What scares you? What scares you? What really fucking scares you? That he's better than you? That he's better than you in every way? That the choice was the right one? That she's still down there enabling him? That the paper is still blank? That the paint has gotten too old to use? That he might be angry at you instead of with you? That you are not properly equipped? That the next gas station may be out of range? That your keys are at home? That you are being entertained? That you're not incorporated? That the bug may be permanent? That there is not enough gauze? That the tuna may run out? What really scares you?
Don't make me wait. I am exceptionally patient except when I'm not. I don't know what really scares me, for what I've compensated for. I do know what really scares me. All of the above. Very long knee jerk reactions. Knee jerk reactions spanning days and weeks and months and now years. I'm okay with it, I suppose. We never do come for money, except when we specifically do.
What scares me is not the not knowing for sure. What scares me is not knowing how to respond at an appropriate volume. Of course they can tune you out at will. Which is nice. The option takes a bit of the guess work out. I typed guest work. It's true, though. You are a guest. We are guests. And they can. I'm not where the being polite or respectful or conscientious ends and being a good proper guest and friend ends. Division by addition feels like it works. The results are wishywashy. Concernedly so.
Why will you not tell me? Do you believe that I will somehow be irrevocably shattered by the information? Do you believe that I will somehow be so shaken that I cry all of the water out of my body and shrivel up and die? It makes me laugh the not good laugh to think that may be true. If you're not a friend, you're not. Friend is the worst "F" word. Loaded for no reason. If you're not an associate, you're not an associate and that's perfectly fine. You can waste time if you like. Placate me too, if it twists your earlobe good when you get the itch. I'm fine with that too.
I think what I'm trying to articulate is that what scares me the most is that I am in hot pursuit of avenues of communication and the way it comes out is a three dimensional graphics sprint into a brick wall, legs chugging, my little arrow on the map, my associates viewing and confused. What really fucking scares me is not communicating in an understandable and lagoon clear way.
Though I may be a dragon, if you speak lizard, I can talk to you. We can do dragon business. Fear doesn't scare me. Occasionally, day light does. Police officers and their flashlights too, but I am civil and citizen.
I want to listen to the Penguin Freud orchestra and hear more songs about Easter Island and travel more. Growing up American. Straight up fucking American. The child of explorers. The child of, perhaps, orphans and seafarers now land locked and fairly domesticated. The child of pressure and heat and weapons and bombs and "on threat of death." A child whose fences end where the nuclear powered ships cannot go. Yeah, I'm good with that. How long does it take to breed the grit and horizon lust out of the genes? How long does it take to saw off the hard nosed muzzle and graft in the gatherer for the hunter? Fuck if I know.
///Seatbelts - "Spokey Dokey" and they called me old fashioned. they called me old fashioned!
///
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 birds. Show all posts
Showing posts with label birds. Show all posts
8/18/14
5/3/14
You Need To Vibrate Higher and The Good News (and the bad news)
I want to get the bad news out of the way first, but the bad news is also the good news. Let's do that first. The good news is we've made some changes, but they will not stick. Self doubt. The results were not at all to expectation. The expectation was, through dropping metaphor, there could be achieved a clearer stage of communication between people, but it only introduced severe complications. We're going to go ahead and burn that solution so hard it leaves shadows against the walls of my head.
It was a spirited effort and executed to the best of our abilities, but ultimately a failure. Well intentioned though. It introduced an incredible amount of doubt in meaning and second guessing, even more so than the use of extended metaphor. "Is now the time to be blunt?" "Are you being blunt enough?" "Who are you speaking for because I know for damn sure you are not speaking for me." There was an excessive amount of hate and miscommunication circulating because of the effort and action to connect A to D effectively. It was a worthy pursuit. Always diagnose actionable thoroughfares. ADAT.
ADAT is a friendly reminder to carry with you. When confusion eats in, the best way back toward organization is through ADAT. Understand, however, there is only so much to be gained in terms of growth through deviation from the path best traveled. It's not about volume or trail blazing. Select what will allow you to travel and utilize your abilities to the best of their purpose. What good is the path less traveled if you're not equipped to attack it? What good is the path most traveled if you're not equipped to attack it? Destruction.
I'm not going to put on my sage hat because I don't have one. Mostly, I could really go for some coke right now. I think I already told you, but every time I hear the Coca Cola commercial that ends with "smile because it's coke" I snicker a little because I know other people have caught it too. We're all people. Some of us are more people than others.
I have to remind myself that I am not spinning my wheels. If I was it would be, easily, the show stopper of all burn outs at the muscle car convention. I am not marking time (I am). I am side tracking myself, but still tracking.
