You realize you are pushing your cycles and cams and pistons and engraved toothsets of finished brass over to force change so the person who loves you can see your moss and lichened belly clearly.
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 answers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label answers. Show all posts
7/12/19
8/17/17
Funny Feedback Loops
To a point, there is a difficult loop of loops powering each other. A tipping point is approaching where we're going to have to make major decisions that I keep kicking down the road. I am completely torn between whether to go the prescribed medication route or not. There isn't a right answer. Most roads seem to lead to an early death and its kind of funny.
You pop the medication and wait for weeks to see if anything is going to happen. If nothing happens then you take some more. I guess "pop" is much too flippant. You rearrange all of your life routines to take the prescribed medications and present as stable as possible a body environment to present affects. If, with your new forced sleep patterns and dietary intake, there is no effect then you go back to consult and raise the dosage and wait a few more weeks and on and on until it clicks. Or never completely does. All the while, physical affects may manifest. Weight gains, weight losses, tics, shakes, nausea, fatigue, it varies from prescription to prescription. If it doesn't quite click, a new prescription is introduced to help. You may be weaned off of what you are already taking, you may not. Weeks upon weeks, months, of consultations and examinations and examinations and consultations and dealing with and juggling body changes and it may click. The changes may stick. And that is your new life. X pill at this hour, every single day, without fail, until you stop breathing, because your head will shatter if you stop taking it. In the mean time, enjoy the side effects, which will probably contain an assortment of shadows and echos in the corners of your consciousness that will follow you to your death.
Obviously, not a great answer. If you can't cope with the body changes, you're not going to be able to keep up with any sort of regimen. You're going to take the prescriptions inconsistently and exacerbate the already difficult process of ascertaining what, if any, affects are becoming present in your psychological make up from week to week. If you do manage to make it a few months and falter later down the road and start to slip into an inconsistent pattern of medicating you may be torn apart by the reawakening of whatever it was you are trying to lock away, squash, and overcome. If you do stick with the regimen, that pill is a constant reminder of the incomplete you. The you that is only "complete" if you swallow this spot. And if you can get past all of that and wear and break yourself into this life permanently linked to this pill and make your examinations and deal with the side effects that can be life threatening on their own, you still can and likely will experience periods where it doesn't work anyway.
Sooo we come to drinking. Alcohol. Good old alcohol. I already drink some on and off to manage pain. Between psychological scars and body scars, it kind of gets the job done. It gets the job done well enough, I should say. You don't focus on history and you don't feel the sharpest highs of the pain inside your body and it's easy enough to turn the dial up or down as necessary. If what you are suffering mentally has stabilized itself momentarily or at least is not on an offensive within your being and your mind you can simply not drink until you reach a point where it begins to slip beyond that edge of your ability to cope and manage. Of course, you do become more and more accustomed as your tolerance steadily and inevitably climbs. It takes more and more alcohol to achieve the same affects. It takes more and more alcohol to blunt the storms and voices inside your head and still more to numb the body and still more to blunt the cuts of history. The side effects, by themselves are all horrible. Shakes, shortened tempers, hangovers, appetite problems, light sensitivity, insomnia, deep depressions and apathy, fatigue, wanting to smoke cigarettes constantly, hot flashes, low and acute withdrawals depending on how much you had to do to get to a place where you could finally sleep.
The good news is, on the days and weeks when you don't need to turn the dial at all, nothing horrible happens beyond 24-72 hours of physical withdrawal. The very bad news is the damage is done. Your liver is hardening drink by drink and will eventually fail, your brain is losing its functions even as the psychological scars are faded and erased. If you weren't careful you've probably injured or bruised yourself in some way you didn't notice from the overall body numb and even if you were careful you've probably bruised or injured yourself in some way from the body numb and coordination problems that come with consuming alcohol. The depression will linger well beyond physical withdrawal even if everything else inside your head is muted and been flattened backward so you can finally hear yourself think again and you may wind up drinking just to escape that lingering depression. The packs of smokes you breathed are a part of your lungs forever. You are extending the depth of the foundation of your bodies alcohol dependence in small ways in that it will take at least the last peak dosage to get the effects you need to feel normal the next time your mind begins to crumble and pull itself apart. And, oh yeah, you can overdose and die.
I'm not going to bother with a faith/religion approach. For reasons I've laid out through the years, faith and religion is an enormous vacuum to. As a way to see, cope with, reckon with, understand the world and understand people and oneself, I get its value to some. I'm an atheist. Moving on.
Taking the problem head on, no chemical enhancements with alcohol or pills, is a terrifying proposition, but it could work. I can often easily go one to two weeks without a drink if my spine feels okay and I'm able to get out and play. I don't take prescriptions. Head on, however, there is no where to run and nowhere to hide when your head starts to come apart. The best you can do is try to distract yourself and try to surround yourself with as many safe spaces to sit and do nothing as possible if you can't get outside. You have to be able to position yourself within the larger fabric of life in a way that will insulate you and that presents major problems in itself in that life tends to be pretty damn inflexible. You also have to understand that you cannot control when you will experience a major break and that unpredictability will also cause direct conflict with your ability to plan anything and everything from a phone call to making yourself lunch to being at work; with that in mind, understand that you will not know when the most violent spells will end either.
The great news is there are no prescription side effects or organ destroying alcohol dependencies to fret over that will end your life early. The bad news is there is nothing between you and the teeth of the beast inside your head either. If and when there is a major break down you may end up hurting yourself or someone else far worse than the damage being done by either of the other methods. If you can't find the right person or persons to speak to in order to ground yourself or at least get you outside of yourself, you may self destruct completely and become a suicide statistic. You may lose significant friendships and jobs and intimate relationships because coping may mean that you have to spend days or weeks at a clip alone or heavily insulated and metered to bear with the voices and hallucinations inside you and the swells and shadows of visions. All of the while you will be acutely aware of these collapses and broken connections and psychological scarring, perceived (real or not) judgments and stigma, and that the expectation from the outside in is that you see a professional and "get help" for being yourself. Which kind of strikes the ear a bit strange, no? In your necessary isolated states, in attempts to avoid self destruction and free yourself from the knowledge of the poorer life outcomes, you may resort to far more dangerous chemicals than any mentioned above and/or episodes of extreme alcohol use which will likely also lead to your premature expiry too.
Here's the plan: there isn't one. Here's the funny part: you're not crazy; you are going to die early, it's really only a matter of how. You can take the pills and the side effects until you can't take them anymore or slip up and miss enough of the regimen to come apart at the seams or quit altogether and default to something else that will kill you early. You can incrementally (or quickly) drink yourself to death in an effort to manage and reign in the worst of your symptoms, essentially trading one pretty awful thing for the other. Lastly you can try to live with your symptoms as much as possible and fit in to life where you can until you or life decides you simply cannot. I'm somewhere between option three and option two. The funny thing is cannabis seems to help the most, it's just hard to keep it stocked. I'm working on it. I guess that's the fourth option. I guess there is a fourth option.
After all of this time, I'm still not ready to completely screw with my brain chemistry the way prescriptions will again. Not yet anyway. Not yet. We're not misguided enough to believe that we're fine, no matter how "normal" we feel, but if we can stay between the lines of certain death from liver failure and attendant complications, side effects, and risks in option two and certain death from succumbing to suicidal thoughts, frustrations, and life complications in option three until we can truly try out the full spectrum of what option four has to offer, we may be able to avoid option one altogether.
///Gorillaz - "O Green World"
You pop the medication and wait for weeks to see if anything is going to happen. If nothing happens then you take some more. I guess "pop" is much too flippant. You rearrange all of your life routines to take the prescribed medications and present as stable as possible a body environment to present affects. If, with your new forced sleep patterns and dietary intake, there is no effect then you go back to consult and raise the dosage and wait a few more weeks and on and on until it clicks. Or never completely does. All the while, physical affects may manifest. Weight gains, weight losses, tics, shakes, nausea, fatigue, it varies from prescription to prescription. If it doesn't quite click, a new prescription is introduced to help. You may be weaned off of what you are already taking, you may not. Weeks upon weeks, months, of consultations and examinations and examinations and consultations and dealing with and juggling body changes and it may click. The changes may stick. And that is your new life. X pill at this hour, every single day, without fail, until you stop breathing, because your head will shatter if you stop taking it. In the mean time, enjoy the side effects, which will probably contain an assortment of shadows and echos in the corners of your consciousness that will follow you to your death.
Obviously, not a great answer. If you can't cope with the body changes, you're not going to be able to keep up with any sort of regimen. You're going to take the prescriptions inconsistently and exacerbate the already difficult process of ascertaining what, if any, affects are becoming present in your psychological make up from week to week. If you do manage to make it a few months and falter later down the road and start to slip into an inconsistent pattern of medicating you may be torn apart by the reawakening of whatever it was you are trying to lock away, squash, and overcome. If you do stick with the regimen, that pill is a constant reminder of the incomplete you. The you that is only "complete" if you swallow this spot. And if you can get past all of that and wear and break yourself into this life permanently linked to this pill and make your examinations and deal with the side effects that can be life threatening on their own, you still can and likely will experience periods where it doesn't work anyway.
Sooo we come to drinking. Alcohol. Good old alcohol. I already drink some on and off to manage pain. Between psychological scars and body scars, it kind of gets the job done. It gets the job done well enough, I should say. You don't focus on history and you don't feel the sharpest highs of the pain inside your body and it's easy enough to turn the dial up or down as necessary. If what you are suffering mentally has stabilized itself momentarily or at least is not on an offensive within your being and your mind you can simply not drink until you reach a point where it begins to slip beyond that edge of your ability to cope and manage. Of course, you do become more and more accustomed as your tolerance steadily and inevitably climbs. It takes more and more alcohol to achieve the same affects. It takes more and more alcohol to blunt the storms and voices inside your head and still more to numb the body and still more to blunt the cuts of history. The side effects, by themselves are all horrible. Shakes, shortened tempers, hangovers, appetite problems, light sensitivity, insomnia, deep depressions and apathy, fatigue, wanting to smoke cigarettes constantly, hot flashes, low and acute withdrawals depending on how much you had to do to get to a place where you could finally sleep.
The good news is, on the days and weeks when you don't need to turn the dial at all, nothing horrible happens beyond 24-72 hours of physical withdrawal. The very bad news is the damage is done. Your liver is hardening drink by drink and will eventually fail, your brain is losing its functions even as the psychological scars are faded and erased. If you weren't careful you've probably injured or bruised yourself in some way you didn't notice from the overall body numb and even if you were careful you've probably bruised or injured yourself in some way from the body numb and coordination problems that come with consuming alcohol. The depression will linger well beyond physical withdrawal even if everything else inside your head is muted and been flattened backward so you can finally hear yourself think again and you may wind up drinking just to escape that lingering depression. The packs of smokes you breathed are a part of your lungs forever. You are extending the depth of the foundation of your bodies alcohol dependence in small ways in that it will take at least the last peak dosage to get the effects you need to feel normal the next time your mind begins to crumble and pull itself apart. And, oh yeah, you can overdose and die.
I'm not going to bother with a faith/religion approach. For reasons I've laid out through the years, faith and religion is an enormous vacuum to. As a way to see, cope with, reckon with, understand the world and understand people and oneself, I get its value to some. I'm an atheist. Moving on.
Taking the problem head on, no chemical enhancements with alcohol or pills, is a terrifying proposition, but it could work. I can often easily go one to two weeks without a drink if my spine feels okay and I'm able to get out and play. I don't take prescriptions. Head on, however, there is no where to run and nowhere to hide when your head starts to come apart. The best you can do is try to distract yourself and try to surround yourself with as many safe spaces to sit and do nothing as possible if you can't get outside. You have to be able to position yourself within the larger fabric of life in a way that will insulate you and that presents major problems in itself in that life tends to be pretty damn inflexible. You also have to understand that you cannot control when you will experience a major break and that unpredictability will also cause direct conflict with your ability to plan anything and everything from a phone call to making yourself lunch to being at work; with that in mind, understand that you will not know when the most violent spells will end either.
The great news is there are no prescription side effects or organ destroying alcohol dependencies to fret over that will end your life early. The bad news is there is nothing between you and the teeth of the beast inside your head either. If and when there is a major break down you may end up hurting yourself or someone else far worse than the damage being done by either of the other methods. If you can't find the right person or persons to speak to in order to ground yourself or at least get you outside of yourself, you may self destruct completely and become a suicide statistic. You may lose significant friendships and jobs and intimate relationships because coping may mean that you have to spend days or weeks at a clip alone or heavily insulated and metered to bear with the voices and hallucinations inside you and the swells and shadows of visions. All of the while you will be acutely aware of these collapses and broken connections and psychological scarring, perceived (real or not) judgments and stigma, and that the expectation from the outside in is that you see a professional and "get help" for being yourself. Which kind of strikes the ear a bit strange, no? In your necessary isolated states, in attempts to avoid self destruction and free yourself from the knowledge of the poorer life outcomes, you may resort to far more dangerous chemicals than any mentioned above and/or episodes of extreme alcohol use which will likely also lead to your premature expiry too.
Here's the plan: there isn't one. Here's the funny part: you're not crazy; you are going to die early, it's really only a matter of how. You can take the pills and the side effects until you can't take them anymore or slip up and miss enough of the regimen to come apart at the seams or quit altogether and default to something else that will kill you early. You can incrementally (or quickly) drink yourself to death in an effort to manage and reign in the worst of your symptoms, essentially trading one pretty awful thing for the other. Lastly you can try to live with your symptoms as much as possible and fit in to life where you can until you or life decides you simply cannot. I'm somewhere between option three and option two. The funny thing is cannabis seems to help the most, it's just hard to keep it stocked. I'm working on it. I guess that's the fourth option. I guess there is a fourth option.
After all of this time, I'm still not ready to completely screw with my brain chemistry the way prescriptions will again. Not yet anyway. Not yet. We're not misguided enough to believe that we're fine, no matter how "normal" we feel, but if we can stay between the lines of certain death from liver failure and attendant complications, side effects, and risks in option two and certain death from succumbing to suicidal thoughts, frustrations, and life complications in option three until we can truly try out the full spectrum of what option four has to offer, we may be able to avoid option one altogether.
///Gorillaz - "O Green World"
2/26/17
Little Ripples
There are many measures and routines to help ensure our stability and further existence in schizophrenia's shadow. Not a single one is bulletproof or sure-fire. They're more like an array of alarms. A network of self-imposed checks that serve to help me protect myself from myself and help me maintain an awareness of what is happening inside as well as help me perceive how or why I am interacting with people on the outside. It sounds elaborate. It is. It works sometimes. Maybe 50% of the time. That's too low, maybe 65% of the time. I believe. I would like to think.
The auditory hallucinations are always there. Sometimes the best way to handle it is to drown it out or try to blanket it in constant music or reruns of radio talk shows or television shows that I've heard dozens, in some cases, hundreds of times so that it forms a background tapestry to latch myself to. Sometimes the way we handle it is by drinking... a lot. If you hammer your brain into unconsciousness, you can't hear anything at all and what's more is that you can skip entire days sleeping while your body tries to recover itself. Those auditory glitches cannot hurt you and you don't have to engage with them for 7 days out of the week. Through the gift of alcohol, your week becomes 4 days long instead of 7. That's not the best way to deal with it. That is a way to escape it. Sometimes the best way to deal with it is to try to engage them outside of yourself. Try to write to them or draw to them or just talk to them through your mouth if possible. That never works. Nothing ever works. Don't kid yourself.
It does help us to feel secure for a while. The acts help us feel grounded to something and allow us to move through the world and focus on tasks, conversations, and people in front of us. It isn't always paralyzing, but it grows all its own. Sometimes it's fun to think I can control it. Will power. Discipline. Routine. Everything where it belongs. Simplicity. All of these things. Then I'm in a line at a grocery store asking the man behind me "did you say something" four times before it hits me walking to my car that he's the fifth person I've questioned that day and things are slipping from bad to worse and my little network of alarms is not helping. Sitting up in bed, watching shows I've seen thirteen times, and getting up for an eighth time to check that I'm alone because someone else is in here and I heard them say my name twice and I know it's not the neighbor downstairs because she goes to bed at 8:45 every night. Someone keeps turning the doorknob to the pantry and I heard them stub their toe and curse. Jesus, they are inside. We have to go. Now!
