So we've come a long way. As always with nothing but love. All I've got is love for yinz. I know I'm not the only one reading this, but I'm most at home believing otherwise. In some ways. Part of me still believes that I am and that's the part of me that says "hey, da fuck you been at?"
Outside the vein of what I originally attempted I actually took four cracks at this. I literally wrote out four different iterations of act 5. There was the act 5 that was a ridiculous racist rant that was so far disposed from who I actually am that I had to leave it in draft. There was the iteration that was absolutely bitter about my ex and the potential situation that she might be having ravenous sex while I am probably borderline asexual at this point, there was the iteration that was racist, bitter, and absolutely obsessed with lambasting my lot in life, and then there was the iteration that was just being a pure cunt. So I had four bad sets before this one. So this time is the real deal.
Not that the previous deals were not real deals. There was still no usage of backspace. Back pedaling? Sure. Lots of that. But I'm fairly certain it was for the best. I even tried to explain previous one hundred forty character twitter rants because I got so defensive. So pencils down. No defense. And no provisos for defenses generation. Keepin it light. Because the opposite of personal is accessible. And that's what I want and I hope you want, so in the words of a film referenced in a song I can't remember the name of: "into it."
No backspacing, per stand up. You can't take that back once it's loosed. So I'm gonna stand up.
Commuting on a bicycle. Great for staying in shape. Awful in practice.
Getting high, however, awful for staying in shape, but great in practice. I had two thoughts before that, but I was way too good to remember what they were. I have two empty seats in my classroom where those two thoughts were and I feel kinda sad that they skipped out. Probably the downside of getting high is exactly that. You get so many gems and it's like that last scene in the Goonies where that kid gets that little satchel of plastic gems and he's like "ah mah sheeeeet" and you think momentarily about all the good he can do for that rundown town that is still somehow susceptible to three man bank heists and prison breaks , but really he's going to buy a sweet ass Camaro with turn out mufflers and a mobile home with central air and the rest he'll blow on lottery tickets and before you know it he'll be on daytime television in one of those "you are not the father" micro telethons. Empty seats suck. It's like losing your baby teeth except they are your adult teeth and forever more, in every gay porn film you shoot because you are financially bankrupt and morals follow dollars, everyone will see you spreading jaws wide and wonder what you did to get a mouth of gold, but the answer won't be anything interesting.
The answer won't be something like "I took a bite out of a shark and killed it with the power of my jaws and also mind bullets." It won't be anything close to "I got into a telekinetic battle with a Sith lord and instead of throwing me out of a window he shifted all of my teeth two inches to the left and then I cut off his head with a flaming sword of laser focused light." The answer will be more akin to what a trailer park owner says when asked if he's living the American dream. I don't know what that answer would be, but I assume I would laugh like a kid who done caught his first fish at the local reservoir.
Actually that's one of those things that's kind of difficult to deal with. Gonna take a jump cut right there as I see the hole and the prize (it's a football analogy, as baseball is basically for sort of athletic obsessive compulsives who couldn't hack it at chess. Baseball is the D.D.S. of sports).
Everybody dreams. I dream, you dream, we dream. Sometimes weird things happen while we're dreaming. Last night was one of those times. It wasn't a weird dream like Abraham Lincoln walked in on me filming cat themed pornography and aliens landed on my front lawn and vaporized the loud ass people with Marvin the Martians disintegrater ray while they shouted at each other because they were crossing the street against the traffic lights and thought it would be a great idea to break out their catwalk stroll while rush hour traffic did the herky jerk trying to get around them.
It was strange because I said some ignorant stuff to a girl at a party I was attending. Sure, not the first time I went ape shit on someone I didn't know. Definitely not the first time I went ape shit on a lady. I was once smoking potent smokables with friends and it was a very chill environment. Everyone was pretty relaxed and happy, but there was this one girl who would not, for the life of her, just shut her mouth for any span of time. I know I talk a lot. I don't get to talk all that often and when I do I tend to err on the side of saying way too much, not because I am actively trying to say more than I want to, but because talking is like water and I'm thirsty as hell most days. Anyway, she was just rattling off and off and I thought my ears were going to catch fire with the rate she was asking me, in a subdued state, to process information so I eventually just screamed at her "would you please shut the fuck up" or something to that effect and long story short I was not included in further get togethers, because I can sometimes be "that guy". But anyway, had this dream where I was in attendance at a party and said some ignorant mean things to a girl.