Anyway, the good news is we are making some changes. The bad news is we are making some changes. What has been added cannot be subtracted because it will tirelessly and quietly shred my insides with abandon. There's is no doubling back. There is, but I will not forgive myself if I do. I am not looking forward to changes. I will still ask questions because I have the memory capacity of a goldfish when it comes to current events that do not scar hard enough to wake up the following day and demand investigation. Which is fine. That, we can do. You don't have to punch me in the brain pan, you just have to make sure I will ask myself about it later and get some answers. The latter half of that being key.
You need to vibrate higher. As unpleasant as it sounds, it must be done. Not in the spirit of further development or outside tracking or productivity or any multi-syllabic word. In terms of exorcising the engine. The engine has been well breathed of late, but needs exorcised. Far too many misfires. What was accomplished recently could have been accomplished four weeks ago if not for the misfires. Those should be remedied.
Remediation through vibration. Knocking and being quiet enough to hear the knock back. It's not easy. It is very easy to allow distraction. It's not easy to be quiet enough to hear the knock back loud enough to know whereabouts to knock next. That's the hard part. I think that's where I've been dropping the ball. Forgotten how to navigate silence. Not entirely forgotten, but locked the skill away for reasons I do not clearly remember, but looking at it from the outside I suspect it had something to do with trying to actively connect with people. A holdover from a submission that failed or succeeded (hell if I know) that was still being invoked to the detriment of the rest of us.
There is nothing in the desert. And no man needs nothing. Aberrations, hallucinations, and oasis's and dry docks aside... that was a mistake. Actually, not aside, but in hand. It was a mistake and poorly executed operation. S'ok though, don't mug yourself. Mistakes are made to learn repair. You're going to jam it up again. We both know this.
The good news is we're going to make changes. The bad news is we're going to make changes. We will vibrate higher. Hibernation is not an option. Do not convince yourself otherwise. Get mad. You know what you are. Stop talking yourself out of it. Stop fighting it.
Things have been a bit upside down. It's very difficult to connect with people and continue to maintain the routine that is so desperately needed. I have not been so outwardly frustrated with how clearly against the grain of normal I am than I have been through this last month. It's like getting hit in the teeth with a metal ruler on full spring. My head keeps screaming "GET AWAY FROM ME OR I WILL RUN!" and I don't know what to do about it.
I think that's why I cherish and despise free time at once. Free time is too much time to think and work is too much work to create. It would be different if it was a mixture of the two. It would be different if I could handle a tincture of the two. I cannot. It has to be one or the other. And still, atop that, is the difficulty, the pain of emotion that keeps coming stamped "on pain of death" if not exercised. I want to feel, as much as you do. I want to feel and not force. I do not understand why they must force me. Sometimes the forcing is enjoyable. It wakes me up where I would otherwise fall dead, emotionless. I cannot take it all of the time though. Why can they not understand that? I want to say no. My body tells me no. My head tells me no. My heart tells me no. So where is this motor coming from?
Am I an extension of you? Not again. Not again. Not again! Yes, again. I'm not. I don't love many people. Not in terms of justifying existences or anything near that cosmic in scale. More important, I don't trust many people. I'm not sure where I'm going with it.
Collecting.
I wish we spoke the same language instead of crying.
Crying being universal and cross dimensioned, but all too simple to express the depths to which we go.
///Massive Attack & David Bowie - "Nature Boy"
It was a spirited effort and executed to the best of our abilities, but ultimately a failure. Well intentioned though. It introduced an incredible amount of doubt in meaning and second guessing, even more so than the use of extended metaphor. "Is now the time to be blunt?" "Are you being blunt enough?" "Who are you speaking for because I know for damn sure you are not speaking for me." There was an excessive amount of hate and miscommunication circulating because of the effort and action to connect A to D effectively. It was a worthy pursuit. Always diagnose actionable thoroughfares. ADAT.
ADAT is a friendly reminder to carry with you. When confusion eats in, the best way back toward organization is through ADAT. Understand, however, there is only so much to be gained in terms of growth through deviation from the path best traveled. It's not about volume or trail blazing. Select what will allow you to travel and utilize your abilities to the best of their purpose. What good is the path less traveled if you're not equipped to attack it? What good is the path most traveled if you're not equipped to attack it? Destruction.
I'm not going to put on my sage hat because I don't have one. Mostly, I could really go for some coke right now. I think I already told you, but every time I hear the Coca Cola commercial that ends with "smile because it's coke" I snicker a little because I know other people have caught it too. We're all people. Some of us are more people than others.
I have to remind myself that I am not spinning my wheels. If I was it would be, easily, the show stopper of all burn outs at the muscle car convention. I am not marking time (I am). I am side tracking myself, but still tracking.