Walk out underneath the street lights and it's 11:30ish. Headphones turned up as loud as they will go. Walk around the block. We try to memorize every detail and compare it to what was there before we started walking. We compare it to what was there after our evening lap. We try to see if we are seeing things again and a shadow grunts "pssst, hey" so we decide to walk to the next town over and avoid the bridge because they will be waiting there to howl through our insides and if I could get to the park and lie down in the field for an hour or two to catch my breath the world might stop spinning for a moment.
I feel depression creeping in again. A very light pressure behind my ears and chest. A dull railroad spike through the near corner of my eye straight through the back of my head that will start to crystallize and splinter outward like a molten iron snowflake. I start to question again. Who wants to deal with this? How could we have been so blind and over confident to believe love can iron out differences whose gulf spans literally every aspect of your lives? You broke, dumb, idealistic, garbage, man-child. What is that? Who's there? Lying awake in bed until the sun comes up wondering if he is going to come for you tonight. Sitting on the cool bathroom floor telling yourself "never again, never again, never again." You didn't really believe someone would choose this warped, scarred, perverse thing over a human. Did you? How sweet. That is just adorable.
I still receive letters from time to time from the people that were my parents. Some expressing concern and well wishes. Some acknowledging holidays and other spiritual flotsam and sentiment. I feel my fist close and my fingernails dig into my palm. How dare they. How dare they. How dare they! Still, not one acknowledgement of responsibility. Not one acknowledgement that part of why I am here now, fighting every day to navigate through and undo the damages where I can, is because of their compounding actions for decades . Not one hint. Swipe at my twitching cheek that is curled into a stone snarl and spit out another piece of chipped tooth. I have to stop doing that. We only get one set of teeth. We probably won't get to drink their blood any time soon. That's a shame.
How can you love someone else, when you cannot love yourself? I do love myself. I love other people too. The simple fact is we're broken. Period. Not fixable. You can try all of the little things you like to lure someone else close: more money, a little land, cars and furniture, clothes and shoes, it is not going to change the base state of how you function. What's more, and pretty funny, is that the base state of how you function also governs all of those things too. You'll end up asleep in a bathtub chasing those things, we all know this first hand. I haven't the stomach for it or the mental health and make up. It won't take long to stop seeking meaningful intimacy with others. I'm already just about there. Roiling hatred transposes to the grainy, rattling, vision of rage. Kill them all. I have nothing to offer you and rare in this world is the human who truly needs nothing. I am close. I will find someone in kind. Or I will stumble upon them in the dark. Either way, I am not built for this world.
The hallucinations are growing in volume. It is best to be alone when it starts to happen. It's a lot easier to differentiate and stream thoughts apart from them when there isn't someone else around requiring attention and head cycles. The frustration and irritation and embarrassment is greatly reduced and sometimes it helps to deal with and engage it when I can strictly control what I am sensing. To a point. There is a point where it doesn't matter what we do to insulate and protect ourselves because the assault is coming from the inside of our body and eventually there is no where to hide and nowhere to run and I try my best not to claw my skull apart. I try my best not to scream.
Moving through the day and the little ripples tickling the hairs on my fingers and shins, I pause and whisper "not again." That was not my name. That was not my name. That was not my name.
///Muriel Zoe - "Bye Bye Blackbird"
The auditory hallucinations are always there. Sometimes the best way to handle it is to drown it out or try to blanket it in constant music or reruns of radio talk shows or television shows that I've heard dozens, in some cases, hundreds of times so that it forms a background tapestry to latch myself to. Sometimes the way we handle it is by drinking... a lot. If you hammer your brain into unconsciousness, you can't hear anything at all and what's more is that you can skip entire days sleeping while your body tries to recover itself. Those auditory glitches cannot hurt you and you don't have to engage with them for 7 days out of the week. Through the gift of alcohol, your week becomes 4 days long instead of 7. That's not the best way to deal with it. That is a way to escape it. Sometimes the best way to deal with it is to try to engage them outside of yourself. Try to write to them or draw to them or just talk to them through your mouth if possible. That never works. Nothing ever works. Don't kid yourself.
It does help us to feel secure for a while. The acts help us feel grounded to something and allow us to move through the world and focus on tasks, conversations, and people in front of us. It isn't always paralyzing, but it grows all its own. Sometimes it's fun to think I can control it. Will power. Discipline. Routine. Everything where it belongs. Simplicity. All of these things. Then I'm in a line at a grocery store asking the man behind me "did you say something" four times before it hits me walking to my car that he's the fifth person I've questioned that day and things are slipping from bad to worse and my little network of alarms is not helping. Sitting up in bed, watching shows I've seen thirteen times, and getting up for an eighth time to check that I'm alone because someone else is in here and I heard them say my name twice and I know it's not the neighbor downstairs because she goes to bed at 8:45 every night. Someone keeps turning the doorknob to the pantry and I heard them stub their toe and curse. Jesus, they are inside. We have to go. Now!
Walk out underneath the street lights and it's 11:30ish. Headphones turned up as loud as they will go. Walk around the block. We try to memorize every detail and compare it to what was there before we started walking. We compare it to what was there after our evening lap. We try to see if we are seeing things again and a shadow grunts "pssst, hey" so we decide to walk to the next town over and avoid the bridge because they will be waiting there to howl through our insides and if I could get to the park and lie down in the field for an hour or two to catch my breath the world might stop spinning for a moment.
I feel depression creeping in again. A very light pressure behind my ears and chest. A dull railroad spike through the near corner of my eye straight through the back of my head that will start to crystallize and splinter outward like a molten iron snowflake. I start to question again. Who wants to deal with this? How could we have been so blind and over confident to believe love can iron out differences whose gulf spans literally every aspect of your lives? You broke, dumb, idealistic, garbage, man-child. What is that? Who's there? Lying awake in bed until the sun comes up wondering if he is going to come for you tonight. Sitting on the cool bathroom floor telling yourself "never again, never again, never again." You didn't really believe someone would choose this warped, scarred, perverse thing over a human. Did you? How sweet. That is just adorable.
I still receive letters from time to time from the people that were my parents. Some expressing concern and well wishes. Some acknowledging holidays and other spiritual flotsam and sentiment. I feel my fist close and my fingernails dig into my palm. How dare they. How dare they. How dare they! Still, not one acknowledgement of responsibility. Not one acknowledgement that part of why I am here now, fighting every day to navigate through and undo the damages where I can, is because of their compounding actions for decades . Not one hint. Swipe at my twitching cheek that is curled into a stone snarl and spit out another piece of chipped tooth. I have to stop doing that. We only get one set of teeth. We probably won't get to drink their blood any time soon. That's a shame.
How can you love someone else, when you cannot love yourself? I do love myself. I love other people too. The simple fact is we're broken. Period. Not fixable. You can try all of the little things you like to lure someone else close: more money, a little land, cars and furniture, clothes and shoes, it is not going to change the base state of how you function. What's more, and pretty funny, is that the base state of how you function also governs all of those things too. You'll end up asleep in a bathtub chasing those things, we all know this first hand. I haven't the stomach for it or the mental health and make up. It won't take long to stop seeking meaningful intimacy with others. I'm already just about there. Roiling hatred transposes to the grainy, rattling, vision of rage. Kill them all. I have nothing to offer you and rare in this world is the human who truly needs nothing. I am close. I will find someone in kind. Or I will stumble upon them in the dark. Either way, I am not built for this world.
The hallucinations are growing in volume. It is best to be alone when it starts to happen. It's a lot easier to differentiate and stream thoughts apart from them when there isn't someone else around requiring attention and head cycles. The frustration and irritation and embarrassment is greatly reduced and sometimes it helps to deal with and engage it when I can strictly control what I am sensing. To a point. There is a point where it doesn't matter what we do to insulate and protect ourselves because the assault is coming from the inside of our body and eventually there is no where to hide and nowhere to run and I try my best not to claw my skull apart. I try my best not to scream.
Moving through the day and the little ripples tickling the hairs on my fingers and shins, I pause and whisper "not again." That was not my name. That was not my name. That was not my name.
///Muriel Zoe - "Bye Bye Blackbird"
11/9/16
How To Fast Forward the Next 8 Years
It's quite simple. The world is not going to end because Donald Trump was elected. The offices will struggle to accomplish anything because the policies don't work, don't exist, or both. They'll distract the American public for four years with scary this and that. Throw in a war on something at home and more involvement in a war somewhere else. Start the next election cycle highlighting how everything that went wrong was because everyone else screwed it up and the country wasn't ready for real change yet and it would take at least four years to undo nonexistent office corruption and then you have Donald Trump re-elected and nothing gets done again on a platform of "every magical thing that can't be done or makes no sense, but makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside, will get done this time". Some people get a lot richer. Most people don't. Tons of imaginary money changes bank accounts, a bunch of people get sick, some businesses collapse, the environment takes a hit, international relations trip over themselves, segregation gets worse, and then a Democrat is elected again when a few more people jump over to the other side of the aisle because they don't want to be associated with the consequences any more and they're tired of trying to explain how their ideas worked, but didn't, but obviously absolutely did, but actually data can be manipulated to say anything of course, so... you know... allow my colleague to explain.
No need to leave the country. Just yawn and go back to sleep and wake up 8 years from now. Things will be worse. Trying to change them will be impossible until the people holding the levers have to step away and everyone has a fresh, 8 years long, understanding of what is and is not to be feared and challenged instead of what they've been distracted or tricked or worn down into believing. Yep, 8 years sounds about right for the messaging and programming to finally fade. Just try to live the best life you can in the meantime and do what you can to keep your life and loved ones from collapsing under the weight of lunacy and if we're all lucky 4 years will be all it takes for folks to snap out of the flash & magic show.
Then with that Democrat, everyone on the other side will start clamoring "what about us" even though their lives under so and so Republican, locally or nationally, didn't get much better because it literally can't get much better without extracting freedoms from other people (liberties and justices have to come from somewhere eventually), but they'll see other lives improving because there is literally that much space for improvement without taking away anything from anyone else. "Injustice, inequality, we deserve better too" the other side will say and the flash and magic show parade will come crawling over the horizon with their flags and music and swaying tents like a fantastical parade from outer space and it'll start over again and the only thing you can do is hope enough was done before it arrives that much of the work will still be standing when it finally dissipates.
///Paranoia Agent - (Ending Credits) oh, calliope
No need to leave the country. Just yawn and go back to sleep and wake up 8 years from now. Things will be worse. Trying to change them will be impossible until the people holding the levers have to step away and everyone has a fresh, 8 years long, understanding of what is and is not to be feared and challenged instead of what they've been distracted or tricked or worn down into believing. Yep, 8 years sounds about right for the messaging and programming to finally fade. Just try to live the best life you can in the meantime and do what you can to keep your life and loved ones from collapsing under the weight of lunacy and if we're all lucky 4 years will be all it takes for folks to snap out of the flash & magic show.
Then with that Democrat, everyone on the other side will start clamoring "what about us" even though their lives under so and so Republican, locally or nationally, didn't get much better because it literally can't get much better without extracting freedoms from other people (liberties and justices have to come from somewhere eventually), but they'll see other lives improving because there is literally that much space for improvement without taking away anything from anyone else. "Injustice, inequality, we deserve better too" the other side will say and the flash and magic show parade will come crawling over the horizon with their flags and music and swaying tents like a fantastical parade from outer space and it'll start over again and the only thing you can do is hope enough was done before it arrives that much of the work will still be standing when it finally dissipates.
///Paranoia Agent - (Ending Credits) oh, calliope
3/30/16
Commercial Pitch A43-1 "Great Day"
Has your day gone incredibly well? Have you set out successfully, avoided traffic, made it home in reasonable time and been fairly productive while at your work site? Do you feel fairly confident in your abilities to produce results that justify your employment and pay and are you satisfied with what you have accomplished and ready to relax the night away? Well, have we got the product for you!
From the makers of "It turned out my car keys fell under the car and were not locked inside", "I locked my front door after all", and "The stove was not on while I was away," comes the absolutely ground breaking "Today went so well I can't wait to relax!"
With each order of Tow Sow Lax you will receive a full sleeve of 25 medical grade razor blades and an easy change safety handle. That's twenty five blades that a surgeon would be exceptionally impressed with. These blades are so sharp they can cut through balsa wood simply by dropping them edge on. Along with the 25 blades you will also receive one magnifying monocle with comfort grip foam eyepiece so that you never have to worry about it slipping away from your furrowed brow. Also included is one 1000 lumens, rechargeable head lamp. That's right, 1000 lumens that will follow your gaze wherever you direct it that will easily charge in hours from any USB port to full strength within hours! Any USB port! That means your wall charger for your phone, your computer, your monitor, your laptop, anything that has a compatible standard sized USB receptacle.
With all of that you don't need to ask what's more! We'll tell you! Included with your sleeve of 25 medical grade razor blades, easy change safety handle, comfort grip magnifying monocle, and 1000 lumens quick charge head lamp, comes a full assortment self adhesive, self sanitizing bandages in 8 different colors to fit whatever your style or mood may be. Not only are they self adhering and sanitizing, but they are also water resistant and breathable! With all of this included we will throw in with every order our patented easy open jar of foot glass. With two different sizes of dispensing holes you can sprinkle along your walk paths in your apartments whatever sized shards of glass you want!
When you come home and feel absolutely stricken with a sense of general well being and feel like today went so well that you can't wait to relax, Tow Sow Lax is there for you. Sprinkle a little in the kitchen before leaving for work, sprinkle a little near your bed when you wake up, pour a bunch into the carpet on the stairs to your laundry room, apply some to your slippers or your bath mat. Come home after work, kick off your shoes, and let that good feeling melt away in eye watering stabs of agony and disgust. And for a few cents more on the dollar we will throw in our extra Tow Sow Lax for tires and sneakers. Don't have time to take off your shoes or slippers? Going for a bike ride right after work instead of into your home? Tow Sow Lax XL will have you sitting for hours going blind from brilliant light trying to find that tiny glimmer of glass between swiping blood from between your toes only to find you cannot see a damn thing once again and have in fact forced it deeper into your flesh.
Tow Sow Lax! Keep on digging (tweezers sold separately, shipping and handling extra, cash and checks are not accepted).
From the makers of "It turned out my car keys fell under the car and were not locked inside", "I locked my front door after all", and "The stove was not on while I was away," comes the absolutely ground breaking "Today went so well I can't wait to relax!"
With each order of Tow Sow Lax you will receive a full sleeve of 25 medical grade razor blades and an easy change safety handle. That's twenty five blades that a surgeon would be exceptionally impressed with. These blades are so sharp they can cut through balsa wood simply by dropping them edge on. Along with the 25 blades you will also receive one magnifying monocle with comfort grip foam eyepiece so that you never have to worry about it slipping away from your furrowed brow. Also included is one 1000 lumens, rechargeable head lamp. That's right, 1000 lumens that will follow your gaze wherever you direct it that will easily charge in hours from any USB port to full strength within hours! Any USB port! That means your wall charger for your phone, your computer, your monitor, your laptop, anything that has a compatible standard sized USB receptacle.
With all of that you don't need to ask what's more! We'll tell you! Included with your sleeve of 25 medical grade razor blades, easy change safety handle, comfort grip magnifying monocle, and 1000 lumens quick charge head lamp, comes a full assortment self adhesive, self sanitizing bandages in 8 different colors to fit whatever your style or mood may be. Not only are they self adhering and sanitizing, but they are also water resistant and breathable! With all of this included we will throw in with every order our patented easy open jar of foot glass. With two different sizes of dispensing holes you can sprinkle along your walk paths in your apartments whatever sized shards of glass you want!
When you come home and feel absolutely stricken with a sense of general well being and feel like today went so well that you can't wait to relax, Tow Sow Lax is there for you. Sprinkle a little in the kitchen before leaving for work, sprinkle a little near your bed when you wake up, pour a bunch into the carpet on the stairs to your laundry room, apply some to your slippers or your bath mat. Come home after work, kick off your shoes, and let that good feeling melt away in eye watering stabs of agony and disgust. And for a few cents more on the dollar we will throw in our extra Tow Sow Lax for tires and sneakers. Don't have time to take off your shoes or slippers? Going for a bike ride right after work instead of into your home? Tow Sow Lax XL will have you sitting for hours going blind from brilliant light trying to find that tiny glimmer of glass between swiping blood from between your toes only to find you cannot see a damn thing once again and have in fact forced it deeper into your flesh.