Optional responses to having mean things said to you are A: devise a bulletproof retort. B: devise a bullet riddled retort that is delivered so well the point can't not be well taken. C: punch the offender in the face. D: engage in sober-esque dialog. D was basically off the table by then. I was expecting an A or a B, because when I'm good with words I am really good. And you can't punch a girl in the face. Or the boob. I don't know which one they dislike more, and frankly I'm not trying to find out.
I got C. In this dream, this girl balled up a technically sound fist and gave my face the business. Not proud of that. It is afterall, my dream. I should have seen it coming. I should have seen her angry little eyes and my smile was way too wide and easy. It didn't deck me, but it still shut me the fuck up and I figured I would be the bigger man and not cry about it. Of course the bigger man would also not just flatten her, but that was already off the table so the list of bigger than the situation things I could do was already pretty limited. I did the biggest thing I could do without looking like a complete fairy and went back to sipping at my sippy cup and then I woke up into 4 PM.
Not that I'm lazy or anything. I could wake up at 8 AM on my day off, but doesn't that defeat the purpose of having a day off if you're waking up incredibly early for no reason. Granted 8 AM is fantastic if you have a reason to be up then, but why would you intentionally deprive yourself of comfort on your day off? You have the whole rest of your life for people to tell you when you should be awake and the whole rest of your life to have places to be. Seriously, take one day out of the week and burn it. Just burn the fuck out of it. What is that? One seventh of your lifetime? Why does that even matter when you're going to spend some unholy fraction of your life on a toilet? You will probably spend more time eating, pooping, watching television, and deciding what to do next than you will spend asleep so you might as well get it while you can because when you're dead you'll regret that you didn't spend more time dreaming.
To get back into it though, the dream was fairly whack. About as whack as it gets. I wasn't even hitting on her. I think I said something about her hair and her eyeliner. Something to the affect of "did you pay someone to do that to you" or something. And the sad thing is I've probably said that to some girl at some bar who I didn't know, and my propensity for dumbass cutting observations got the best of me and also got me black balled for service because she was also the bartender. True story. I think I say that mostly because I'm entirely immune to similar comments because I so clearly couldn't afford to pay someone to do much of anything to me. It's all self inflicted. Pride badge right there. Did you pick out those clothes or- I can interrupt that thought instantaneously. Yes. The answer is yes, yes I did. I look this awesome for free. Now what? Yes, that's right. Scoff. Scoff because that's all you have because you paid good money to look like a douchebag and I pulled it off at zero cost, but anyway the whack thing about it was when I woke up my face hurt like hell where she laid her fist into the side of my jaw.
Now, the thing is, a normal person would wake up and work their jaw bones and rub their face and think "what the hell, that's not supposed to happen. I'm not supposed to suffer injury in a dream and then wake up with my nerves thinking it actually happened." I woke up and rubbed my tender face and thought "god damn, what a cunt." It wasn't until I was at work many hours later still rubbing my sore cheek that it occurred to me that getting punched in the face in a dream should not by any means carry over into the real world and then I was like "wait a minute, what the fuck? That was the worst dream ever!" So now I have to look out for that. Dreaming is my hobby and like many hobbies that include hard drugs I don't want it to start taking a toll on my body. Or maybe I should just sleep less. Either way, whack ass dream.
7/20/11
A Thought About the World
I was thinking about the end of the world. Again. Not really the end, but the end of my world assuming I tough it out. Which is hilarious. To think that life is something that needs to be "toughed out". Walked off. I sometimes wonder if people who are basically set for life, whose only real decision to make is to go to work or not, or play the links in Carolina this weekend or shuffle off to Amsterdam for a bit to get away from "it all" ever feel like they're going to have to tough out the next few years. I suppose I don't really wonder. I'm sure they do. I like to think that I wonder so I can reflect more kindly on their various dispositions. Instead of wishing them all away to the heaven of hell's brambles. But I was thinking about the upcoming end of my iterations, when there is no more material to make new me's out of what is left of the old me's and no more material available to create new me-ness to replace the wholesale deletions. My thoughts turned, naturally as an American, to war.