Anyway, the good news is we are making some changes. The bad news is we are making some changes. What has been added cannot be subtracted because it will tirelessly and quietly shred my insides with abandon. There's is no doubling back. There is, but I will not forgive myself if I do. I am not looking forward to changes. I will still ask questions because I have the memory capacity of a goldfish when it comes to current events that do not scar hard enough to wake up the following day and demand investigation. Which is fine. That, we can do. You don't have to punch me in the brain pan, you just have to make sure I will ask myself about it later and get some answers. The latter half of that being key.
You need to vibrate higher. As unpleasant as it sounds, it must be done. Not in the spirit of further development or outside tracking or productivity or any multi-syllabic word. In terms of exorcising the engine. The engine has been well breathed of late, but needs exorcised. Far too many misfires. What was accomplished recently could have been accomplished four weeks ago if not for the misfires. Those should be remedied.
Remediation through vibration. Knocking and being quiet enough to hear the knock back. It's not easy. It is very easy to allow distraction. It's not easy to be quiet enough to hear the knock back loud enough to know whereabouts to knock next. That's the hard part. I think that's where I've been dropping the ball. Forgotten how to navigate silence. Not entirely forgotten, but locked the skill away for reasons I do not clearly remember, but looking at it from the outside I suspect it had something to do with trying to actively connect with people. A holdover from a submission that failed or succeeded (hell if I know) that was still being invoked to the detriment of the rest of us.
There is nothing in the desert. And no man needs nothing. Aberrations, hallucinations, and oasis's and dry docks aside... that was a mistake. Actually, not aside, but in hand. It was a mistake and poorly executed operation. S'ok though, don't mug yourself. Mistakes are made to learn repair. You're going to jam it up again. We both know this.
The good news is we're going to make changes. The bad news is we're going to make changes. We will vibrate higher. Hibernation is not an option. Do not convince yourself otherwise. Get mad. You know what you are. Stop talking yourself out of it. Stop fighting it.
Things have been a bit upside down. It's very difficult to connect with people and continue to maintain the routine that is so desperately needed. I have not been so outwardly frustrated with how clearly against the grain of normal I am than I have been through this last month. It's like getting hit in the teeth with a metal ruler on full spring. My head keeps screaming "GET AWAY FROM ME OR I WILL RUN!" and I don't know what to do about it.
I think that's why I cherish and despise free time at once. Free time is too much time to think and work is too much work to create. It would be different if it was a mixture of the two. It would be different if I could handle a tincture of the two. I cannot. It has to be one or the other. And still, atop that, is the difficulty, the pain of emotion that keeps coming stamped "on pain of death" if not exercised. I want to feel, as much as you do. I want to feel and not force. I do not understand why they must force me. Sometimes the forcing is enjoyable. It wakes me up where I would otherwise fall dead, emotionless. I cannot take it all of the time though. Why can they not understand that? I want to say no. My body tells me no. My head tells me no. My heart tells me no. So where is this motor coming from?
Am I an extension of you? Not again. Not again. Not again! Yes, again. I'm not. I don't love many people. Not in terms of justifying existences or anything near that cosmic in scale. More important, I don't trust many people. I'm not sure where I'm going with it.
Collecting.
I wish we spoke the same language instead of crying.
Crying being universal and cross dimensioned, but all too simple to express the depths to which we go.
///Massive Attack & David Bowie - "Nature Boy"
3/28/14
What Was Meant and What Was Done
I have a hard enough time sleeping at home, let alone sleeping in other places. Always believing I am going to be raped again for passivity or robbed or worse. They're coming for you. They always are, it's just that sometimes you get to see them coming and sometimes you do not.
I'm not afraid of death. That's silly. Everyone dies. Everyone suffers. I've gifted you the daylight hours so stay out of my evening. Is simple enough to say. Much more complicated to live by. Why is it necessary? A matter of control? To an extent. A matter of provocation? Also, to an extent. Consider it a dictation of terms.
If I am to die, let it be beneath a sun. That's not asking too much. Constantly hunted, can a body be blamed for wanting a reversal of roles? Outfoxed the ghosts.... this time.... not really. Still outside. Every time I open my front door they're there. Monsters underneath the bed, if you will. Acceptable terms of endearment.
I don't understand. Call me atheist or call me fractured. Or call me by my name so that I know you are and are not a glitch trip. I'll appreciate it. I may not say so, but I'll appreciate it. I may not say so because I know they're listening too and watching too and it took them some years to be vocal as they are and a division had to come or risk carrying on with, for lack of a better term, phantoms.