Tow Sow Lax! Keep on digging (tweezers sold separately, shipping and handling extra, cash and checks are not accepted).
11/6/15
At The River Near the Lowline and Clarity
Looking at my own reflection at the river, a wolf's head mask in the crook of my arm, I wonder how many there are like me. I wonder how many times I can roll the dice with instability before an immovable object meets an unstoppable force again. I try to skip rocks. I try to bat rocks with an aluminum bat given to me as a gift after I left the last one I had at home, bent into the shape of a boomerang. I wonder where I am going and if someone out there is going the same way I am. If we will carpool together and shout at each other, trying to figure out where exactly "there" is while the driver tries to figure how to get two wolves out of his car and regrets being a Samaritan.
Many of the rocks hit the tips of breakers and sink. One of us trots off to find a stick, because the only thing better than being good enough at whipping rocks across the waves, skip tip skip, is belting one clear across to the other shore with an eardrum pounding snapthud. The other of us continues to troll the river edge for something shaped more like an atmosphere slicing star ship. Found. Away it goes: skip kip tick tink tock thock plop splash! Mid-river. The current continues. I can't see my face, looking down. The angles aren't right. The light is not just so. The sun is not cooperating. Statistics tell me, with time, the chances only get better.
Thinking about how people find their perfect match. At least, their better half, I worry that my best half may be a copy of me. Should I meet myself, the fusion would be fantastic. Impossible. Incredible in its perfection and destruction. Volatile and serene and volatile and serene and so far off of the periodic table as to exist for fractions of fractions of fractions of seconds, recorded only by some sort of quantum, liquid gas cooled, calculating machine, monitoring a torus of plasma whose only hint that the collision was made successfully is a slight fluctuation in its surface hundreds of meters in circumference, yet to be invented before its shear density of particles blew apart and ceased to exist. Insofar as that, I am satisfied to be alone.
Happy and satisfied are two different things. The instant of happiness would be without measure, however, exceptionally brief. As much as I would like to, as much as I say it is the only match capable of closing my circuits, I know it is ... I want to say that I know it is not true. Doomed. I laugh typing that. The two "oh's" in the middle make me giggle. Dooooooomed! Of course not. Should you meet an element that can absorb nuclear decay and heat. I wonder what quantum decay looks like. I meet so many people with so many names and I know none of them. Some of them, yes. None of them, also yes. Always at distance. Minding the fence. Minding the facilities. On the off chance they might be me. On the larger chance I am still myself and they are not.
A moat. Sometimes the bridge is there. The gates open and ambassadors cross. I don't know what madness is. Is it sleeping to protect yourself from yourself? Is it sleeping to protect others from yourself? Is it believing the best thing you can do is offer shade inside a bunker, outfit with everything you can desire and hold dear, in the shadow of your fusion climbing toward the exosphere? Recite: I am here, this is what I wanted. I am here, this is what I wanted. I am here. This is what I wanted. Few things truly scare me, in life. I would like to never meet my, atom for atom, better half. Inside that reactor would lie our mutual, exceptionally violent, end.
///Groove Armada - "At The River" ~ tempo and brass and sand and waving, not drowning.
Many of the rocks hit the tips of breakers and sink. One of us trots off to find a stick, because the only thing better than being good enough at whipping rocks across the waves, skip tip skip, is belting one clear across to the other shore with an eardrum pounding snapthud. The other of us continues to troll the river edge for something shaped more like an atmosphere slicing star ship. Found. Away it goes: skip kip tick tink tock thock plop splash! Mid-river. The current continues. I can't see my face, looking down. The angles aren't right. The light is not just so. The sun is not cooperating. Statistics tell me, with time, the chances only get better.
Thinking about how people find their perfect match. At least, their better half, I worry that my best half may be a copy of me. Should I meet myself, the fusion would be fantastic. Impossible. Incredible in its perfection and destruction. Volatile and serene and volatile and serene and so far off of the periodic table as to exist for fractions of fractions of fractions of seconds, recorded only by some sort of quantum, liquid gas cooled, calculating machine, monitoring a torus of plasma whose only hint that the collision was made successfully is a slight fluctuation in its surface hundreds of meters in circumference, yet to be invented before its shear density of particles blew apart and ceased to exist. Insofar as that, I am satisfied to be alone.
Happy and satisfied are two different things. The instant of happiness would be without measure, however, exceptionally brief. As much as I would like to, as much as I say it is the only match capable of closing my circuits, I know it is ... I want to say that I know it is not true. Doomed. I laugh typing that. The two "oh's" in the middle make me giggle. Dooooooomed! Of course not. Should you meet an element that can absorb nuclear decay and heat. I wonder what quantum decay looks like. I meet so many people with so many names and I know none of them. Some of them, yes. None of them, also yes. Always at distance. Minding the fence. Minding the facilities. On the off chance they might be me. On the larger chance I am still myself and they are not.
A moat. Sometimes the bridge is there. The gates open and ambassadors cross. I don't know what madness is. Is it sleeping to protect yourself from yourself? Is it sleeping to protect others from yourself? Is it believing the best thing you can do is offer shade inside a bunker, outfit with everything you can desire and hold dear, in the shadow of your fusion climbing toward the exosphere? Recite: I am here, this is what I wanted. I am here, this is what I wanted. I am here. This is what I wanted. Few things truly scare me, in life. I would like to never meet my, atom for atom, better half. Inside that reactor would lie our mutual, exceptionally violent, end.
///Groove Armada - "At The River" ~ tempo and brass and sand and waving, not drowning.
1/1/15
Are You 8 Years Old?
Sometimes things happen in life and you continue to trip over them mentally. The constant tripping makes us more and more upset and before we know it we're pacing and running our fingers over our scalps and shaking our heads and then shaking our arms and hands at empty air.
What follows is one of those things. Do you hear yourself when you say to me it's my fault for saying "yes, help yourself" when you ask me if you can have a portion of something I have. Do you hear how ridiculous you sound? Are you fucking eight years old? You do understand taking almost all of the thing you asked if you could have a portion of is the same thing as stealing, correct? Do you believe that I am two years old? Do you snicker to yourself and say something in your inner monologue like "teehee, I'm going to take way more than I should, but he won't notice because I'll leave a little bit and even if he does notice he can't say anything because I didn't take everything, teehee."
Are you eight years old? You're older than I am. Do I actually have to walk you by the hand and take out exactly how much you are allowed to have and set it aside and then hide the rest of what I have just to be sure that if I leave the room more won't disappear into your pockets? I don't really consider having some consideration to be an adult attribute. It's a communal attribute that manifests at all ages. A hallmark of civilized community. A certain level of trust afforded to someone you consider to be a member of your community, much less a friend as well. Friendship should, if anything, heighten that attribute within yourself.
What the hell is wrong with you. Do you hear yourself? You have the nerve to say "you obviously don't want me in your home" after I tell you I can't have you over because you basically steal from me when what is clear is that you obviously don't consider being in my home or my friend to be a part of your community. Are you kidding me? Be playful, be imaginative, be a little immature and fresh from time to time, but do not fucking steal from me and expect me to nod along and say "aw shucks, you're right. I should've known if I was at all considerate toward you I would end up broke and hungry. I'll be on my toes next time, a-hyuck."
Be a better person. Have some consideration. Life's not free and friends don't fall from the sky everyday. You'll find yourself without community fairly swiftly. Don't be that shifty and somehow all too casual eight year old in the room always looking to see how far and for how much you can take people. Chances are very good you are known and it's only a matter of time.
What follows is one of those things. Do you hear yourself when you say to me it's my fault for saying "yes, help yourself" when you ask me if you can have a portion of something I have. Do you hear how ridiculous you sound? Are you fucking eight years old? You do understand taking almost all of the thing you asked if you could have a portion of is the same thing as stealing, correct? Do you believe that I am two years old? Do you snicker to yourself and say something in your inner monologue like "teehee, I'm going to take way more than I should, but he won't notice because I'll leave a little bit and even if he does notice he can't say anything because I didn't take everything, teehee."
Are you eight years old? You're older than I am. Do I actually have to walk you by the hand and take out exactly how much you are allowed to have and set it aside and then hide the rest of what I have just to be sure that if I leave the room more won't disappear into your pockets? I don't really consider having some consideration to be an adult attribute. It's a communal attribute that manifests at all ages. A hallmark of civilized community. A certain level of trust afforded to someone you consider to be a member of your community, much less a friend as well. Friendship should, if anything, heighten that attribute within yourself.
What the hell is wrong with you. Do you hear yourself? You have the nerve to say "you obviously don't want me in your home" after I tell you I can't have you over because you basically steal from me when what is clear is that you obviously don't consider being in my home or my friend to be a part of your community. Are you kidding me? Be playful, be imaginative, be a little immature and fresh from time to time, but do not fucking steal from me and expect me to nod along and say "aw shucks, you're right. I should've known if I was at all considerate toward you I would end up broke and hungry. I'll be on my toes next time, a-hyuck."
Be a better person. Have some consideration. Life's not free and friends don't fall from the sky everyday. You'll find yourself without community fairly swiftly. Don't be that shifty and somehow all too casual eight year old in the room always looking to see how far and for how much you can take people. Chances are very good you are known and it's only a matter of time.
6/8/14
Holdovers and Artifacts
Food is a reward. It is a fact. And a holdover from days, years, decades of "discipline" (call it what you will, I've come to understand and know it by it's other name: abuse). I have managed to unwire many things hard coded into me and I am happy for that. It is one of the things that has been very difficult to dismantle. "You can eat when the work is done". The entire idea of getting caught eating. Getting caught eating first. I've been deconstructing why exactly it is I feel so uncomfortable eating around other people and I do know that has something to do with it.
Getting punished for eating or resting before the assignment is done. Even alone it is still enforced consciously to avoid the unconscious recoil. Even before cutting weight for the wrestling team and working to the point of exhaustion because getting caught in the house brought severe consequences for quite some time to the point where, and I will grant him this, my father would see me working and tell me it was okay to stop and I would insist on continuing because his word was not too be trusted. It plays back into the whole he says one thing and waits and watches and waits and then springs the trap the next day or two weeks off or two months off. Sycophant in a way. An issue of control.
How he used to strap a governor on my face. What the hell was he afraid of? We could've been friends. Left and right barrels with one trigger. Ah well. The point is this: artifacts. Afterimages that have refused to fade through the years and I have to remind myself there are many more to come and many more erasers to try. An aversion for food is very unhealthy. I will strive to continue to dissociate the two. Food is necessary and vital and has nothing to do with occupation, preoccupation, goals, failure, desertion of duty, breaks in time, success, or operations. If I am eating it is because I should be, not because I've somehow tricked my way into it or trapped my way to a plate or have let someone down by taking the time.
In the meantime while I try to enforce this very simple principle, I will continue to attempt to escape and nibble when I can. I understand it may seem strange, but if I ever eat with you heartily it's because it means a lot to me to be able to do so and I hope it comes across that way. I will be willing to do many other things with you before I will agree to eat with you at a table. There are still several more relics that need eradicated, raised, and (some) built upon. This one is the one that needs leveled to rubble first. A dead heat, but the one I want to focus first and burn away.
///Bonobo - "Pick Up" ...the loud minority...
///Tricky - "Overcome" nothing to gift, so ill gift you this, for now
Getting punished for eating or resting before the assignment is done. Even alone it is still enforced consciously to avoid the unconscious recoil. Even before cutting weight for the wrestling team and working to the point of exhaustion because getting caught in the house brought severe consequences for quite some time to the point where, and I will grant him this, my father would see me working and tell me it was okay to stop and I would insist on continuing because his word was not too be trusted. It plays back into the whole he says one thing and waits and watches and waits and then springs the trap the next day or two weeks off or two months off. Sycophant in a way. An issue of control.
How he used to strap a governor on my face. What the hell was he afraid of? We could've been friends. Left and right barrels with one trigger. Ah well. The point is this: artifacts. Afterimages that have refused to fade through the years and I have to remind myself there are many more to come and many more erasers to try. An aversion for food is very unhealthy. I will strive to continue to dissociate the two. Food is necessary and vital and has nothing to do with occupation, preoccupation, goals, failure, desertion of duty, breaks in time, success, or operations. If I am eating it is because I should be, not because I've somehow tricked my way into it or trapped my way to a plate or have let someone down by taking the time.
In the meantime while I try to enforce this very simple principle, I will continue to attempt to escape and nibble when I can. I understand it may seem strange, but if I ever eat with you heartily it's because it means a lot to me to be able to do so and I hope it comes across that way. I will be willing to do many other things with you before I will agree to eat with you at a table. There are still several more relics that need eradicated, raised, and (some) built upon. This one is the one that needs leveled to rubble first. A dead heat, but the one I want to focus first and burn away.
///Bonobo - "Pick Up" ...the loud minority...
///Tricky - "Overcome" nothing to gift, so ill gift you this, for now
5/12/14
Simulations, Run Times and Control
Simulation is an art form. Everyone's guilty. Shut up, you're guilty. Every compromise is another exhibit, another piece of evidence, but you're nothing wrong for it. It means that you are reading and absorbing. Where structure rattling shifts occur are when you've overstepped is all. That's fine. If it's not, it should be. Deception is not an art. Deception is a skill. There's a difference.
Simulation is an art form and a means of communication and should be maintained. Not must be, but should be. It's a token. It's a tipped hat. There is no fault with simulation. To read, to understand, to emulate, to produce circumstances in which the assumed can thrive, with or without the other's knowledge, is an art and, furthermore, to be absorbed in the simulation wholehearted is to complete it, and to find completion being a crime is simply absurd. Refuse crime.
To the larger point, bottling sounds of my thoughts through snippets offered through social media is not whoring. It is simulation refined and semi-successful and semi-failure. I am comfortable with that and uncomfortable at the same time. The act, itself, plays directly into the multifacet self. The concept of conscious faced through planes of a gem cut (or not) through experience and trying to catch the most acceptable light from the most appealing angle not because there is a drive to appeal and appease and assure, because there is, within the contract of citizenship to this planet, a very very important subtext and rule line x, dash alphabet, dot n, that says you can either participate or margin.
The approach to social media is always a tricky one. Not for offering opportunities for criticism; for offering opportunities for connection. There is much less value in not offering a front door and at the same time expecting the line to run from there, down to the sidewalk, and around the corner. A certain amount of simulation must happen. Consider it something akin to taking the temperature of a moment. Consider it too, an argument that specialized and targeted results diminish the quality of the simulation each and every time that impetus is to be obeyed and deviation will be cause for changes not, surface, necessary.
Hunting for ghosts should be saved for television. Things go bump in the night. Dealing with things that go bump in the night should not be necessary, and is. I'm not celebrating it. Have lust for the ones you don't dare. Few things truly scare me in life. It is part production. Part assumption of past fears like putting on clothes so those around you can feel more comfortable being around and talking the same way you can talk and fearing the same way you can fear. If there is a subtext, a foot note, to the experience it is that I saw someone who truly scared me because I never laid eyes on it before and it has me rattled because I never want to see it again.
I saw, for lack of a better term, a ghost. I have no idea how to explain it. It was not a ghost or a spirit. It was not an after image burned onto my retinas so I happened to wake up two hours later and blink a lot and rub the corner of the eye snot away and coughed to make sure I was awake. It was something I hope to never see again and it burned me on the inside simply to lay eyes on it.
I got out of bed and walked around it and it kept saying "you can fly in your sleep" and I do not know what it meant. You can fly in your sleep. You can fly in your sleep. It only came up to near chest height. I kept walking around it to make sure it was three dimensional. I was running tests, mental tests, to be sure that I was not asleep and that it was not a figment and it kept talking and did not hold the usual humanoid, warped and not, shapes or the usual animal, warped and not, shapes.
To pin my psychological misgivings current on its existence feels like a cop out. It's there though, watching me and I desperately would like to do something about it. I don't want to sleep. I don't want to sleep knowing it can enter my apartment with no sound. Where did you come from?! Go away! Go away! I have not seen it since its first appearance, but I feel it. It makes my skin itch. How do I kill you?
I've grown comfortable with some of them to the point where I can say hello, nod, and continue on. They're almost like family or pets or even, I'd go so far as to say, fixtures like lamps or hat racks and sometimes they yap, but it's getting easier to ignore them. Not easier, but second nature through strict training. My breath is still snatched away now and then when they are where they are not supposed to be and the agreement that I assume is broken because they and my own paths cross without warning and my face is not our face and they are.