When all of the oil runs out, and I hope it does sooner than later, mainly to generate some actual sea change and perhaps restructure the as we've accepted it into the as we've never known, but wished it to be, even if the restructuring ends up being more of a warp and upward mobile in ways I could never be societal metastization, what becomes of middle eastern interest? Do the propped up kings all topple over at once? Does religion come bursting in to fill the holes? Obviously it won't be anarchy. The world is far too connected for that to ever happen. Does america finally walk away from it all like some person stumbling home from a red light district in the morning with a massive hangover to their mattress stuffed with "just in case" money? And then I thought "who fucking cares."
I know I should. For my children's sake. But I'm never having kids. Right now my only claim to fame is that I escaped an abusive home and now have the power to break the cycle of violence and generational human corruption by not perpetuating it the only way I can guarantee the rest of the world will succeed. That's it. So I suppose that probably puts me in the category of people that "want to watch the world burn". Maybe not square in. But close. I don't think I have enough passion to make a sport of it. Which lead me to understand something. A carefree friend is enviable. A careless friend is a headache, but can be desirable in certain doses. A negligent friend is a liability. Well, I understood that before. But it reminded me. I don't know where I fit in there. Where do friends go that are constantly trying to snuff out the fires of their past? Burning their shadows away? Eating their demons.
I don't care how the world is going to end. Maybe the middle east will collapse in fifty years. I'm sure they'll find some way to make it work. They'll tough it out. Some things will change. A lot of things won't. I'll still have to take shit from people making snide remarks in the vein of "break a twenty (whistle) that's a lot of money to be carryin' around on a Tuesday" from asshole managers and foremen who make my monthly net in a couple days of work. I'll still have to deal with nurses asking me seven times if I've been shooting needles into my work scarred arms every time I get up enough money or desperation to see a physician. If it all burns down, I'll be third in line with a lawn chair, a cold beer, and a program to take in the floor show. Which is all fairly grim.
I did not mean to be that grim. Honestly. My life feels like a very long Vertigo shot. Time just keeps on racing away. The farther it stretches, the farther back I have to keep pushing things to stay alive, the more things fall out of focus and break down and it's the least I can do to hold onto the consciousness of here and now and impossible not to choke it to death with the force of the grip needed to keep it safe. I have no real stake in the outcome of the world's wars. I was unceremoniously ushered out of the war fighting arena, the academic arena, the peace keeping arena, the social and society arena, the tax paying arena. I don't know. I don't know where the fuck I'm going with this. Six hundred "no"s and one "yes". Two yeses. It's not that it gets difficult to believe things will improve. It's that it becomes foolish to believe so.
I don't want to believe that's it for me. Not in terms of writing. There's still much to be done and I know this is perhaps the stuttering beginnings of little stars and planets in the blueness of twilight before the moon rise of - what? Shut up. Shut it. Start over. There's still much to be done and I know this is perhaps the stuttering, tottering, beginnings of my flash in the pan in terms of production and development. A multi-year long stuttering to get that one paragraph out that I'll remember myself by. I don't want to believe the best I can hope for is to not get sick and have something to eat and enough to pay for cool in the summer and heat in winter and keep a roof over my fucking head and a cellphone turned on.
Which, I guess, ultimately is to say, space has been both kind and unkind. Kind to the people I care enough not to belabor, but unkind to the glass hearted intrepid nuclear radiant wayfarer. There have been complications. Unmediated things have come undone. I went about a month at one point without thinking about suicide. And then you feel it creeping up the back of your neck. The little worlds threading their way through the nerves in your right ear, across the back of your eyes to your left ear and lacing themselves together tighter and thicker until you feel like the bones of your forehead are going to collapse under the compression and your insides are going to come out like frosting squeezed out between the fingers of a kid crushing a sandwich cookie in his fist. So much time is spent in sorting. This is real. This is not. That is doable. This will kill you. This is tenable. That is not. You said this out of your mouth. You should have said this. Do not say that. This is valid. That will get you interned again. The sorting gets confusing. Frustrating. Makes me angry. And tired. Of many things. So much left to do.
The world as movie: I would have walked out years ago. Myself as movie: I already know how it ends, but I'm not walking out yet. I still haven't seen that one scene where I'm riding down a dirt road in a 240z with my korgy in the passenger seat barking at the rabbits in the brush while the sun sits on the mountains for a nap before the milky way belts across the sky like Beethoven through a concert hall. I don't know if I'll actually make it that far in or what planet that'll happen on. But I'm tryin' to tough it out. It would help if a tollbooth were to appear in my bedroom someday. I would never look back.