Paranoia has been nibbling. I've been thinking very long and very hard about a reasonable solution. What we came to was, this year, we will wear a straw woven hat. It'll look good on me. And that's something! Something to roll on with.
No one means to stand watch all night. Everyone breaths a little easier knowing another one has passed and the weapons can be laid down again because the sun is a very very very reliable and undeniable night light.
///Sneaker Pimps - "Wife By Two Thousand" mr. noename
I'm not afraid of death. That's silly. Everyone dies. Everyone suffers. I've gifted you the daylight hours so stay out of my evening. Is simple enough to say. Much more complicated to live by. Why is it necessary? A matter of control? To an extent. A matter of provocation? Also, to an extent. Consider it a dictation of terms.
If I am to die, let it be beneath a sun. That's not asking too much. Constantly hunted, can a body be blamed for wanting a reversal of roles? Outfoxed the ghosts.... this time.... not really. Still outside. Every time I open my front door they're there. Monsters underneath the bed, if you will. Acceptable terms of endearment.
I don't understand. Call me atheist or call me fractured. Or call me by my name so that I know you are and are not a glitch trip. I'll appreciate it. I may not say so, but I'll appreciate it. I may not say so because I know they're listening too and watching too and it took them some years to be vocal as they are and a division had to come or risk carrying on with, for lack of a better term, phantoms.
Paranoia has been nibbling. I've been thinking very long and very hard about a reasonable solution. What we came to was, this year, we will wear a straw woven hat. It'll look good on me. And that's something! Something to roll on with.
No one means to stand watch all night. Everyone breaths a little easier knowing another one has passed and the weapons can be laid down again because the sun is a very very very reliable and undeniable night light.
///Sneaker Pimps - "Wife By Two Thousand" mr. noename
10/23/13
Bed Time Story 2 (51 text messages to my sister)
It was a routine
take off. The sun was low and behind, about to tuck itself to bed behind the
Monmut mountains edging the salt basin of the Campmine desert
She prepared as usual when her alarm went off at five p.m. playing loud, nudging her out of dreams
It was her favorite song. Slow jazz but not easy listening. The woman on the record asked, in her bowling ball tenor rolling across the jazz lounge smoke through flower hats and bow ties "how are youuuu, todaaaaayayeaye. I came here to playaaaaayeaye"
She didn't light up after her hand swiped the red digited clock off her night stand
Today was the same, but a little different. The city lights would be on beneath her. The stars would wink to life above her, but the X-two two four around her was on her maiden record attempt and her nerves were steel.
At the edge, a mistake of any proportion could be fatal. Nerves were unreliable. Senses, however, could get her back home
The briefing went well. She painted her nails a vioently subtle purple while her black coffee steamed in its styrofoam cup while the lieutenant went on and on about the fighter/bombers specifications in front of the touch screen while she tried to find a comfortable way to sit in a plastic folding chair in a room too hot and not think about where in hell the annual budget went
Janice already went over the six hundred page manual twice and knew it backwards and front. she could've Built the damn thing in the time the briefing took.
She blew on her fingertips and sipped some more coffee.
Outside of the bubble canopy, the sun laid deep red and orange streaks across the salt flats, bunkers, and air traffic tower where dinosaur fish hundreds of feet long used to swim.
She whistled her song into her respirator, nodding her head and thinking about how good it would be to touch down and take off her twenty pound helmet.
Glancing left and right, runway lights came to life, she reminded herself she didn't have to wait for the weapons crews to load up the hard points on the X-224s wings. Her wings.
It was not a weapons test. It was a dual test of woman and machine and settling in to her cockpit, adjusting her harnesses, she moved her gloved hand to the throttle without a cloud in the sky
"alright, Lionmane, its just you and me today. Be good.". She toggled her radio switch with a wink to her in helmet display, the dual turbines thrumming quiet as an aeroplane is capable behind her head.
"This is Rainbow Nugget, ready for all go on your signal Walking Stick."
The control tower came back, the controller chuckling at her call sign despite himself, "Rainbow nugget, you are clear for go. Be safe out there. Don't scratch the paint."
"I'll bring him back in one piece, you get the wine cooling. I'm gonna need a pick me up when this is over." she winked again at her visor display and took a deep breath.
Without the crackle of the radio, the jet engine buzz was too quiet. Her left hand flew across the dials and switches on her console, yellow lights blinking softly to solid green.
The chime rang through the cockpit. Lionmane X two two four sighing back "I am ready"
She toggled the brake switch, turned on her wing tip and running lights and hauled on the throttle with her right.
The tower half a mile away tore through her vision as the engines screamed. Water condensed on the canopy front, capturing the sun at her back in burned gold droplets as she broke the sound barrier once and then twice.