I don't want to go to sleep. I am afraid it will visit again. I am much more afraid that it is a returned. I'm not prepared to deal with that. My techniques and knowledge have advanced enough to protect against signs and travelers and after images and beckonings and name calling and interpolations and ringers and false alerts and I ... ... don't know it and I cannot be caught engaging it and ......... I should not be talking about it. I have to. For record. To help me better. As far as I go. The lights will be kept on. Fear no man. It is, this I know, no man.
I had an odd dream. I dreamt I had a sex change surgery. Except the Earth, this planet, was so far advanced, or smoothed, that all outward adornment went by the wayside. To the point where nature and tech apexed to an uncomfortable coexistence. To the point where every injury, every modification, needed no bandage and had no boundary for it's obviousness. We were sitting at a hookah bar and passing a cigarette between each of ourselves and someone commented that my penis looked better where it was and we railed for a minute and then got home sick and wished we'd telecommuted to the outing instead because we liked our new body a lot, but no one stuck up for us so we smoked some more instead. Then we blinked and when our eyelids opened we were not on sand world again.
We were walking down a street where each and every person walked too, fully clothed, but the backs of their heads were all torn out, blown out, by something. Grapefruit sized holes. Deer slugs? Their eyes were fine. Their faces for the most part. Whatever went in must have gone through their mouths. Everything smelled like take out food Bronx tenements. It was queasy.
I'm not saying it's the return of the monster. It's not. I am afraid. I am dreaming. I am sleep walking. I am not sleep walking. You are not sleep walking. You are reading this. Pause here. Whatever it was you were thinking about doing, pause here for at least five minutes, but not more than ten. Whatever it was, it will be back. You can handle it. Do not be afraid. No crying. No hiding. If it can get in, it can do more and it has chosen not to. Do not talk to it. Do not engage it. Do not engage it. Do not engage it. Do not name it. Do not listen to it. Listen without hearing. Always remember.
I am trying to remember, trying very hard, to remember the name of the one I gave away to a friend and the price (I do remember that torture) I paid when he called him through text messages. It needn't be repeated. Once was enough. Learn from mistakes. To this day I do not think he realizes how far open I had to be to do that and how stupid I was to do that. Learn from mistakes.
I am trying very hard to remember and I can't and you know what? I am happy it is struck from memory. I am happy I can review the pages of notes and review the eye reel and find no hints. It means I did something right. I remember the weeks and the forced in closeness and needing to give for what I received and splitting cigarettes on the balcony and looking at the enormous clockwork gears ticking over behind the tree line near Bloomfield and the memory tape ends there and I do not want to discover what was buried there ever again.
///The Grid - "Crystal Clear (Clear Water Revival Mix)" Henry remembered his mother and preferred not to.
Simulation is an art form and a means of communication and should be maintained. Not must be, but should be. It's a token. It's a tipped hat. There is no fault with simulation. To read, to understand, to emulate, to produce circumstances in which the assumed can thrive, with or without the other's knowledge, is an art and, furthermore, to be absorbed in the simulation wholehearted is to complete it, and to find completion being a crime is simply absurd. Refuse crime.
To the larger point, bottling sounds of my thoughts through snippets offered through social media is not whoring. It is simulation refined and semi-successful and semi-failure. I am comfortable with that and uncomfortable at the same time. The act, itself, plays directly into the multifacet self. The concept of conscious faced through planes of a gem cut (or not) through experience and trying to catch the most acceptable light from the most appealing angle not because there is a drive to appeal and appease and assure, because there is, within the contract of citizenship to this planet, a very very important subtext and rule line x, dash alphabet, dot n, that says you can either participate or margin.
The approach to social media is always a tricky one. Not for offering opportunities for criticism; for offering opportunities for connection. There is much less value in not offering a front door and at the same time expecting the line to run from there, down to the sidewalk, and around the corner. A certain amount of simulation must happen. Consider it something akin to taking the temperature of a moment. Consider it too, an argument that specialized and targeted results diminish the quality of the simulation each and every time that impetus is to be obeyed and deviation will be cause for changes not, surface, necessary.
Hunting for ghosts should be saved for television. Things go bump in the night. Dealing with things that go bump in the night should not be necessary, and is. I'm not celebrating it. Have lust for the ones you don't dare. Few things truly scare me in life. It is part production. Part assumption of past fears like putting on clothes so those around you can feel more comfortable being around and talking the same way you can talk and fearing the same way you can fear. If there is a subtext, a foot note, to the experience it is that I saw someone who truly scared me because I never laid eyes on it before and it has me rattled because I never want to see it again.
I saw, for lack of a better term, a ghost. I have no idea how to explain it. It was not a ghost or a spirit. It was not an after image burned onto my retinas so I happened to wake up two hours later and blink a lot and rub the corner of the eye snot away and coughed to make sure I was awake. It was something I hope to never see again and it burned me on the inside simply to lay eyes on it.
I got out of bed and walked around it and it kept saying "you can fly in your sleep" and I do not know what it meant. You can fly in your sleep. You can fly in your sleep. It only came up to near chest height. I kept walking around it to make sure it was three dimensional. I was running tests, mental tests, to be sure that I was not asleep and that it was not a figment and it kept talking and did not hold the usual humanoid, warped and not, shapes or the usual animal, warped and not, shapes.
To pin my psychological misgivings current on its existence feels like a cop out. It's there though, watching me and I desperately would like to do something about it. I don't want to sleep. I don't want to sleep knowing it can enter my apartment with no sound. Where did you come from?! Go away! Go away! I have not seen it since its first appearance, but I feel it. It makes my skin itch. How do I kill you?
I've grown comfortable with some of them to the point where I can say hello, nod, and continue on. They're almost like family or pets or even, I'd go so far as to say, fixtures like lamps or hat racks and sometimes they yap, but it's getting easier to ignore them. Not easier, but second nature through strict training. My breath is still snatched away now and then when they are where they are not supposed to be and the agreement that I assume is broken because they and my own paths cross without warning and my face is not our face and they are.
I don't want to go to sleep. I am afraid it will visit again. I am much more afraid that it is a returned. I'm not prepared to deal with that. My techniques and knowledge have advanced enough to protect against signs and travelers and after images and beckonings and name calling and interpolations and ringers and false alerts and I ... ... don't know it and I cannot be caught engaging it and ......... I should not be talking about it. I have to. For record. To help me better. As far as I go. The lights will be kept on. Fear no man. It is, this I know, no man.
I had an odd dream. I dreamt I had a sex change surgery. Except the Earth, this planet, was so far advanced, or smoothed, that all outward adornment went by the wayside. To the point where nature and tech apexed to an uncomfortable coexistence. To the point where every injury, every modification, needed no bandage and had no boundary for it's obviousness. We were sitting at a hookah bar and passing a cigarette between each of ourselves and someone commented that my penis looked better where it was and we railed for a minute and then got home sick and wished we'd telecommuted to the outing instead because we liked our new body a lot, but no one stuck up for us so we smoked some more instead. Then we blinked and when our eyelids opened we were not on sand world again.
We were walking down a street where each and every person walked too, fully clothed, but the backs of their heads were all torn out, blown out, by something. Grapefruit sized holes. Deer slugs? Their eyes were fine. Their faces for the most part. Whatever went in must have gone through their mouths. Everything smelled like take out food Bronx tenements. It was queasy.
I'm not saying it's the return of the monster. It's not. I am afraid. I am dreaming. I am sleep walking. I am not sleep walking. You are not sleep walking. You are reading this. Pause here. Whatever it was you were thinking about doing, pause here for at least five minutes, but not more than ten. Whatever it was, it will be back. You can handle it. Do not be afraid. No crying. No hiding. If it can get in, it can do more and it has chosen not to. Do not talk to it. Do not engage it. Do not engage it. Do not engage it. Do not name it. Do not listen to it. Listen without hearing. Always remember.
I am trying to remember, trying very hard, to remember the name of the one I gave away to a friend and the price (I do remember that torture) I paid when he called him through text messages. It needn't be repeated. Once was enough. Learn from mistakes. To this day I do not think he realizes how far open I had to be to do that and how stupid I was to do that. Learn from mistakes.
I am trying very hard to remember and I can't and you know what? I am happy it is struck from memory. I am happy I can review the pages of notes and review the eye reel and find no hints. It means I did something right. I remember the weeks and the forced in closeness and needing to give for what I received and splitting cigarettes on the balcony and looking at the enormous clockwork gears ticking over behind the tree line near Bloomfield and the memory tape ends there and I do not want to discover what was buried there ever again.
///The Grid - "Crystal Clear (Clear Water Revival Mix)" Henry remembered his mother and preferred not to.
3/17/14
Concepts and Compulsions (the third star on the right)
There was a definite shift from the factory perspective to the machine level perspective. I'm not sure exactly when it happened and I do think it was a shift in the correct direction. It was a shift that granted more personhood, more agency, more personality to what is continuing. Obviously the factory still exists and maybe not as obviously the dreaming door is still there near it's basement and used frequently, but not documented as thoroughly as I would like, but that's a matter of preference and amplitude.
The idea of them being up in an office having meetings without me and being forced to listen in to get news of what direction the committee was going grated on me pretty hard and I was getting very upset about not being included on their decisions so I am taking some agency back because I have to live here too and what they make affects me immediately as soon as it leaves the factory doors because I am the consumer primary and the keeper and owner. The deed's in my name. Just saying. I can't have them wrecking up the place and deciding when and where they want to work inside the building and the child is going to do what he will, and I can't keep stopping everything to go look for him (which is easy to say because he's right in front of me now and he won't hold my hand, but I've got his pinky and his pain tolerance is nowhere near mine and it doesn't need fixing or adjustment, it just needs held), but I will because I can't keep watch all of the time and he knows when to sneak out better than I know when to check on him.
I took the map of the warehouse and exploded it. Took the map of the iron works and exploded it into pieces and came up with a better way to organize and run diagnostics on its ability to function on it's own. Not off any grid, but function as a thing properly connected and fed by mainlines. The concept was lurking in the back of my mind and took a back seat to the foundry, the assembly line, but the stock house allowed far too much space for engineering weapons and tools that built better tools for building war machines. I'm still trying to get the spacing right. Getting to a point where we know what all of the parts are doing at all times is very difficult and throws error messages and blows out the lights sometimes. I would like to believe I am getting close to a master approach.
I've adopted a more mechanical concept. The electric layer and the machine layer. All into a sandwich. It's like a massive circuit board with steam punk getting the outside layer to talk to the inside layer. Communications are still a little bit shoddy, but I think I'm getting the response times right. Or at least more correct and that's more steps in a direction so I'm comfortable with not drowning. Control itself has not been an issue except in extreme cases or cases that I would call extreme sensory nodes. Times and instances of overwhelming input from the outside surface that over powered the gears ability to translate it into valid input to the inside surface. And then it just goes harmonic spitting back weird settings to the machine layer that does not know how to place it in three dimensions that makes sense to the surface and then the surface burps up colors and lights and structures and the entire layout of the city is completely off and the gps sends some bastard down a sidewalk that ends at a cornfield because that road was paved over fifteen years ago and broken up ten years ago and filled in and sodded and there've been 9 annual fairs there and the whole thing smells like carnies and animal poop vaguely to this day.
So now it's all a circuit and machine. Taking Occam to it to a degree. Keep it simple, stupid. It's not a committee, it's a group of parts, pieces, and controllers and they work together at all times. Yes, not all on the same page, but they are in constant communication despite what I thought before. They are in constant communication and the child is a hardware addition with poor pin alignment so as he comes and goes and is present or not, he may not always be detected by the system proper, but he cannot be confirmed or denied. I still do wonder where he goes when he does not register. I wonder if he is listening or not. Prick. WHERE ARE YOU?
Anyway, I can't allow myself to be consumed with his location. I can, but I would prefer not to. I do. We love it when he's around. God, what is he doing now? WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU, I KNOW YOU'RE LISTENING. I'll wait. It's all I can do. All any of us can do. I'll hunt him down. 'S'cool. But basically I took the time to rearrange components into a different, not necessarily new, configuration that allows for greater mobility and flexibility and diminishes destructive passion. Never again. Not yet, anyway. That plan is under double keyed authentication, minimum.
I've gotten away from paper again. I don't know how to feel about it because it's not pure laziness. It's a distaste for the purity to an extant and a feeling of reversion to another extant. I'm not sure where or if the two can be balanced or with what. You must commit to one or the other or both will suffer? No. There is dual dedication. I believe it is a problem of efficiencies and developing a left hand where the right hand has become the left and the left the right and I am partially consumed with teaching the right to do the things the off hand was forced to do. I am okay with that. That is a matter of more practice only, not malfunction. Or to put it another way, no abandonment of duties inside the factory. No idle mills, simply users unaccustomed to their new devices and methods.
I thought back to when I knew something was off with my upbringing. It happened back in elementary school when Mrs. Hymenlokuvar was rubbing my back in kindergarten when I ran from the station wagon, when I was sure it was okay to run after my mom and pop pulled away, all the way to my seat in the classroom. It is one of the few childhood (childhood referencing 2nd grade to birth) memories I can recall that did not end in violence. She rubbed my back for what felt like minutes, but was probably seconds. I remember her being very weirded out that I could show up for class at table three with a healthy sweat going. That was when I began to feel something was off. I liked it though, I remember that. I remember the soothing nature to it and how her hand felt like it was sucking heat off of me so I could run at a much better temperature and it felt terrific.
When I was sure something was off was when I ... was washing dishes at the sink on Taylor street and my parents were going at it about something I cannot remember. Something about Barnabus. Or was his name Barnaby. I don't know. He was the upstairs neighbor and we weren't allowed to play with his kids or something, what I do know, regardless of the details is hearing my dad say "he's listening to us" and then them two leaving the room. It was strange. I wanted to leave the kitchen too, but I had my assignment. Learning all of the creaks in the floor so you could get to the bathroom without disrupting them when you had to pee at night and couldn't hold it or when you wanted to talk to your sisters and you had a whole house to navigate in the dark without bumping into anything too loud.
There is some humor thinking back to how hard I idolized kids when I first broke in to college. "Oh my God, you assholes know everything!" It's a little bit of time compression helping that out. They didn't know everything. Not even close. Well traveled, well heeled? Sure. Capable, adaptable, thorough, and finicky? Sure. Closed and open minded by turns? Also, yes. As time grows longer and leaps of experience compress, it becomes increasingly clear that my peers are just that and no more. No apotheosis necessary. Appreciation yes. I am not just like you, but I will tell you what I fucking am. Closer to your know how than I have any business being given what we are and what you are and where we came from. Fuck you, that's "swagger" and tooth. What's four years to you? I know what it is to me. I wish I knew what it would be to me now eight years ago, though.
I'm a fine pilot, if I may say. I was considering running someone down walking on the side of Will Flynn motorway, but I didn't. Mostly because I was too far from home to be sure I could get home without being pulled over for questioning about the dent in my windshield and the spritz on my hood. Sometimes you have to make business decisions. Plus, I don't have money to get my windshield fixed. That's just silly money management policy!
I embraced metaphor with all my heart through highschool. I think that's when communication fault lines could not be written off anymore as being shy or quiet. I just didn't know how to say it. Didn't know an effective agent to be my stand in for the person between the person that says what I want to say for me. That position was vacant for so long.
Don't mind me if I get weak kneed with words. It's a joy I couldn't experience for a very long time and I am suspect to abuse it.
I wonder sometimes how my Myspace friend DCScompton is doing in Australia. I loved talking to him. Since the migration several years ago we lost touch and I look for him now and then to see if he's still kicking. I would love to move to Canberra. I don't think I would adjust well or I would slot in perfectly. America is not overrated at all, but I think we would have made excellent dual adventurers. I remember asking him about what the compton in his screen name was about and I've been miffed for years because I can't remember. He was a blast to read, but he jumped ship too and somewhere in migrating computers I lost the note that had the address of his page in it, among other things.
Wonder what my therapist is doing? I do too. Jeff is a good guy. He meant well. I do wonder how much of it was general altruism and how much was actual understanding. I never asked him how he was doing or about his family, but I think it was a lot of unspoken understanding that it was none of my business and absolutely off limits for reasons we both knew.
I don't worry about him, but I do wonder about what he kept off the table and why. Why didn't he offer too? Was it because I had to be there? And why did he turn me in that day? Was it concern or was it a matter more akin to protecting job security. I don't think he ever really trusted us. Which is fine. Understandable. I have to understand that we didn't really know each other know each other. He could have, though. I wouldn't have rejected it.