///Annie Lennox - "No More I Love Yous" remember this one? I still do. I was in love with Annie Lennox for a long time. All of ten years old and the lyrics to this song felt like she wrote them for me. I used to sit alone in my room and sing nirvana's half the man I used to be. It's funny, I guess. Not that the pain hasn't changed. Funny that the monsters are still outside after all this time.
When all of the oil runs out, and I hope it does sooner than later, mainly to generate some actual sea change and perhaps restructure the as we've accepted it into the as we've never known, but wished it to be, even if the restructuring ends up being more of a warp and upward mobile in ways I could never be societal metastization, what becomes of middle eastern interest? Do the propped up kings all topple over at once? Does religion come bursting in to fill the holes? Obviously it won't be anarchy. The world is far too connected for that to ever happen. Does america finally walk away from it all like some person stumbling home from a red light district in the morning with a massive hangover to their mattress stuffed with "just in case" money? And then I thought "who fucking cares."
I know I should. For my children's sake. But I'm never having kids. Right now my only claim to fame is that I escaped an abusive home and now have the power to break the cycle of violence and generational human corruption by not perpetuating it the only way I can guarantee the rest of the world will succeed. That's it. So I suppose that probably puts me in the category of people that "want to watch the world burn". Maybe not square in. But close. I don't think I have enough passion to make a sport of it. Which lead me to understand something. A carefree friend is enviable. A careless friend is a headache, but can be desirable in certain doses. A negligent friend is a liability. Well, I understood that before. But it reminded me. I don't know where I fit in there. Where do friends go that are constantly trying to snuff out the fires of their past? Burning their shadows away? Eating their demons.
I don't care how the world is going to end. Maybe the middle east will collapse in fifty years. I'm sure they'll find some way to make it work. They'll tough it out. Some things will change. A lot of things won't. I'll still have to take shit from people making snide remarks in the vein of "break a twenty (whistle) that's a lot of money to be carryin' around on a Tuesday" from asshole managers and foremen who make my monthly net in a couple days of work. I'll still have to deal with nurses asking me seven times if I've been shooting needles into my work scarred arms every time I get up enough money or desperation to see a physician. If it all burns down, I'll be third in line with a lawn chair, a cold beer, and a program to take in the floor show. Which is all fairly grim.
I did not mean to be that grim. Honestly. My life feels like a very long Vertigo shot. Time just keeps on racing away. The farther it stretches, the farther back I have to keep pushing things to stay alive, the more things fall out of focus and break down and it's the least I can do to hold onto the consciousness of here and now and impossible not to choke it to death with the force of the grip needed to keep it safe. I have no real stake in the outcome of the world's wars. I was unceremoniously ushered out of the war fighting arena, the academic arena, the peace keeping arena, the social and society arena, the tax paying arena. I don't know. I don't know where the fuck I'm going with this. Six hundred "no"s and one "yes". Two yeses. It's not that it gets difficult to believe things will improve. It's that it becomes foolish to believe so.
I don't want to believe that's it for me. Not in terms of writing. There's still much to be done and I know this is perhaps the stuttering beginnings of little stars and planets in the blueness of twilight before the moon rise of - what? Shut up. Shut it. Start over. There's still much to be done and I know this is perhaps the stuttering, tottering, beginnings of my flash in the pan in terms of production and development. A multi-year long stuttering to get that one paragraph out that I'll remember myself by. I don't want to believe the best I can hope for is to not get sick and have something to eat and enough to pay for cool in the summer and heat in winter and keep a roof over my fucking head and a cellphone turned on.
Which, I guess, ultimately is to say, space has been both kind and unkind. Kind to the people I care enough not to belabor, but unkind to the glass hearted intrepid nuclear radiant wayfarer. There have been complications. Unmediated things have come undone. I went about a month at one point without thinking about suicide. And then you feel it creeping up the back of your neck. The little worlds threading their way through the nerves in your right ear, across the back of your eyes to your left ear and lacing themselves together tighter and thicker until you feel like the bones of your forehead are going to collapse under the compression and your insides are going to come out like frosting squeezed out between the fingers of a kid crushing a sandwich cookie in his fist. So much time is spent in sorting. This is real. This is not. That is doable. This will kill you. This is tenable. That is not. You said this out of your mouth. You should have said this. Do not say that. This is valid. That will get you interned again. The sorting gets confusing. Frustrating. Makes me angry. And tired. Of many things. So much left to do.