She winked her radio back on and barked against the breast squeezing gee force: "systems stable. Vertical climb!"
The X-224s landing gear mashed the sand like a drunk through the middle of a street hanging onto their beau for dear life before finally letting go.
The twin tails streaked into the evening sky as she held the throttle at maximum. The Tower, miles behind, came back. "Rainbow Nugget, you are clear. Have you on the board. You are on pace for time to climb record."
"Systems stable!" she barked back, Earth doing everything it could to collapse her lungs
Over her shoulder, as the engines screamed and the composite alloy frame of the X 224 shook, the sun began to rise over the sloping peaks of the Monmut mountain ridge.
The basin beneath her shrank to a football field and then a coin. She held the throttle down. The Tower came back: "Rainbow Nugget, you are clear, you are clear. Looking good."
Janice grit her teeth, "I know!"
The sun shone like mid day. her visor tinted itself, twin contrails scorching upward. "Afterburn!" she shouted as her pressure suit began to force circulation through her limbs.
With all of the strength she could muster she lifted her hand from the throttle, flipped the clear plastic cover from the bright yellow and black deadmans switch and pressed the lime green button at its center
At the base, 30 pounds of TNT went off over their heads. The control tower shook like a twig in a thunderstorm as the lionmanes engines tore the sky apart and two new stars blazed to life in the evening sky.
The Tower came back, "we have you on visual!" unable to contain their calm.
Janice held her thumb to the switch and touched the stick with the gentleness of a mother cleaning a kitten.
The canopy turned, too quickly at first, and more slowly. Janice gave a ferocious glance across the console before risking turning her head away.
The canopy spun at her fingertips and as she climbed the sun set again behind the shadow of her wing tip.
The sky began to darken and the lights of Santa Monica, Las angeles, Eugene, San Antonio, Austin, and Denver grew brighter and brighter. "Where's Mexico city," she chuckle rasped to herself.
"Rainbow Nugget, you've got the record, bring him in whenever you're green." She nodded, tearing her eyes away from the ground.
"I hear!" she barked, not yet ready. The sky turned blue and then black and in that midnight blanket the stars came to life in front of her.
All around they shined with a brilliance that pulled at her heart harder and harder as she held her thumb to the afterburn switch
"Rainbow Nugget, be advised you're running out of air up there."
"Walking Stick, I hear y-" the X- 224s thrashing rumble ceased.
The g forces crushing her body reversed direction and threw her forward hard enough to send her hand through her head up display atop her console, shattering it
"Rainbow we have you losing speed, copy?"
The stars began to spin outside of the canopy. City lights, then stars, then cities again. Her eyes raced, cueing the visor display to go to this and that menu, lines of information and diagrams and maps whipping by. They raced like one hundred horses loosed from their pens across her in helmet display
Steady green lights turned to flashing yellow and then sharp and solid red. "Rainbow, do you copy??"
as her eyes raced they picked out pieces of information. "Flame out," she shouted to herself as she rammed the throttle to zero and worked her hands across the dials.
"Come back?" the Tower shouted through her earpiece.
"Flameout! Walking Stick! Flameout!" She winked at her visor to close the radio link as her hands continued to work furiously.
The X - 224 no longer arrowed upward. It spun end over end until momentum could carry it no further and began its descent. With no more air to feed engines, the lionmane became a fuel filled 3000 pound free falling bomb
"air brakes," she told herself, "now!" her hands flew and the lionmanes frame rumbled with the back up hydraulic systems effort beneath her ejector seat
"im not giving up on you!" she shouted at her console, her eyes flying behind her visor as the stars spinning outside her canopy began to wink out and the sun began to rise again.
She pumped the fuel from nothing to the kitchen sink as the X 224s end over end flattened out into a frisbee toss. "god damn it, remember!"
Her mind tore through the pages of the manual and the briefing and the sequences as she read her speed by altitude and knew she could fire the landing gear without ripping it clean off.
The city lights slipped completely from view as the Monmut ridge rotated in and out of view
She pumped the fuel from nothing to the kitchen sink as the X 224s end over end flattened out into a frisbee toss. "god damn it, remember!"
Her mind tore through the pages of the manual and the briefing and the sequences as she read her speed by altitude and knew she could fire the landing gear without ripping it clean off.
The city lights slipped completely from view as the Monmut ridge rotated in and out of view
She pulled up her backup head up display inside her helmet and caught her heart in her mouth. The zeroes on the altimeter were disappearing much too fast.