The tracking signal cuts both ways. A ping back is a ping back. Until the signal cuts out. The keys jingling on your pant loop let you know you are traversing reality and they also let reality know that you are crossing space and you have to be prepared to accept that your recognition is also the key not only to an ignition, but to a gate.
It's the third star on the right, straight on 'til morning, can't miss it.
///Steve Miller Band - "The Joker" some people call me a lot of things. there's power in knowing your own name.
The idea of them being up in an office having meetings without me and being forced to listen in to get news of what direction the committee was going grated on me pretty hard and I was getting very upset about not being included on their decisions so I am taking some agency back because I have to live here too and what they make affects me immediately as soon as it leaves the factory doors because I am the consumer primary and the keeper and owner. The deed's in my name. Just saying. I can't have them wrecking up the place and deciding when and where they want to work inside the building and the child is going to do what he will, and I can't keep stopping everything to go look for him (which is easy to say because he's right in front of me now and he won't hold my hand, but I've got his pinky and his pain tolerance is nowhere near mine and it doesn't need fixing or adjustment, it just needs held), but I will because I can't keep watch all of the time and he knows when to sneak out better than I know when to check on him.
I took the map of the warehouse and exploded it. Took the map of the iron works and exploded it into pieces and came up with a better way to organize and run diagnostics on its ability to function on it's own. Not off any grid, but function as a thing properly connected and fed by mainlines. The concept was lurking in the back of my mind and took a back seat to the foundry, the assembly line, but the stock house allowed far too much space for engineering weapons and tools that built better tools for building war machines. I'm still trying to get the spacing right. Getting to a point where we know what all of the parts are doing at all times is very difficult and throws error messages and blows out the lights sometimes. I would like to believe I am getting close to a master approach.
I've adopted a more mechanical concept. The electric layer and the machine layer. All into a sandwich. It's like a massive circuit board with steam punk getting the outside layer to talk to the inside layer. Communications are still a little bit shoddy, but I think I'm getting the response times right. Or at least more correct and that's more steps in a direction so I'm comfortable with not drowning. Control itself has not been an issue except in extreme cases or cases that I would call extreme sensory nodes. Times and instances of overwhelming input from the outside surface that over powered the gears ability to translate it into valid input to the inside surface. And then it just goes harmonic spitting back weird settings to the machine layer that does not know how to place it in three dimensions that makes sense to the surface and then the surface burps up colors and lights and structures and the entire layout of the city is completely off and the gps sends some bastard down a sidewalk that ends at a cornfield because that road was paved over fifteen years ago and broken up ten years ago and filled in and sodded and there've been 9 annual fairs there and the whole thing smells like carnies and animal poop vaguely to this day.
So now it's all a circuit and machine. Taking Occam to it to a degree. Keep it simple, stupid. It's not a committee, it's a group of parts, pieces, and controllers and they work together at all times. Yes, not all on the same page, but they are in constant communication despite what I thought before. They are in constant communication and the child is a hardware addition with poor pin alignment so as he comes and goes and is present or not, he may not always be detected by the system proper, but he cannot be confirmed or denied. I still do wonder where he goes when he does not register. I wonder if he is listening or not. Prick. WHERE ARE YOU?
Anyway, I can't allow myself to be consumed with his location. I can, but I would prefer not to. I do. We love it when he's around. God, what is he doing now? WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU, I KNOW YOU'RE LISTENING. I'll wait. It's all I can do. All any of us can do. I'll hunt him down. 'S'cool. But basically I took the time to rearrange components into a different, not necessarily new, configuration that allows for greater mobility and flexibility and diminishes destructive passion. Never again. Not yet, anyway. That plan is under double keyed authentication, minimum.
I've gotten away from paper again. I don't know how to feel about it because it's not pure laziness. It's a distaste for the purity to an extant and a feeling of reversion to another extant. I'm not sure where or if the two can be balanced or with what. You must commit to one or the other or both will suffer? No. There is dual dedication. I believe it is a problem of efficiencies and developing a left hand where the right hand has become the left and the left the right and I am partially consumed with teaching the right to do the things the off hand was forced to do. I am okay with that. That is a matter of more practice only, not malfunction. Or to put it another way, no abandonment of duties inside the factory. No idle mills, simply users unaccustomed to their new devices and methods.
I thought back to when I knew something was off with my upbringing. It happened back in elementary school when Mrs. Hymenlokuvar was rubbing my back in kindergarten when I ran from the station wagon, when I was sure it was okay to run after my mom and pop pulled away, all the way to my seat in the classroom. It is one of the few childhood (childhood referencing 2nd grade to birth) memories I can recall that did not end in violence. She rubbed my back for what felt like minutes, but was probably seconds. I remember her being very weirded out that I could show up for class at table three with a healthy sweat going. That was when I began to feel something was off. I liked it though, I remember that. I remember the soothing nature to it and how her hand felt like it was sucking heat off of me so I could run at a much better temperature and it felt terrific.
When I was sure something was off was when I ... was washing dishes at the sink on Taylor street and my parents were going at it about something I cannot remember. Something about Barnabus. Or was his name Barnaby. I don't know. He was the upstairs neighbor and we weren't allowed to play with his kids or something, what I do know, regardless of the details is hearing my dad say "he's listening to us" and then them two leaving the room. It was strange. I wanted to leave the kitchen too, but I had my assignment. Learning all of the creaks in the floor so you could get to the bathroom without disrupting them when you had to pee at night and couldn't hold it or when you wanted to talk to your sisters and you had a whole house to navigate in the dark without bumping into anything too loud.
There is some humor thinking back to how hard I idolized kids when I first broke in to college. "Oh my God, you assholes know everything!" It's a little bit of time compression helping that out. They didn't know everything. Not even close. Well traveled, well heeled? Sure. Capable, adaptable, thorough, and finicky? Sure. Closed and open minded by turns? Also, yes. As time grows longer and leaps of experience compress, it becomes increasingly clear that my peers are just that and no more. No apotheosis necessary. Appreciation yes. I am not just like you, but I will tell you what I fucking am. Closer to your know how than I have any business being given what we are and what you are and where we came from. Fuck you, that's "swagger" and tooth. What's four years to you? I know what it is to me. I wish I knew what it would be to me now eight years ago, though.
I'm a fine pilot, if I may say. I was considering running someone down walking on the side of Will Flynn motorway, but I didn't. Mostly because I was too far from home to be sure I could get home without being pulled over for questioning about the dent in my windshield and the spritz on my hood. Sometimes you have to make business decisions. Plus, I don't have money to get my windshield fixed. That's just silly money management policy!
I embraced metaphor with all my heart through highschool. I think that's when communication fault lines could not be written off anymore as being shy or quiet. I just didn't know how to say it. Didn't know an effective agent to be my stand in for the person between the person that says what I want to say for me. That position was vacant for so long.
Don't mind me if I get weak kneed with words. It's a joy I couldn't experience for a very long time and I am suspect to abuse it.
I wonder sometimes how my Myspace friend DCScompton is doing in Australia. I loved talking to him. Since the migration several years ago we lost touch and I look for him now and then to see if he's still kicking. I would love to move to Canberra. I don't think I would adjust well or I would slot in perfectly. America is not overrated at all, but I think we would have made excellent dual adventurers. I remember asking him about what the compton in his screen name was about and I've been miffed for years because I can't remember. He was a blast to read, but he jumped ship too and somewhere in migrating computers I lost the note that had the address of his page in it, among other things.
Wonder what my therapist is doing? I do too. Jeff is a good guy. He meant well. I do wonder how much of it was general altruism and how much was actual understanding. I never asked him how he was doing or about his family, but I think it was a lot of unspoken understanding that it was none of my business and absolutely off limits for reasons we both knew.
I don't worry about him, but I do wonder about what he kept off the table and why. Why didn't he offer too? Was it because I had to be there? And why did he turn me in that day? Was it concern or was it a matter more akin to protecting job security. I don't think he ever really trusted us. Which is fine. Understandable. I have to understand that we didn't really know each other know each other. He could have, though. I wouldn't have rejected it.
The tracking signal cuts both ways. A ping back is a ping back. Until the signal cuts out. The keys jingling on your pant loop let you know you are traversing reality and they also let reality know that you are crossing space and you have to be prepared to accept that your recognition is also the key not only to an ignition, but to a gate.
It's the third star on the right, straight on 'til morning, can't miss it.
///Steve Miller Band - "The Joker" some people call me a lot of things. there's power in knowing your own name.
2/9/14
Uncle Scar's Cross Dimensional Fortress
There are days of dread in trying to cross the bridge into dreamland. Days when I've convinced myself everything will stay stable if I keep my eyes open. Days when I'm afraid of putting on clothing, because once it's on, it cannot be turned off.
Some nights you just gotta take that slow breath and put on the helmet and close your eyes and wait for the assault craft to crash into the beach. From the second the floor rumbles and rattles your teeth upon landfall to the instant the long range weapons open up is sleep. In those moments, that very long blink, listening to the engines hum and forgetting where you are and where you're going, worlds congeal. Cities twine together like muscles sliding over bones and lives burn into being like veins inside. And then it all blows apart in the morning. Crying face down and screaming and laughing at the same time.
Sometimes the most satisfying minutes are those early ones where the tears on cheeks are dried by the heat of combat and flames run high and blood runs. They're the minutes where you know you know what you know and you know whatever happens next could be the next that changes everything. I do not want that. I think there are times people mistake free wheeling for extremely extensively planned. The back up to the back up back up back up plan allows for flexibility that mimics carelessness. Walk with the wind on your mind.
I think I'm done trying to be funny. It never comes off right. Days of dread. Open your eyes. No. I've been mapping fantasy time lines across several sheets of paper and now there are twelve of them taped end to end. There were twelve of them. I got extremely upset about the inefficiency of the entire exercise and tore it apart. And now there's packing tape everywhere packing tape need not be and a severe longing for a time machine to undo what I did because I did not take the time to think, the time to breath, before I took action. To die with rage instead of rage is a win.
At some point the alarm goes off that the amount of blood you are losing will have a stiff impact on your ability to continue effective consciousness. I suppose it was a bit disappointing to have someone I did not know all that well recommend something to me with the caveat "...if you like huffing you will love...". Irregularities. An overwhelming desire to remain on schedule. I will follow you down. Any deviation is unacceptable.
Protection is invaluable and hard to come by and harder still to compromise for any reason, but compromise is necessary and not without it's own value too. We need to get back on mission. An operation unto itself. Obstacles have been attacked and sent down and the path is clearing to make a good run at the main objective and it feels good. It feels really damn good. What are all of those jars of piss for? If I knew, they would be used already! And frankly I do not appreciate the line of questioning.
Come play with us, Arthur. That is not my name. That is not my name. That is not my name! Stop calling me! I do not know who that is! We match, don't we? Leave me the hell alone. I need a whetstone. Who doesn't? I've been dying to put together a new theme tailor made to what I want to see and what I want others to see when they come here. Sometimes we're struck unexpected again with the death of a friend. I did not know him that well. Am I wrong to be violently upset about it? Years removed.
Sometimes I weigh how well or poorly my brothers and sisters know me. The now me. The today me. Oddly enough, my brother in law may know me better than them. It's difficult to contemplate. Processing and it comes back not a number. What do I actually know, though at the mouth of the bridge. Do it for you. I will get it working. I have to. Back up back up plans fly well at the interface and through interstice, but nearer toward the core they blow apart like tissue paper origami in a squall. Get it right. No will do, can do. You're having a hard time, aren't you. Nope, just downloading the patch. The short that makes the radio turn on without having to turn the key because the battery is still good.
No gods, no kings, no high down, and for christ's sake no god damn rings. Especially pinky rings. Boosters on. It is not me you have to worry about, it is the rest of me. We have done life by committee pretty satisfactorily going on a decade and a half. I see no reason to make sweeping changes just yet. Obviously at some point we will run into the person, faced up, who does not get the joke, but deal with that when it arrives. And by deal with that I mean make extensive back up plans now.
I am still going to make music this year. We cannot not do it. It has been too long already. "...We're only in the first few minutes of the first of January..." we'll evolve. Walk with the wind on your mind. Let go. Open the gate. Do not be afraid to walk with the wind on your mind because you are not alone.
///Underworld - "Second Hand" gear up. slingshot around the sun.
Some nights you just gotta take that slow breath and put on the helmet and close your eyes and wait for the assault craft to crash into the beach. From the second the floor rumbles and rattles your teeth upon landfall to the instant the long range weapons open up is sleep. In those moments, that very long blink, listening to the engines hum and forgetting where you are and where you're going, worlds congeal. Cities twine together like muscles sliding over bones and lives burn into being like veins inside. And then it all blows apart in the morning. Crying face down and screaming and laughing at the same time.
Sometimes the most satisfying minutes are those early ones where the tears on cheeks are dried by the heat of combat and flames run high and blood runs. They're the minutes where you know you know what you know and you know whatever happens next could be the next that changes everything. I do not want that. I think there are times people mistake free wheeling for extremely extensively planned. The back up to the back up back up back up plan allows for flexibility that mimics carelessness. Walk with the wind on your mind.
I think I'm done trying to be funny. It never comes off right. Days of dread. Open your eyes. No. I've been mapping fantasy time lines across several sheets of paper and now there are twelve of them taped end to end. There were twelve of them. I got extremely upset about the inefficiency of the entire exercise and tore it apart. And now there's packing tape everywhere packing tape need not be and a severe longing for a time machine to undo what I did because I did not take the time to think, the time to breath, before I took action. To die with rage instead of rage is a win.
At some point the alarm goes off that the amount of blood you are losing will have a stiff impact on your ability to continue effective consciousness. I suppose it was a bit disappointing to have someone I did not know all that well recommend something to me with the caveat "...if you like huffing you will love...". Irregularities. An overwhelming desire to remain on schedule. I will follow you down. Any deviation is unacceptable.
Protection is invaluable and hard to come by and harder still to compromise for any reason, but compromise is necessary and not without it's own value too. We need to get back on mission. An operation unto itself. Obstacles have been attacked and sent down and the path is clearing to make a good run at the main objective and it feels good. It feels really damn good. What are all of those jars of piss for? If I knew, they would be used already! And frankly I do not appreciate the line of questioning.
Come play with us, Arthur. That is not my name. That is not my name. That is not my name! Stop calling me! I do not know who that is! We match, don't we? Leave me the hell alone. I need a whetstone. Who doesn't? I've been dying to put together a new theme tailor made to what I want to see and what I want others to see when they come here. Sometimes we're struck unexpected again with the death of a friend. I did not know him that well. Am I wrong to be violently upset about it? Years removed.
Sometimes I weigh how well or poorly my brothers and sisters know me. The now me. The today me. Oddly enough, my brother in law may know me better than them. It's difficult to contemplate. Processing and it comes back not a number. What do I actually know, though at the mouth of the bridge. Do it for you. I will get it working. I have to. Back up back up plans fly well at the interface and through interstice, but nearer toward the core they blow apart like tissue paper origami in a squall. Get it right. No will do, can do. You're having a hard time, aren't you. Nope, just downloading the patch. The short that makes the radio turn on without having to turn the key because the battery is still good.
No gods, no kings, no high down, and for christ's sake no god damn rings. Especially pinky rings. Boosters on. It is not me you have to worry about, it is the rest of me. We have done life by committee pretty satisfactorily going on a decade and a half. I see no reason to make sweeping changes just yet. Obviously at some point we will run into the person, faced up, who does not get the joke, but deal with that when it arrives. And by deal with that I mean make extensive back up plans now.
I am still going to make music this year. We cannot not do it. It has been too long already. "...We're only in the first few minutes of the first of January..." we'll evolve. Walk with the wind on your mind. Let go. Open the gate. Do not be afraid to walk with the wind on your mind because you are not alone.
///Underworld - "Second Hand" gear up. slingshot around the sun.
5/28/13
Sex Sells, and Tolerance Versus Promotion
Sex sells. Everybody know's that. America is becoming a more tolerant place, probably more tolerant than ever before when it comes to homosexuality. It's becoming a little more tolerant when it comes to smoking weed, but that's something for another time. Still, though, a soused conversation I had, a quick back and forth really if not for doing it through twitter drawing it out over a couple hours (if we were speaking face to face it would have been maybe a two minute conversation), brought back to mind that actual tolerance is a long way off and it's kind of annoying.