The world as movie: I would have walked out years ago. Myself as movie: I already know how it ends, but I'm not walking out yet. I still haven't seen that one scene where I'm riding down a dirt road in a 240z with my korgy in the passenger seat barking at the rabbits in the brush while the sun sits on the mountains for a nap before the milky way belts across the sky like Beethoven through a concert hall. I don't know if I'll actually make it that far in or what planet that'll happen on. But I'm tryin' to tough it out. It would help if a tollbooth were to appear in my bedroom someday. I would never look back.
///Annie Lennox - "No More I Love Yous" remember this one? I still do. I was in love with Annie Lennox for a long time. All of ten years old and the lyrics to this song felt like she wrote them for me. I used to sit alone in my room and sing nirvana's half the man I used to be. It's funny, I guess. Not that the pain hasn't changed. Funny that the monsters are still outside after all this time.
5/19/11
Universal Bodies
I had this thought today while running off to make lunch before 6 P.M. rolled around. It was kind of an irrational thought, so rationale being what it is and people being who they are, I had to go back over it and rationalize it or at least understand why my first compunction was this "wait, what a minute" moment.
Beginning, I thought that I had to figure out why making lunch before six was such a big deal. My own busted food schedule aside, I figure it would probably help the rest of my body organize itself if I did adhere more closely to a strict three ring circus of various food stuffs and the thought of organizing that part of myself lead me to lean toward thinking that further organization would probably bleed from that, through my mouth and then back out of my mouth again into positive work gains. Too technical. Losing interest. Start over.
What struck me was (without all the junk that lead up to it) that the spacing of meals is pretty much universally accepted. You eat when you wake up because you haven't eaten while you were sleeping. You eat around the middle of your day because you've been doing stuff and were probably too busy to cut something up, jam a stick from it's gullet to it's anus and throw it over a spit, or gather something, or you haven't eaten since you got up because it's taken you all day to find and kill enough somethings to skewer, fill a basket (and your tummy), or snag in a net of some sort. Then you eat again before you go to sleep because after you ate earlier you had to do other things that made you tired and things that make you tired also tend to make you hungry and you don't want to be kept awake by the sound of your stomach digesting itself.
So by and large everybody eats a few times a day because when you're not an animal with a stomach that can digest anything (fresh, rotten, bones, pure cellulose, tree bark, whatever) it takes energy to pick and choose and being able to pick and choose and possessing delicate (by comparison) faculties also means you have to spend the time and energy to do so and protect your fragile microcosm. It's easy to understand.
In rushing to make lunch I realized that it doesn't matter what you call it or why. Your body knows what's up. You can cram food into your face at 7 P.M. if you want, but your body knows that what it's eating should actually be dinner and will be processed as such. Your mind can convince you that you should eat again before you go to bed, but depending on what you ate you probably shouldn't and your body knows that. You can make breakfast at dinner time, but it's still, in principle, dinner, no matter what you want to call it. Granted it is all bound by your sleep cycle, so if you sleep for ten hours whatever you eat in the three equidistant spaces of the next fourteen hours will be breakfast lunch and dinner. And that's important. So I guess it wasn't as horribly irrational as I originally thought. If I missed the lunch window I would be feeding myself an extremely early dinner and would run the risk of having to eat again before bed and wake up not hungry enough to eat breakfast and basically start on the slippery slope of a digestive apocalypse. Gastrocalypse, I call it.
Then I started thinking about how simple it is to understand something as universal as why and when people eat and it really got my goat that people can understand the need to put food in their mouths, but they can't understand something else as equally simple and universal as basic human rights. Or maybe human rights are not as simple as eating. Oh wait they are. If you deprive someone of food, you should be able to understand what that deprivation does to you and by extension what it likely does to another object of similar mechanical and chemical make up and necessities even if you don't count that object as a person. I mean if kicking a dog with the wrong part of your foot hurts your foot a little, you should be able to assume that a dog, made out of similar material as you, probably felt it too. Not that I would ever kick a dog. I love dogs. Slightly more than people sometimes.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, it's baffling the body of things that are universally understood and the body of things that are still, however many generations and iterations of human beings later, up for debate and challenged and I don't think that my own work will help to make those things that should be universally understood about the collective human organism and illustrated and painted and constructed about it will help to further clarify or cement those universals. My body of work to date is teeny tiny, though larger than it's ever been, and if I want to help (and I do, just a little) I have to not die yet. I'm in the first few thousand hours of work toward mastery well enough to make clear every attempt at expression and the induction of clarity and there's still work to be done if people are going to eat three meals a day with any kind of universality.