She prepared as usual when her alarm went off at five p.m. playing loud, nudging her out of dreams
It was her favorite song. Slow jazz but not easy listening. The woman on the record asked, in her bowling ball tenor rolling across the jazz lounge smoke through flower hats and bow ties "how are youuuu, todaaaaayayeaye. I came here to playaaaaayeaye"
She didn't light up after her hand swiped the red digited clock off her night stand
Today was the same, but a little different. The city lights would be on beneath her. The stars would wink to life above her, but the X-two two four around her was on her maiden record attempt and her nerves were steel.
At the edge, a mistake of any proportion could be fatal. Nerves were unreliable. Senses, however, could get her back home
The briefing went well. She painted her nails a vioently subtle purple while her black coffee steamed in its styrofoam cup while the lieutenant went on and on about the fighter/bombers specifications in front of the touch screen while she tried to find a comfortable way to sit in a plastic folding chair in a room too hot and not think about where in hell the annual budget went
Janice already went over the six hundred page manual twice and knew it backwards and front. she could've Built the damn thing in the time the briefing took.
She blew on her fingertips and sipped some more coffee.
Outside of the bubble canopy, the sun laid deep red and orange streaks across the salt flats, bunkers, and air traffic tower where dinosaur fish hundreds of feet long used to swim.
She whistled her song into her respirator, nodding her head and thinking about how good it would be to touch down and take off her twenty pound helmet.
Glancing left and right, runway lights came to life, she reminded herself she didn't have to wait for the weapons crews to load up the hard points on the X-224s wings. Her wings.
It was not a weapons test. It was a dual test of woman and machine and settling in to her cockpit, adjusting her harnesses, she moved her gloved hand to the throttle without a cloud in the sky
"alright, Lionmane, its just you and me today. Be good.". She toggled her radio switch with a wink to her in helmet display, the dual turbines thrumming quiet as an aeroplane is capable behind her head.
"This is Rainbow Nugget, ready for all go on your signal Walking Stick."
The control tower came back, the controller chuckling at her call sign despite himself, "Rainbow nugget, you are clear for go. Be safe out there. Don't scratch the paint."
"I'll bring him back in one piece, you get the wine cooling. I'm gonna need a pick me up when this is over." she winked again at her visor display and took a deep breath.
Without the crackle of the radio, the jet engine buzz was too quiet. Her left hand flew across the dials and switches on her console, yellow lights blinking softly to solid green.
The chime rang through the cockpit. Lionmane X two two four sighing back "I am ready"
She toggled the brake switch, turned on her wing tip and running lights and hauled on the throttle with her right.
The tower half a mile away tore through her vision as the engines screamed. Water condensed on the canopy front, capturing the sun at her back in burned gold droplets as she broke the sound barrier once and then twice.
She winked her radio back on and barked against the breast squeezing gee force: "systems stable. Vertical climb!"
The X-224s landing gear mashed the sand like a drunk through the middle of a street hanging onto their beau for dear life before finally letting go.
The twin tails streaked into the evening sky as she held the throttle at maximum. The Tower, miles behind, came back. "Rainbow Nugget, you are clear. Have you on the board. You are on pace for time to climb record."
"Systems stable!" she barked back, Earth doing everything it could to collapse her lungs
Over her shoulder, as the engines screamed and the composite alloy frame of the X 224 shook, the sun began to rise over the sloping peaks of the Monmut mountain ridge.
The basin beneath her shrank to a football field and then a coin. She held the throttle down. The Tower came back: "Rainbow Nugget, you are clear, you are clear. Looking good."
Janice grit her teeth, "I know!"
The sun shone like mid day. her visor tinted itself, twin contrails scorching upward. "Afterburn!" she shouted as her pressure suit began to force circulation through her limbs.
With all of the strength she could muster she lifted her hand from the throttle, flipped the clear plastic cover from the bright yellow and black deadmans switch and pressed the lime green button at its center
At the base, 30 pounds of TNT went off over their heads. The control tower shook like a twig in a thunderstorm as the lionmanes engines tore the sky apart and two new stars blazed to life in the evening sky.
The Tower came back, "we have you on visual!" unable to contain their calm.
Janice held her thumb to the switch and touched the stick with the gentleness of a mother cleaning a kitten.
The canopy turned, too quickly at first, and more slowly. Janice gave a ferocious glance across the console before risking turning her head away.
The canopy spun at her fingertips and as she climbed the sun set again behind the shadow of her wing tip.
The sky began to darken and the lights of Santa Monica, Las angeles, Eugene, San Antonio, Austin, and Denver grew brighter and brighter. "Where's Mexico city," she chuckle rasped to herself.
"Rainbow Nugget, you've got the record, bring him in whenever you're green." She nodded, tearing her eyes away from the ground.