Sex does sell. Everyday, everywhere you go, everything you watch on television, every fourth commercial on the radio, hetero sex is promoted. It's fired into you constantly. It can't be avoided and as a gay person I don't really have a problem with it. Sure sometimes it gets particularly awkward or annoying when I'm hanging out with straight friends and they want me to comment and I'm completely blank faced because it has nothing to do with me or what actually tips my scales or fires me up. For the most part though, I'll make something up or laugh or do whatever to move on and just like that, it's done and I'm fine and they're fine and the world turns on and everyone is okay. Sex sells. It is promotion of the hetero relationship and it's not the end of the world. I'm tolerant. I don't go grab pitch forks and torches and raise a mob every time some couple gets married or a guy and girl get all kissy touchy feely in front of me. I'm okay with it and it doesn't hurt me, but I also don't go out of my way to express the fact that I could care less.
Back handed tolerance is different. The back handed tolerance is the kind where people do go out of their way to express that "hey, whatever, I don't care, that's your business" sentiment to the point where it becomes obvious that they do care, and it does irritate them, but they are saying what they're supposed to say because they're supposed to say it because it would be a million times worse for their image and relationships with others around them if they did express whatever hate or revulsion they felt. It's better than nothing, but when it happens it makes me want to roll my eyes, yawn, and just walk away from the crap coming out of the person's mouth.
Back handed tolerance comes in other flavors too. It also comes in the "I'm okay with gay people, but you don't have to promote it, come on" flavor. Which is simply silly. If the world is to become a more tolerant place you can't say tolerance and "shut the hell up about it" in the same sentence. That's just asinine. Obviously there is going to be some degree of promotion. There has to be. Sex sells. If sex sells you can't just say you refuse to sell to an entire segment of the population. If you did simply black out promotion that would be pretty intolerant. That sort of behavior would also reduce people's exposure to homosexuality as a normal thing or at least damage their ability to observe and understand it as a normal thing. It's aggravating. It's annoying. And it's pretty back handed.
What does that even mean? To be okay with gay people, but intolerant of them talking about their lives the same way other people do because it's promoting a gay lifestyle? Didn't America finally more or less get beyond the "is it a choice or not debate"? What are these people even worried about? Promoting homosexuality is not going to turn people away from heterosexuality. It's not going to magically revolutionize someone's long held beliefs or belief system. What are they possibly afraid of? If anything it would make life more comfortable or normal for homosexuals. Could you imagine seeing commercials with gay couples selling things like lawn mowers, dinners, dating websites, concerts, and credit cards. Are these promotion haters afraid they'll see a commercial for something they like and refer to it to their straight friends and be made fun of because it was a gay commercial? If they are, I could understand. How hilarious would it be if the major hang up was feeling that tiny pang of discomfort I feel throughout a day, that I'm so used to it barely raises a blip in my mind most of the time.
I don't understand what the big deal is, but I do understand back handed tolerance and I do understand that sex sells. Maybe it's not a bad thing. It's a step in the right direction for people and I'm happy for that. I just wish people walked a little faster. It makes life a little more comfortable for me and people like me to at least know if someone were to openly persecute us, there would be massive support for us, not them. It's tiring and annoying knowing that the newer intolerance is this whole anti-promo sentiment, but at least no ones telling me I'm going to straight to hell and should be killed for my sexual orientation. Don't be scared 'merica, sometimes a little discomfort is part of life.
///Grimes - "Genesis" gots to start somewhere
11/26/12
Find Yourself and Redesign Timetable
Well, I think I've finally done it. The act took a very long time. A very, very, long time, but I think I've found myself. I believe I've gotten enough of us back to the table to start working again on creative things. It has been a top priority, it feels like, for far too long. I've been so self absorbed, I have not been able to see past my own nose unless I was dead asleep and dreaming.
Speaking of which, I did have the most fantastic dream that fleshed out into several more characters with unique dialog of their own so far detailed I began to wonder, asleep, of their back stories because all of the interactions were so well and tightly detailed I felt, by four way conversation's end, that I knew them from other lives, even though the quality of the sleep itself lasted less than an hour.
I have finally found myself, although the child is AWOL. I am not happy about that. There is a certain whimsy I've been unable to recapture. Not so much unable as much as it has been a certain amount of flailing in the dark. Bless his screwed up soul. I need him back, both listening and contributing, if I ever intend to get better. That's what has been difficult to deal with the most.
Shooting for the end of December for the redesigns.
Speaking of which, I did have the most fantastic dream that fleshed out into several more characters with unique dialog of their own so far detailed I began to wonder, asleep, of their back stories because all of the interactions were so well and tightly detailed I felt, by four way conversation's end, that I knew them from other lives, even though the quality of the sleep itself lasted less than an hour.
I have finally found myself, although the child is AWOL. I am not happy about that. There is a certain whimsy I've been unable to recapture. Not so much unable as much as it has been a certain amount of flailing in the dark. Bless his screwed up soul. I need him back, both listening and contributing, if I ever intend to get better. That's what has been difficult to deal with the most.
Shooting for the end of December for the redesigns.
9/3/12
Burna
I don't know. That's not true, I do know. I get scorched sometimes. Emotionally. Not by anyone specifically or the selves within myself. It's that the act of creation is a burner. I have to crank it up to high and hear the igniter tick over and tap and I do not always know what the igniter will be. The ignition coil accepts voltage over the course of hours and sometimes days and sometimes months. It does not always click. I would go as far as to say that often times, more often than otherwise, it does not click and the ignition coil never accepts enough voltage to arc and I have to hold a lighter down on that gas line and hope it takes before the house burns down and I'm sitting in the backyard smoking with no eyebrows wondering how I got there because the kitchen exploded and I was high off of my ass on fumes well before it happened. I want it to work every time. That's wishful thinking. I get scorched a lot. I am highly flammable. Just the way the genes shook out.
Sometimes I wonder what kind of a writer I would be, could be, with greater mental stability, and then I laugh. Because I would have bored myself to death in high school with pen and paper and I realize I would be the mathematician or the economist or the engineer or the welder who did it because it was something they could do mechanically and do well and do with hi fidelity in a very stable pattern and my interest would've waned and I would have sought out something more dynamic. No wait. That's me. Me now, projecting myself backward and extrapolating to now. Not what I was trying to describe at all. I would have done those things and been happy to do them and never would have branched out to something I could be wrong at and still pursue with passion as though I was baseline perfect and sometimes brilliant, but not nearly enough to make that one diamond sparkle to my eye enough to push me to try for something with more cuts and more shine and more heart. At least that's what I like to think. Would happen if I were more stable.
Do I want the things that come with stability? Of course. You'd have to be a moron not to. Do I want the things that come with instability? Of course. Not all of them, but at least 70% of them. Maybe closer to 60%. Thinking back, I never really was a very stable human being. I remember getting into a spat at a summer camp when I was very young, came back to me today, cannot remember for my life what camp it was or if it was bible camp or something more or less or forced or if I asked to go to it. It was a moment where myself and my peers were unsupervised and they were making fun of my shoes again because I had very bad knock off shoes. Very bad. Not even stylistically speaking. Simply very poorly engineered shoes. The soles were made of this weird psuedo plastic, translucent, compound so whenever we played "Duck Duck Goose" or "Steal the Bacon" in gym I would have to work ten times harder than everyone with regular rubber to make cuts and accelerate and slow down because the plastic stuff would glide on the waxed wood floor like skates. I still won my fair share. Unfair share? I should have been undefeated. It's probably how I got to be so fast early on and kept going from there. Also probably how I got to be so frustrated when I get a job and don't have the right equipment today.
Anyway, where was I going.... so myself and my peers were unsupervised and I was being teased relentlessly and I didn't do anything for a while except shut up. Partly because I knew however I spun it I would get the beating of a lifetime up until that point once I got home, and partly because I wanted to go grab a chair and beat him to death. So I went straight for his throat because the middle ground was dealing with them making fun of you for having dirty nails, them not realizing you were keeping them as long as your mom could stand before digging that hook thing underneath or cutting them specifically for the instance when you may need to claw someones throat out of their neck. It worked out pretty well. He bled some and I was not nearly as strong as I thought I was then so he only lost some skin, but he was so freaked out he didn't even tell on me. Or maybe he did and I've just blacked the aftermath out of my memory. Anyway, I just remember thinking "awesome, why did I not do that sooner." Strange days back then.
And now. I know I can't be, but I believe I can be the greatest of all time. I get scorched. I melt down. I've been so high strung emotionally with human contact. It's rough. Parsing things. Knowing what to tell and what not to. KNowing who to tell and who not to. Going over events to parse what happened and what did not happen, but was later re-engineered from memories I didn't have, but took to heart regardless. People I thought I talked to in depth, but never said one word to. Real people that I see that I know I will not see again for some time. Longing and wanting more and knowing I would mismanage it if it did happen. The things that did happen that are stranger than fiction that I hesitate to retell to anyone because they wouldn't believe it either if they were there. It's gutting.
A tough road, the feeling it. The feeling writing. Taking it beyond exercise to experiment and beyond experiment to theory and beyond theory to intent. Taking intent back to exercise to ingrain it and then back to experiment to expansion packs. Managing circuitry. Without tripping breakers is a 99 by 99 game of Windows 95 vintage Minefield. I was trying to explain to someone how communication, as I've learned it, is an experience of exchanged violence. The base set of symbols. Love growing from that basic set of characters. Sometimes writing offers no release. I can deal with that. It's not so much that it's something that has to get out. Someone else tried to put it to me that way and I accepted the assessment because I had no rebuff at the time. To a small degree it is. To a much larger degree it is conversation, within and without. Some internalized and leaking and some extroverted and speaking.
I'm taken back to the original mission. The blueprint for the creation as a method of legacy. I go back and forth often between life and death. Self extermination versus procreation. I do not play into it as often as I would like, or maybe, more likely, as often as I would feel comfortable with. Is there a way to commit altruistic suicide for the greater good? Yes. I toy with the idea of dying of natural causes. Thinking about having children and the million reasons why it would be better for that kid to never meet me. I toy with big ideas of retirement and doing what I love, but even on that time scale of 60, 70, years, it's a long pipe. What you want, sucka? Not much. I already have most of it. It's getting to the point of formality and self improvement. Competitive spirit. How good can I possibly get? I think that keeps me awake more often than any other meter. When I know the answer, I'll rip the chord and bug the fuck out. Selfish. It makes me laugh to feel that way sometimes.
I get scorched. I get thoroughly displeased with the quality of what comes out of me, but I know there's so much psychological garbage to sort through, there is no way I'm going to knock anything out of the park on a regular basis. I play against myself. It gets troubling. Becomes troubling. When your heckler is you. Your clown is you. You are your dealer and your fiend. I used to do it for other people. I used to do it for my mom and my dad before I realized the packages of carefully selected works were doing little more than collecting dust as soon as they unwrapped them. When I realized sending them books for christmas was a waste of money and passion.
One of the best experiences I ever had was taking some of them back one of the times I was back home and never once hearing a single question about where any of them went. XD. I still get a rise out of that. I was hot blooded for so long over it and then I realized it wasn't worth holding against anyone. I think that's where a lot of my happiness stems from. The knowing that there are people you can love and people you cannot love. And I'm okay with that. I still get scorched sometimes. The factory floor fire spreads and work stations are abandoned and the fire spreads and the suppression systems kick in and they can't contain a god damn thing on the scale of what you are experiencing because you designed them in good times with hypotheticals and grossly miscalculated how swift and vast the psychotic destruction would advance.
So now I am back again and kicking at embers and trying to reimagine what it all was before the fire broke out. Gathering the caucus. Sending the calls and hoping to get a ping back from somewhere. Anywhere along the rise and fall of consciousness. Reinstalling routines. Rebuilding structure. Recreating from memory the blueprint and it's different every time.
If, at the end of it all, I can assemble something to make a future iteration of myself feel less daunted, or less alone, or less wrecked, or more hopeful for sunrise, or more comfortable with no one to sing to but the moon and the tone deaf clouds, I will be happy. I don't always do good, but I do the best I can. I know the cycle will eventually end and I won't be blown clear and the fire will consume, but what is the high worth if you'll never know just how high you could've been? I'm not talking the highs that come with squared proportions. False peaks? I mean, would I trade the 40% bad outcomes for 100% decent outcomes? No. I don't think so. In the worst times, yes. Of course. No. I don't think so. And it is difficult to wrap my head around. Difficult to work around. Difficult to not fall into myself standing on the foundation slab in a wilderness where a home used to stand and not feel something for everything and everyone who died in their beds who would have gotten up to jobs and friends that morning when the leaves were still wet with night and the paper boy was sucking oxygen looking at the weeks rounds on his front porch and the dogs were still dreaming and the shots in the dark were unreported and the spiders still had games to play and the cigarette burns still bled and fuck
As promised: two pack.
///Five Deez - "So Good" it's nice to be back. nice to be feeling something.
///Amon Tobin - "Untangle" slow verbs.
Sometimes I wonder what kind of a writer I would be, could be, with greater mental stability, and then I laugh. Because I would have bored myself to death in high school with pen and paper and I realize I would be the mathematician or the economist or the engineer or the welder who did it because it was something they could do mechanically and do well and do with hi fidelity in a very stable pattern and my interest would've waned and I would have sought out something more dynamic. No wait. That's me. Me now, projecting myself backward and extrapolating to now. Not what I was trying to describe at all. I would have done those things and been happy to do them and never would have branched out to something I could be wrong at and still pursue with passion as though I was baseline perfect and sometimes brilliant, but not nearly enough to make that one diamond sparkle to my eye enough to push me to try for something with more cuts and more shine and more heart. At least that's what I like to think. Would happen if I were more stable.
Do I want the things that come with stability? Of course. You'd have to be a moron not to. Do I want the things that come with instability? Of course. Not all of them, but at least 70% of them. Maybe closer to 60%. Thinking back, I never really was a very stable human being. I remember getting into a spat at a summer camp when I was very young, came back to me today, cannot remember for my life what camp it was or if it was bible camp or something more or less or forced or if I asked to go to it. It was a moment where myself and my peers were unsupervised and they were making fun of my shoes again because I had very bad knock off shoes. Very bad. Not even stylistically speaking. Simply very poorly engineered shoes. The soles were made of this weird psuedo plastic, translucent, compound so whenever we played "Duck Duck Goose" or "Steal the Bacon" in gym I would have to work ten times harder than everyone with regular rubber to make cuts and accelerate and slow down because the plastic stuff would glide on the waxed wood floor like skates. I still won my fair share. Unfair share? I should have been undefeated. It's probably how I got to be so fast early on and kept going from there. Also probably how I got to be so frustrated when I get a job and don't have the right equipment today.
Anyway, where was I going.... so myself and my peers were unsupervised and I was being teased relentlessly and I didn't do anything for a while except shut up. Partly because I knew however I spun it I would get the beating of a lifetime up until that point once I got home, and partly because I wanted to go grab a chair and beat him to death. So I went straight for his throat because the middle ground was dealing with them making fun of you for having dirty nails, them not realizing you were keeping them as long as your mom could stand before digging that hook thing underneath or cutting them specifically for the instance when you may need to claw someones throat out of their neck. It worked out pretty well. He bled some and I was not nearly as strong as I thought I was then so he only lost some skin, but he was so freaked out he didn't even tell on me. Or maybe he did and I've just blacked the aftermath out of my memory. Anyway, I just remember thinking "awesome, why did I not do that sooner." Strange days back then.
And now. I know I can't be, but I believe I can be the greatest of all time. I get scorched. I melt down. I've been so high strung emotionally with human contact. It's rough. Parsing things. Knowing what to tell and what not to. KNowing who to tell and who not to. Going over events to parse what happened and what did not happen, but was later re-engineered from memories I didn't have, but took to heart regardless. People I thought I talked to in depth, but never said one word to. Real people that I see that I know I will not see again for some time. Longing and wanting more and knowing I would mismanage it if it did happen. The things that did happen that are stranger than fiction that I hesitate to retell to anyone because they wouldn't believe it either if they were there. It's gutting.