Slightly selfishly, if I were to die, I feel like I would be ashamed of my body of work. I feel today like I've only begun to fill a thimble and I need several buckets if I'm ever going to put out the fire inside me, let alone across the borders and city limits of my body's ends.
///Susumu Hirasawa - "Condition Boy" ...delusions of an alternate and terribly grand universe are
Beginning, I thought that I had to figure out why making lunch before six was such a big deal. My own busted food schedule aside, I figure it would probably help the rest of my body organize itself if I did adhere more closely to a strict three ring circus of various food stuffs and the thought of organizing that part of myself lead me to lean toward thinking that further organization would probably bleed from that, through my mouth and then back out of my mouth again into positive work gains. Too technical. Losing interest. Start over.
What struck me was (without all the junk that lead up to it) that the spacing of meals is pretty much universally accepted. You eat when you wake up because you haven't eaten while you were sleeping. You eat around the middle of your day because you've been doing stuff and were probably too busy to cut something up, jam a stick from it's gullet to it's anus and throw it over a spit, or gather something, or you haven't eaten since you got up because it's taken you all day to find and kill enough somethings to skewer, fill a basket (and your tummy), or snag in a net of some sort. Then you eat again before you go to sleep because after you ate earlier you had to do other things that made you tired and things that make you tired also tend to make you hungry and you don't want to be kept awake by the sound of your stomach digesting itself.
So by and large everybody eats a few times a day because when you're not an animal with a stomach that can digest anything (fresh, rotten, bones, pure cellulose, tree bark, whatever) it takes energy to pick and choose and being able to pick and choose and possessing delicate (by comparison) faculties also means you have to spend the time and energy to do so and protect your fragile microcosm. It's easy to understand.
In rushing to make lunch I realized that it doesn't matter what you call it or why. Your body knows what's up. You can cram food into your face at 7 P.M. if you want, but your body knows that what it's eating should actually be dinner and will be processed as such. Your mind can convince you that you should eat again before you go to bed, but depending on what you ate you probably shouldn't and your body knows that. You can make breakfast at dinner time, but it's still, in principle, dinner, no matter what you want to call it. Granted it is all bound by your sleep cycle, so if you sleep for ten hours whatever you eat in the three equidistant spaces of the next fourteen hours will be breakfast lunch and dinner. And that's important. So I guess it wasn't as horribly irrational as I originally thought. If I missed the lunch window I would be feeding myself an extremely early dinner and would run the risk of having to eat again before bed and wake up not hungry enough to eat breakfast and basically start on the slippery slope of a digestive apocalypse. Gastrocalypse, I call it.
Then I started thinking about how simple it is to understand something as universal as why and when people eat and it really got my goat that people can understand the need to put food in their mouths, but they can't understand something else as equally simple and universal as basic human rights. Or maybe human rights are not as simple as eating. Oh wait they are. If you deprive someone of food, you should be able to understand what that deprivation does to you and by extension what it likely does to another object of similar mechanical and chemical make up and necessities even if you don't count that object as a person. I mean if kicking a dog with the wrong part of your foot hurts your foot a little, you should be able to assume that a dog, made out of similar material as you, probably felt it too. Not that I would ever kick a dog. I love dogs. Slightly more than people sometimes.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, it's baffling the body of things that are universally understood and the body of things that are still, however many generations and iterations of human beings later, up for debate and challenged and I don't think that my own work will help to make those things that should be universally understood about the collective human organism and illustrated and painted and constructed about it will help to further clarify or cement those universals. My body of work to date is teeny tiny, though larger than it's ever been, and if I want to help (and I do, just a little) I have to not die yet. I'm in the first few thousand hours of work toward mastery well enough to make clear every attempt at expression and the induction of clarity and there's still work to be done if people are going to eat three meals a day with any kind of universality.
Slightly selfishly, if I were to die, I feel like I would be ashamed of my body of work. I feel today like I've only begun to fill a thimble and I need several buckets if I'm ever going to put out the fire inside me, let alone across the borders and city limits of my body's ends.
///Susumu Hirasawa - "Condition Boy" ...delusions of an alternate and terribly grand universe are
5/5/11
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