"I hear!" she barked, not yet ready. The sky turned blue and then black and in that midnight blanket the stars came to life in front of her.
All around they shined with a brilliance that pulled at her heart harder and harder as she held her thumb to the afterburn switch
"Rainbow Nugget, be advised you're running out of air up there."
"Walking Stick, I hear y-" the X- 224s thrashing rumble ceased.
The g forces crushing her body reversed direction and threw her forward hard enough to send her hand through her head up display atop her console, shattering it
"Rainbow we have you losing speed, copy?"
The stars began to spin outside of the canopy. City lights, then stars, then cities again. Her eyes raced, cueing the visor display to go to this and that menu, lines of information and diagrams and maps whipping by. They raced like one hundred horses loosed from their pens across her in helmet display
Steady green lights turned to flashing yellow and then sharp and solid red. "Rainbow, do you copy??"
as her eyes raced they picked out pieces of information. "Flame out," she shouted to herself as she rammed the throttle to zero and worked her hands across the dials.
"Come back?" the Tower shouted through her earpiece.
"Flameout! Walking Stick! Flameout!" She winked at her visor to close the radio link as her hands continued to work furiously.
The X - 224 no longer arrowed upward. It spun end over end until momentum could carry it no further and began its descent. With no more air to feed engines, the lionmane became a fuel filled 3000 pound free falling bomb
"air brakes," she told herself, "now!" her hands flew and the lionmanes frame rumbled with the back up hydraulic systems effort beneath her ejector seat
"im not giving up on you!" she shouted at her console, her eyes flying behind her visor as the stars spinning outside her canopy began to wink out and the sun began to rise again.
She pumped the fuel from nothing to the kitchen sink as the X 224s end over end flattened out into a frisbee toss. "god damn it, remember!"
Her mind tore through the pages of the manual and the briefing and the sequences as she read her speed by altitude and knew she could fire the landing gear without ripping it clean off.
The city lights slipped completely from view as the Monmut ridge rotated in and out of view
She pumped the fuel from nothing to the kitchen sink as the X 224s end over end flattened out into a frisbee toss. "god damn it, remember!"
Her mind tore through the pages of the manual and the briefing and the sequences as she read her speed by altitude and knew she could fire the landing gear without ripping it clean off.
The city lights slipped completely from view as the Monmut ridge rotated in and out of view
She pulled up her backup head up display inside her helmet and caught her heart in her mouth. The zeroes on the altimeter were disappearing much too fast.
She pumped the
fuel from nothing to the kitchen sink as the X 224s end over end flattened out
into a frisbee toss. "god damn it, remember!"
Her mind tore through the pages of the manual and the briefing and the sequences as she read her speed by altitude and knew she could fire the landing gear without ripping it clean off.
The city lights slipped completely from view as the Monmut ridge rotated in and out of view
"Fire! You son of a bitch, fire!" The fuel light blinked from yellow to green. The main hydraulic light showed solid green.
She tore her respirator from her face. "Start!" she rested her left hand on her ejector lever and hammered the throttle.
Above the tower a roar tore through the late afternoon sky.
Miles up two contrails ran like rails to the east as one and then another sonic boom rattled windows across state lines.
Janice pulled back on the throttle once the lights held and began a slow and looping decent to the salt basin, her heart still pounding.
She winked her radio on. "This is Rainbow Nugget for Walking Stick"
"Walking Stick here."
"Bringing him in."
"We have you on the board, the field is clear Rainbow Nugget. You've got the altitude record too"
The twin turbines thrummed in Janice's ears as she sighed, "glad to hear it," and winked her radio off.
The debriefing was going to be harsh, but no one could ever take the record away from her.
As the tires on the X 224s landing gear hit the salt and sand and rolled the beast along the runway past the control tower, Janice began to whistle and think about sleep. She sang softly as she shut down the engines "how are you today?" and the sun set behind the Monmut mountains
Gnite. <3 div="" u="">Her mind tore through the pages of the manual and the briefing and the sequences as she read her speed by altitude and knew she could fire the landing gear without ripping it clean off.
The city lights slipped completely from view as the Monmut ridge rotated in and out of view
"Fire! You son of a bitch, fire!" The fuel light blinked from yellow to green. The main hydraulic light showed solid green.
She tore her respirator from her face. "Start!" she rested her left hand on her ejector lever and hammered the throttle.
Above the tower a roar tore through the late afternoon sky.
Miles up two contrails ran like rails to the east as one and then another sonic boom rattled windows across state lines.
Janice pulled back on the throttle once the lights held and began a slow and looping decent to the salt basin, her heart still pounding.