A tough road, the feeling it. The feeling writing. Taking it beyond exercise to experiment and beyond experiment to theory and beyond theory to intent. Taking intent back to exercise to ingrain it and then back to experiment to expansion packs. Managing circuitry. Without tripping breakers is a 99 by 99 game of Windows 95 vintage Minefield. I was trying to explain to someone how communication, as I've learned it, is an experience of exchanged violence. The base set of symbols. Love growing from that basic set of characters. Sometimes writing offers no release. I can deal with that. It's not so much that it's something that has to get out. Someone else tried to put it to me that way and I accepted the assessment because I had no rebuff at the time. To a small degree it is. To a much larger degree it is conversation, within and without. Some internalized and leaking and some extroverted and speaking.
I'm taken back to the original mission. The blueprint for the creation as a method of legacy. I go back and forth often between life and death. Self extermination versus procreation. I do not play into it as often as I would like, or maybe, more likely, as often as I would feel comfortable with. Is there a way to commit altruistic suicide for the greater good? Yes. I toy with the idea of dying of natural causes. Thinking about having children and the million reasons why it would be better for that kid to never meet me. I toy with big ideas of retirement and doing what I love, but even on that time scale of 60, 70, years, it's a long pipe. What you want, sucka? Not much. I already have most of it. It's getting to the point of formality and self improvement. Competitive spirit. How good can I possibly get? I think that keeps me awake more often than any other meter. When I know the answer, I'll rip the chord and bug the fuck out. Selfish. It makes me laugh to feel that way sometimes.
I get scorched. I get thoroughly displeased with the quality of what comes out of me, but I know there's so much psychological garbage to sort through, there is no way I'm going to knock anything out of the park on a regular basis. I play against myself. It gets troubling. Becomes troubling. When your heckler is you. Your clown is you. You are your dealer and your fiend. I used to do it for other people. I used to do it for my mom and my dad before I realized the packages of carefully selected works were doing little more than collecting dust as soon as they unwrapped them. When I realized sending them books for christmas was a waste of money and passion.
One of the best experiences I ever had was taking some of them back one of the times I was back home and never once hearing a single question about where any of them went. XD. I still get a rise out of that. I was hot blooded for so long over it and then I realized it wasn't worth holding against anyone. I think that's where a lot of my happiness stems from. The knowing that there are people you can love and people you cannot love. And I'm okay with that. I still get scorched sometimes. The factory floor fire spreads and work stations are abandoned and the fire spreads and the suppression systems kick in and they can't contain a god damn thing on the scale of what you are experiencing because you designed them in good times with hypotheticals and grossly miscalculated how swift and vast the psychotic destruction would advance.
So now I am back again and kicking at embers and trying to reimagine what it all was before the fire broke out. Gathering the caucus. Sending the calls and hoping to get a ping back from somewhere. Anywhere along the rise and fall of consciousness. Reinstalling routines. Rebuilding structure. Recreating from memory the blueprint and it's different every time.
If, at the end of it all, I can assemble something to make a future iteration of myself feel less daunted, or less alone, or less wrecked, or more hopeful for sunrise, or more comfortable with no one to sing to but the moon and the tone deaf clouds, I will be happy. I don't always do good, but I do the best I can. I know the cycle will eventually end and I won't be blown clear and the fire will consume, but what is the high worth if you'll never know just how high you could've been? I'm not talking the highs that come with squared proportions. False peaks? I mean, would I trade the 40% bad outcomes for 100% decent outcomes? No. I don't think so. In the worst times, yes. Of course. No. I don't think so. And it is difficult to wrap my head around. Difficult to work around. Difficult to not fall into myself standing on the foundation slab in a wilderness where a home used to stand and not feel something for everything and everyone who died in their beds who would have gotten up to jobs and friends that morning when the leaves were still wet with night and the paper boy was sucking oxygen looking at the weeks rounds on his front porch and the dogs were still dreaming and the shots in the dark were unreported and the spiders still had games to play and the cigarette burns still bled and fuck
As promised: two pack.
///Five Deez - "So Good" it's nice to be back. nice to be feeling something.
///Amon Tobin - "Untangle" slow verbs.
8/8/12
Redesign (stealth mode, but not really)
So I'll make this short and sweet. Some updates (hooray changes). I haven't been sitting around scratching my bum and picking my nose and wishing for things to change. Well I have, but that's only half of my day. I'm on the "wish it, want it, do it" plan from the book of the same title as reviewed by Bill Maher on that show about the dog and the baby and the bad father and their crazy antics. I don't know why I did that to such detail. I think it was supposed to be funny. Progressively funnier as the details got more specific and more vague. Reverse comedy crash zoom. What was I talking about?
Oh yeah, so some updates:
The Auralport is wearing it's summer best. It looks a lot better over there (pictured here it's tinted gray) and the cloud bank drawn inside the letters really pops out bright. The design actually turned out completely different from the idea I had in my head of summer fields and woodlands. I wanted it to come out in deep greens and golds and purple and pink and as I was working on it I became more and more consumed with the steeliness of summer skies and the way power lines and telephones poles cut everything up when the sun goes down until it's too dark to see. And then the links became these bits of flame salmon that kind of reminded me of how the clouds kind of catch fire bit by bit at sunrise and sunset. So I wanted to capture some of that without making it unreadable. I'm pretty sure it's borderline unreadable as it is, but it's the right kind of hardness I was looking for. That same hardness that makes the summer sky hard to stare into some days because it is so bright and black at once.
I'm looking forward to doing the fall redesign though. I think I just do better with darker pallets and color arrays and lower contrast over there. OEMFail will always be a high contrast affair.
Bits for Flames received a little infusion of life in the form of two short short stories: The Hills at Wallston Park and Cement Head. Obvs they're not for kids. One is drama and the other is curio. I still want to do more with it, but haven't really had the courage or drive to really sit down and tear something big off there. I almost toyed with the idea of doing a redesign, but then I remembered I still have to do header art for the various sub sections, not to mention finish populating them from my stock piles of google docs. Anyway, they're there for your consideration.
Times have been tough. Times have been fun. Finally regained the ability to do somethings, and learned to do some new things. It's never all bad. It's going to be a tough month though. Then again, when is it never not a tough month? I don't know. Still popping off the works over at Auralport though the traffic stats are down, but I don't particularly mind. I remember when I first started over there I was afraid someone would see it. Funny how things flip around. I'm not particularly happy with the subjects and themes lately, but I'm not sure what I'm turning toward as of yet, so I'm going to keep shaking my head like I've got swimmers ear and writing down what comes out until I hit on what it is I've been trying to say this season.
May be time to just sit down and grind out an album.
Anyway. Unannounced changes that are now announced so they're stealthy, but not really. I'm rambling. Anyway, uhm... I lived, I loved, I laughed, and then slept for 14 hours. Gnite :P
///the item you are searching for has been moved. for no particular reason at all. because sometimes that happens. bonus track available next time around. i promise (maybe).
Oh yeah, so some updates:
The Auralport is wearing it's summer best. It looks a lot better over there (pictured here it's tinted gray) and the cloud bank drawn inside the letters really pops out bright. The design actually turned out completely different from the idea I had in my head of summer fields and woodlands. I wanted it to come out in deep greens and golds and purple and pink and as I was working on it I became more and more consumed with the steeliness of summer skies and the way power lines and telephones poles cut everything up when the sun goes down until it's too dark to see. And then the links became these bits of flame salmon that kind of reminded me of how the clouds kind of catch fire bit by bit at sunrise and sunset. So I wanted to capture some of that without making it unreadable. I'm pretty sure it's borderline unreadable as it is, but it's the right kind of hardness I was looking for. That same hardness that makes the summer sky hard to stare into some days because it is so bright and black at once.
I'm looking forward to doing the fall redesign though. I think I just do better with darker pallets and color arrays and lower contrast over there. OEMFail will always be a high contrast affair.
Bits for Flames received a little infusion of life in the form of two short short stories: The Hills at Wallston Park and Cement Head. Obvs they're not for kids. One is drama and the other is curio. I still want to do more with it, but haven't really had the courage or drive to really sit down and tear something big off there. I almost toyed with the idea of doing a redesign, but then I remembered I still have to do header art for the various sub sections, not to mention finish populating them from my stock piles of google docs. Anyway, they're there for your consideration.
Times have been tough. Times have been fun. Finally regained the ability to do somethings, and learned to do some new things. It's never all bad. It's going to be a tough month though. Then again, when is it never not a tough month? I don't know. Still popping off the works over at Auralport though the traffic stats are down, but I don't particularly mind. I remember when I first started over there I was afraid someone would see it. Funny how things flip around. I'm not particularly happy with the subjects and themes lately, but I'm not sure what I'm turning toward as of yet, so I'm going to keep shaking my head like I've got swimmers ear and writing down what comes out until I hit on what it is I've been trying to say this season.
May be time to just sit down and grind out an album.
Anyway. Unannounced changes that are now announced so they're stealthy, but not really. I'm rambling. Anyway, uhm... I lived, I loved, I laughed, and then slept for 14 hours. Gnite :P
///the item you are searching for has been moved. for no particular reason at all. because sometimes that happens. bonus track available next time around. i promise (maybe).
8/8/11
Lookit, Lookit
The Music That Makes the Living got a redesign today. Now with 200% less headache on the eyeballs. Aren't I awesome? Don't answer that.
This is the new background:
The old background was okay but had way too many colors that demanded a strange set of colors for the text and the whole thing never really worked and it's bothered me since I put it up.
Old background:
I think the new background keeps the visual interest and loses the visual headache. So overall, a win. Not as interesting as visual confetti, but also not as blinding. An answer to a visual problem. It's nice when you can make answers materialize with enough effort fired off. One of those things where, thankfully, production does not mirror life and the end result is a big ol' pot of buttery eye candy. Still trying to restore my skill sets to where they once were and this I think is a step in the right direction. Everybody on the factory floor working towards the same ends. Well, maybe not everybody, but enough of the bodies. To make something worth remembering happen.
Also, Hai :) enough with the coffee. Time for sleep.
///Justice - "DVNO" ...do you really need to know my name, to figure out how cool I am? The bass is so live on this. I can almost feel the fingers smacking the steel. Need something to get your head nodding on a friday pre-game before whatever the hell else you planned on doing later? Answered.
This is the new background:
The old background was okay but had way too many colors that demanded a strange set of colors for the text and the whole thing never really worked and it's bothered me since I put it up.
Old background:
I think the new background keeps the visual interest and loses the visual headache. So overall, a win. Not as interesting as visual confetti, but also not as blinding. An answer to a visual problem. It's nice when you can make answers materialize with enough effort fired off. One of those things where, thankfully, production does not mirror life and the end result is a big ol' pot of buttery eye candy. Still trying to restore my skill sets to where they once were and this I think is a step in the right direction. Everybody on the factory floor working towards the same ends. Well, maybe not everybody, but enough of the bodies. To make something worth remembering happen.
Also, Hai :) enough with the coffee. Time for sleep.
///Justice - "DVNO" ...do you really need to know my name, to figure out how cool I am? The bass is so live on this. I can almost feel the fingers smacking the steel. Need something to get your head nodding on a friday pre-game before whatever the hell else you planned on doing later? Answered.
7/22/11
The New Grading System, Thoughts on Construction, and I Hate Flowers
Well, I spent four hours this morning trying to draw that scorpion flower tattoo and failed miserably again. You can sort of start to see it, but personally I hate how it turned out.
It's starting to look like something. Instead of working on it for thirty minutes and getting pissed off and quitting I worked on it for six times as long, but eventually gave up and went to bed to think about it there or at least find success in doing other things. Maybe it's just the brush selection. Or maybe it's that I just hate drawing flowers and have always struggled with drawing them up close. Or maybe it's that I haven't spent enough time looking at flowers before. Really committing them to memory. I've certainly spent, when I think about it, at least 1000 times more minutes looking at schematics, machines, and geometric constructions in general. Perhaps there is porting that can be done. Reduce the organic to the geometric, fix the perspective there and then port it back to the organic. It's bothering me, in case I haven't made that clear. An unscratchable itch that I have to prove to myself is not unscratchable, but merely located in a place that's hard to reach, but reachable. I hate flowers.
So while I was asleep I had the pleasure of grading papers. At the end. Well, not the end. But in the second dream. The first dream was pretty awesome. I went to the pacific rim and started a new life as a bounty hunter in Oceania. It was all well and good. Then things got bloody and did not end well at all, but that's a story for another time. I'm going to talk about the boring epiphany. So I'm sitting there grading these papers and the papers are both written by potheads, except that I already know what happens to them in the future because I've gone back in time to grade their work as college freshman. I already know one of them is going to run off and work for big name companies out of the gate and I already know the other one is going to end up dropping out and moving in with his mother and working for Borders until they go bankrupt.
I'm reading the writing notes and they're both there in the classroom after school waiting to see what their grades are because the papers will make or break both of their years in my class and as I finish up and go back to reread the stories along with my first impression notes I start ticking things off in columns labeled B, S, and N. I have no idea what the labels mean or their relevance to a fiction class so I pull my perspective back out of my head and I ask the me/not me doing the grading what the columns and labels are for and he tells me "B stands for believable, S stands for continuity, and N stands for noticeable." I ask the grader a follow up question: what do you mean by noticeable? He answers, "noticeable means a moment in the story where the reader notices something and commits the action, event, item, whatever the subject or object being read about is, to their active memory reserved for things they would normally encounter, care about, or keep track of in their own lives and for their own sake." Aha, says I and then I climbed back into my head and went back to reading and grading.
I can't remember exactly what the successful pothead's story was about, but it was pretty boring to grade. All of the things that were supposed to be there were there, but it was obvious that he had no interest in writing and was taking the course for required credit so I found myself loosening my standards mainly to avoid having to deal with arguing about it when I handed him his paper, but also because I couldn't bring myself to nail him on finer points when the subject he chose to write about was thin, safe, and bland to begin with. I didn't think about it at the time as rewarding mediocrity or the ultra conservative, "cover your bases", approach that tends to net good grades in Universities, but thinking about it now it was a pretty slanted thing to do.
The second paper was much more interesting. It was a story about a boy who promises to help his mother kill herself before winter after being disgraced by her husband's lascivious activities in the new year that came to light just as the summer began. The husband leaves her in the same week school ends and the boy is home with his mother throughout the summer months and into fall when he finally begins to realize what he's agreed to help her do and it's impact on his life as school begins again. That's when I got to see the new grading system in action. The columns were divided into rows labeled A, B, C, D, and F. For the continuity category an X in a row meant that was the grade earned. For every other category you started the strikes at the bottom of the column and moved upward to an A. So five noticeable moments meant a technical A. Five continuity issues meant a technical F. Five moments of the suspension of disbelief meant a technical A. There was also built in consideration for length. For short stories, one strike was all that was allowed per letter grade. Middle and longer lengths and word counts meant more ground for the student to cover so additional strikes were made available, two then three per letter grade etc. For particularly short papers letters could be knocked off of the scale so that a person couldn't score an F for not packing enough junk into a paper to satisfy the system and help prevent people from playing to the syllabus or the requirements. And of course more columns could be added or eliminated as subject matter, literary devices, and exercises demanded. Though that did not stop me from allowing it to happen despite the mechanisms in place to alert me to it.
There were continuity issues. Lots of continuity issues. Not impressionistic issues, but just hard de facto mistakes of alignment for a five page story. There were also many, many, many believable moments and moments where I was committing pieces of the story to my memory as though I were reading about neighbors or friends that I thought I knew. The first paper did the same thing, albeit with far less subtlety. So I ended up in a situation where the second paper scored two As and an F. Averaged out to a C. From the stand point of "as hard a science as something subjective as grading papers can be." In the end I tuned the C up to a B for the other points of craftsmanship that can't really be covered and agreed upon in the realm of the lowest common denominator of general and identifiable human experience. I probably should have tuned the other paper from an A to a B as well for rote underachievement.
As a grading system it struck me as fairly useful as a starting point for getting a sense of issues, strengths, and weaknesses. But also as a starting point for conversation, discussion, and argument about grades being given out. Using it, I could explain to student A why their paper of X length graded out better than student B's paper of Y length without having to think back to what I was thinking about when I scribbled the notes I scribbled and then have to hunt through the nebulous territory of assigning those thoughts to grades. Now I had a way of saying "everything else aside, this is why you got this score" and "all things considered in concert, this is how my personal opinion and subjectivity changed that score." It was a pretty detailed dream for half an hour of sleeping. Not as ridiculous or action packed as the other dream, but just as good.
I made that this afternoon. Just trying to get away from failure and into a little success. Turned out exactly how I wanted it too. I wish there was a way to make it rain in the summer time. Anything to peel back the heat. Summer really is the most miserable set of months known to man. Gotta move farther north. Since there is no cloud generator available. I'll tell you about the other dream later. I'll try and draw it up a little more. Get back to doing what I love to do when I'm not writing or out getting dirty playing in the sun or at home moping and cringing against the ticks of time. I wanted to do some paper crafts today, but I'm out of time - because I went out to play for three hours instead of working, but I still think I managed to better myself either way. Oh well. Sorry to bore you. I guess not every day is a hustle. Some days are a shuffle. Or maybe just a think. And now I'm tired and I still have to go to work so, let's get it on. And by get it on I mean dive into sleep. Might try to cross the bridge for a little while and see what's going on in Universe B. Or not. Those trips can be just as tiring as walking these planes some days.
See ya later.
///Boards of Canada - "Seeya Later" I have to leave, but wait up for me. I'll be back soon.
It's starting to look like something. Instead of working on it for thirty minutes and getting pissed off and quitting I worked on it for six times as long, but eventually gave up and went to bed to think about it there or at least find success in doing other things. Maybe it's just the brush selection. Or maybe it's that I just hate drawing flowers and have always struggled with drawing them up close. Or maybe it's that I haven't spent enough time looking at flowers before. Really committing them to memory. I've certainly spent, when I think about it, at least 1000 times more minutes looking at schematics, machines, and geometric constructions in general. Perhaps there is porting that can be done. Reduce the organic to the geometric, fix the perspective there and then port it back to the organic. It's bothering me, in case I haven't made that clear. An unscratchable itch that I have to prove to myself is not unscratchable, but merely located in a place that's hard to reach, but reachable. I hate flowers.
So while I was asleep I had the pleasure of grading papers. At the end. Well, not the end. But in the second dream. The first dream was pretty awesome. I went to the pacific rim and started a new life as a bounty hunter in Oceania. It was all well and good. Then things got bloody and did not end well at all, but that's a story for another time. I'm going to talk about the boring epiphany. So I'm sitting there grading these papers and the papers are both written by potheads, except that I already know what happens to them in the future because I've gone back in time to grade their work as college freshman. I already know one of them is going to run off and work for big name companies out of the gate and I already know the other one is going to end up dropping out and moving in with his mother and working for Borders until they go bankrupt.
I'm reading the writing notes and they're both there in the classroom after school waiting to see what their grades are because the papers will make or break both of their years in my class and as I finish up and go back to reread the stories along with my first impression notes I start ticking things off in columns labeled B, S, and N. I have no idea what the labels mean or their relevance to a fiction class so I pull my perspective back out of my head and I ask the me/not me doing the grading what the columns and labels are for and he tells me "B stands for believable, S stands for continuity, and N stands for noticeable." I ask the grader a follow up question: what do you mean by noticeable? He answers, "noticeable means a moment in the story where the reader notices something and commits the action, event, item, whatever the subject or object being read about is, to their active memory reserved for things they would normally encounter, care about, or keep track of in their own lives and for their own sake." Aha, says I and then I climbed back into my head and went back to reading and grading.
I can't remember exactly what the successful pothead's story was about, but it was pretty boring to grade. All of the things that were supposed to be there were there, but it was obvious that he had no interest in writing and was taking the course for required credit so I found myself loosening my standards mainly to avoid having to deal with arguing about it when I handed him his paper, but also because I couldn't bring myself to nail him on finer points when the subject he chose to write about was thin, safe, and bland to begin with. I didn't think about it at the time as rewarding mediocrity or the ultra conservative, "cover your bases", approach that tends to net good grades in Universities, but thinking about it now it was a pretty slanted thing to do.
The second paper was much more interesting. It was a story about a boy who promises to help his mother kill herself before winter after being disgraced by her husband's lascivious activities in the new year that came to light just as the summer began. The husband leaves her in the same week school ends and the boy is home with his mother throughout the summer months and into fall when he finally begins to realize what he's agreed to help her do and it's impact on his life as school begins again. That's when I got to see the new grading system in action. The columns were divided into rows labeled A, B, C, D, and F. For the continuity category an X in a row meant that was the grade earned. For every other category you started the strikes at the bottom of the column and moved upward to an A. So five noticeable moments meant a technical A. Five continuity issues meant a technical F. Five moments of the suspension of disbelief meant a technical A. There was also built in consideration for length. For short stories, one strike was all that was allowed per letter grade. Middle and longer lengths and word counts meant more ground for the student to cover so additional strikes were made available, two then three per letter grade etc. For particularly short papers letters could be knocked off of the scale so that a person couldn't score an F for not packing enough junk into a paper to satisfy the system and help prevent people from playing to the syllabus or the requirements. And of course more columns could be added or eliminated as subject matter, literary devices, and exercises demanded. Though that did not stop me from allowing it to happen despite the mechanisms in place to alert me to it.
There were continuity issues. Lots of continuity issues. Not impressionistic issues, but just hard de facto mistakes of alignment for a five page story. There were also many, many, many believable moments and moments where I was committing pieces of the story to my memory as though I were reading about neighbors or friends that I thought I knew. The first paper did the same thing, albeit with far less subtlety. So I ended up in a situation where the second paper scored two As and an F. Averaged out to a C. From the stand point of "as hard a science as something subjective as grading papers can be." In the end I tuned the C up to a B for the other points of craftsmanship that can't really be covered and agreed upon in the realm of the lowest common denominator of general and identifiable human experience. I probably should have tuned the other paper from an A to a B as well for rote underachievement.
As a grading system it struck me as fairly useful as a starting point for getting a sense of issues, strengths, and weaknesses. But also as a starting point for conversation, discussion, and argument about grades being given out. Using it, I could explain to student A why their paper of X length graded out better than student B's paper of Y length without having to think back to what I was thinking about when I scribbled the notes I scribbled and then have to hunt through the nebulous territory of assigning those thoughts to grades. Now I had a way of saying "everything else aside, this is why you got this score" and "all things considered in concert, this is how my personal opinion and subjectivity changed that score." It was a pretty detailed dream for half an hour of sleeping. Not as ridiculous or action packed as the other dream, but just as good.
I made that this afternoon. Just trying to get away from failure and into a little success. Turned out exactly how I wanted it too. I wish there was a way to make it rain in the summer time. Anything to peel back the heat. Summer really is the most miserable set of months known to man. Gotta move farther north. Since there is no cloud generator available. I'll tell you about the other dream later. I'll try and draw it up a little more. Get back to doing what I love to do when I'm not writing or out getting dirty playing in the sun or at home moping and cringing against the ticks of time. I wanted to do some paper crafts today, but I'm out of time - because I went out to play for three hours instead of working, but I still think I managed to better myself either way. Oh well. Sorry to bore you. I guess not every day is a hustle. Some days are a shuffle. Or maybe just a think. And now I'm tired and I still have to go to work so, let's get it on. And by get it on I mean dive into sleep. Might try to cross the bridge for a little while and see what's going on in Universe B. Or not. Those trips can be just as tiring as walking these planes some days.
See ya later.
///Boards of Canada - "Seeya Later" I have to leave, but wait up for me. I'll be back soon.
7/20/11
Time Rides Again
My 18th birthday is tomorrow.
I am two months and 28 days into my 26th iteration.
At maximum effort it will take approximately six more months to save $1000.
Eight days off of chemical mediation.
It has been 12 days since I felt genuine happiness.
20 hours since I last fantasized about cutting someone's face off and eating it.
Twelve hours since I last put something in my mouth that was food.
Two days since I had a dream about flying.
Five hours since I heard crying and could not find the source.
Twenty six hours since I crossed the bridge last.
Ten hours and forty minutes since I felt adrenaline course through me, knifing through traffic.
Sixteen hours since I discovered my downstairs neighbors are the only white people in my building.
Thirty hours and sixteen minutes since the upstairs neighbors were evicted into a thunderstorm.
One year and nine months since I last had sex.
Six months and twenty days since I declared I would not be denied a full time job.
110 days and 14 hours since I started a still undelivered gift for a friend.
24 hours since I found out temp labor is essentially a scam for those over 21.
16 days since I dislocated my knee and broke a tooth.
Fifty three days since I found and did not hang card paper to spray paint.
98 minutes since I opened a book and read for fun.
14 minutes since I bruised my knuckles.
4 minutes since I smiled last.
20 seconds since I entertained my dream of life minus all the fucking bullshit that tears time away from us like sickles to sheep bellies and scatters it confetti and demands you collect it all up again before taking another step forward, or die.
5 seconds since I wished I could go back to sleep and wake with no memory of a single thing from my past again.
Too long since I've been back here. It's a broken watch. In the sense that the watch keeper does so in a broken way. Hello world, the computer says. You won't betray me too, I ask. I would never, the computer says. I am only an epitaph in your pen and thus true well beyond the worm food of you. Awww, come here, I say. Hug. Drop lights. And scene.
///The Future Sound of London - "Dirty Shadows" Sometimes the shadows on the walls crawl on your skin and claw their way in and trace the bends and levies to your stem and throttle you cold to the land of neversleep.
I am two months and 28 days into my 26th iteration.
At maximum effort it will take approximately six more months to save $1000.
Eight days off of chemical mediation.
It has been 12 days since I felt genuine happiness.
20 hours since I last fantasized about cutting someone's face off and eating it.
Twelve hours since I last put something in my mouth that was food.
Two days since I had a dream about flying.
Five hours since I heard crying and could not find the source.
Twenty six hours since I crossed the bridge last.
Ten hours and forty minutes since I felt adrenaline course through me, knifing through traffic.
Sixteen hours since I discovered my downstairs neighbors are the only white people in my building.
Thirty hours and sixteen minutes since the upstairs neighbors were evicted into a thunderstorm.
One year and nine months since I last had sex.
Six months and twenty days since I declared I would not be denied a full time job.
110 days and 14 hours since I started a still undelivered gift for a friend.
24 hours since I found out temp labor is essentially a scam for those over 21.
16 days since I dislocated my knee and broke a tooth.
Fifty three days since I found and did not hang card paper to spray paint.
98 minutes since I opened a book and read for fun.
14 minutes since I bruised my knuckles.
4 minutes since I smiled last.
20 seconds since I entertained my dream of life minus all the fucking bullshit that tears time away from us like sickles to sheep bellies and scatters it confetti and demands you collect it all up again before taking another step forward, or die.
5 seconds since I wished I could go back to sleep and wake with no memory of a single thing from my past again.
Too long since I've been back here. It's a broken watch. In the sense that the watch keeper does so in a broken way. Hello world, the computer says. You won't betray me too, I ask. I would never, the computer says. I am only an epitaph in your pen and thus true well beyond the worm food of you. Awww, come here, I say. Hug. Drop lights. And scene.
///The Future Sound of London - "Dirty Shadows" Sometimes the shadows on the walls crawl on your skin and claw their way in and trace the bends and levies to your stem and throttle you cold to the land of neversleep.
4/19/11
Under Consideration and Lesser Titles for Greater Things
Having experienced various points of system shock through various psychological breaking points over the last five days there are so many facets of existence to consider. I guess first and foremost is the relationship between- brake fail. Entry point. New thread. Same thread. If I want to enter into steady state society, contiguous existence, beyond the high speed passes, lower the charge without damaging consciousness- skip break. how far can you go. how far are you willing to go to make sure you don't die alone. Found it.
The hole. If the break cannot be controlled and it has been demonstrated that the entry points are getting. Growing in number beyond traceability to a point of trustlessness and protection to enter to ask. We already know we can't ask without. The offer is real isn't it? Standing for the claimant. The ability. To reject the known for the unknown again. To start it over. We did it for her once. For both her and us and now we face ourselves and potentially the division from. And entry into not just the hole, but what lives inside.
I'd forgotten what great company was. For some time. I thought I understood to an extent. And the reality apart from the extent of understanding was more incredible. More fantastic than I could have hoped. I've heard that heaven's gonna burn your eyes, but I didn't believe it. The noises were amazing. Would we still feel it inside. Could we know it if we did.
I'm trying to reconstruct the memories. They are without sensations. The ones from that earlier time and rocky trial of prescriptions. Disconcerting eveness. All things advance. Could it really be any different from the functional calls to operations and sectional being. Yes. It would have to be. Out of the reason that the responses are all. Why not have access to. that's part of the issue. The access is cut apart. But how badly do you not want to die alone. And there's the fear that comes without description. Because there is no description for what exists apart from the ability to describe. But released from what can be described and known though invisible artifacts of the corrupted and tuned highly tuned circuit. Facing a way. A way in. A way out. A way in. To become less and a part of.
So we'll walk into it. And find what has been seen. And see it again. Charting space and spaces. We'll see what happens through this week. Thursday and straight on till morning. Not goodbye. An extended hello. To further modification. Answers. A heaven that will burn your eyes. A start of beginnings. That are loops and waves. On our insides drawing together divisions. Of necessity and being. It will throw our ways. I'll catch you yet. And maybe there really is nothing inside of that hole anymore. Or maybe the only way to deal with it is entry into. We'll find what lies and lower the charge and enter into the gravity of society. Space is just too cold. So I've learned. And it's taken loss to unravel that concept. I'll catch you if you'll wait for me. I don't like to promise much, but just don't leave too soon. I'm gonna drive it straight into the atmosphere. The flames will be gorgeous, but by the time my wheels touch the ground the tiles and plates and cooling vents will be easy on the eyes and ears and to the touch. The runway's not as long as it used to be. I didn't pack a chute when I left.
///Thievery Corporation - "Heaven's Gonna Burn Your Eyes" ...you can't be afraid forever... so I'm going to try a different way to be brave and maybe there will be a hero's welcome yet. Don't wish us luck. Save it for the day I shake your hand. That's when I'll need it. And we'll sit down with some coffee and I can tell you all about where the fuck I've really been and maybe there'll still be something left behind my eyes familiar to you and we both.
The hole. If the break cannot be controlled and it has been demonstrated that the entry points are getting. Growing in number beyond traceability to a point of trustlessness and protection to enter to ask. We already know we can't ask without. The offer is real isn't it? Standing for the claimant. The ability. To reject the known for the unknown again. To start it over. We did it for her once. For both her and us and now we face ourselves and potentially the division from. And entry into not just the hole, but what lives inside.
I'd forgotten what great company was. For some time. I thought I understood to an extent. And the reality apart from the extent of understanding was more incredible. More fantastic than I could have hoped. I've heard that heaven's gonna burn your eyes, but I didn't believe it. The noises were amazing. Would we still feel it inside. Could we know it if we did.
I'm trying to reconstruct the memories. They are without sensations. The ones from that earlier time and rocky trial of prescriptions. Disconcerting eveness. All things advance. Could it really be any different from the functional calls to operations and sectional being. Yes. It would have to be. Out of the reason that the responses are all. Why not have access to. that's part of the issue. The access is cut apart. But how badly do you not want to die alone. And there's the fear that comes without description. Because there is no description for what exists apart from the ability to describe. But released from what can be described and known though invisible artifacts of the corrupted and tuned highly tuned circuit. Facing a way. A way in. A way out. A way in. To become less and a part of.
So we'll walk into it. And find what has been seen. And see it again. Charting space and spaces. We'll see what happens through this week. Thursday and straight on till morning. Not goodbye. An extended hello. To further modification. Answers. A heaven that will burn your eyes. A start of beginnings. That are loops and waves. On our insides drawing together divisions. Of necessity and being. It will throw our ways. I'll catch you yet. And maybe there really is nothing inside of that hole anymore. Or maybe the only way to deal with it is entry into. We'll find what lies and lower the charge and enter into the gravity of society. Space is just too cold. So I've learned. And it's taken loss to unravel that concept. I'll catch you if you'll wait for me. I don't like to promise much, but just don't leave too soon. I'm gonna drive it straight into the atmosphere. The flames will be gorgeous, but by the time my wheels touch the ground the tiles and plates and cooling vents will be easy on the eyes and ears and to the touch. The runway's not as long as it used to be. I didn't pack a chute when I left.
///Thievery Corporation - "Heaven's Gonna Burn Your Eyes" ...you can't be afraid forever... so I'm going to try a different way to be brave and maybe there will be a hero's welcome yet. Don't wish us luck. Save it for the day I shake your hand. That's when I'll need it. And we'll sit down with some coffee and I can tell you all about where the fuck I've really been and maybe there'll still be something left behind my eyes familiar to you and we both.
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