She winked her radio on. "This is Rainbow Nugget for Walking Stick"
"Walking Stick here."
"Bringing him in."
"We have you on the board, the field is clear Rainbow Nugget. You've got the altitude record too"
The twin turbines thrummed in Janice's ears as she sighed, "glad to hear it," and winked her radio off.
The debriefing was going to be harsh, but no one could ever take the record away from her.
As the tires on the X 224s landing gear hit the salt and sand and rolled the beast along the runway past the control tower, Janice began to whistle and think about sleep. She sang softly as she shut down the engines "how are you today?" and the sun set behind the Monmut mountains
///Cleveland Lounge - "Drowning (Scuba Mix)" all the best to you on your sleep swim
6/21/13
Captions Less Pictures, Bagging, Girls, Cracked Year, and Making Time
I saw a zebra printed Cadillac coupe today. I saw it coming around the S curve, my favorite turn in the road in the two mile city where I live, and I was in awe from the get. "Who is so ballsy as to paint their car in zebra camouflage print and rock it like: this is how I always dress" is what was going through my mind. Then it got closer. The car had a blacked out grille, but I could see a Cadillac logo nested in there, completely blacked out. I looked harder while it got closer and I realized it was going, far and away, over the 25 mile-per-hour speed limit for the main road in my city and there was another blue Cadillac in its shadow going just as fast. That's when it hit me: "its a test mule!"
Sometimes car manufacturers will throw a new suspension geometry and engine and transmission underneath an old cowl and body work to shake it out and make sure it does what its supposed to do. I thought that might be what it was, so I didn't go for my camera. There are thousands of pictures of test mules and chasis that won't match when it comes to production or even car shows that are wrapped in zebra camo and it was nothing special, until I started to make out the lines.
The lines did not match up to anything I saw before. Two doors. Shorter C pillar. Thin B. A really long A. The thing was going pretty fast, but once I could start to see past the clutter of the zebra print I knew it was something new. I ripped at my pockets and threw off my backpack to try and find my phone so I could take a picture of it. It blew past me, with the chase car in tow and I was getting ready to chase it down just in case the streetlight changed. The lines were awesome. Way better than the last Cadillac coupe, but the light did not change and it went on. The exhaust note was kind of weird, but I'm sure they'll fix that in post. Watching it blow away, I knew I would never see it again. Possibly never see another prototype in action again, underneath the zebra wrap. If I do, from whatever distance, I know I should get my camera ready just in case. I don't know why I love machines so much. I do. I envy them. So damn sexy. So damn easy. So damn difficult at the same time.
I was going to tell my friends about it. The backlog of knowledge was overwhelming. They're good people, but they wouldn't get it. They wouldn't get it and on top of it all there was no picture. What I would be talking about would be a caption without a picture. I'd ramble on and on and on and in the end I would say something like "whatever, you had to be there." My heart shook watching it slip by like a knife into skin. The thing itself was so beautiful. Once my brain resolved the lines of the machine, I felt like a cheetah caught sleeping while a gazelle pranced on by in a giant Sunday flower hat on its way to church. Missed meals.
I'm not bagging on myself though. It's the first time that's ever happened. It wasn't a mule. It wasn't a prototype. It was the body design that will probably see production. I guess part of me just wanted to be as cool as everyone else who breaks photos on the car blogs and magazines. What it brings me to is bagging on things. "Baggin." Where does that come from? I found myself saying it the other day after thinking about something I said earlier to someone.
It's the writer in me. When you know you're a writer, you think about what you thought about when you said what you said and why you said it that way instead of another way. I don't count myself as a writer anymore. I see myself as a tool. Sometimes as a tool and sometimes as a tool. A tool that sometimes produces. Maybe I'm just a producer. Hah, no. I hate producing. A tool that generates? Yes. I'm a generator. Autonomic generator, that's as far as I can take ya, do you wanna be a part of, oh yes, yeah, I'm on it.
Bagging. I thought about it way too much. Bagging. To bag on someone. Bag on something. The Urban Dictionary was no help. What I think it means, as I've understood it, is to understand that what you are going up against is not at all what you wanted or needed and so you bag. You bag your street clothes because there's no work to be done. No actual work. Bag your street clothes. Whatever was thought to be done was already done or otherwise not doable, so bag your street clothes because the minute you get there is the same minute you know you didn't need to be there. Bag your drugs. The minute you get there and get a feel for what's going on you know you didn't need to be there, but you are, so you might as well enjoy the time you've already set aside. Get to a good place and everything else will follow for you. Maybe not for them, for you it's golden. Bag your expectations. Bag 'em up. Bag 'em up. Take them home with you and flush them down the toilet when you get there. Bag your lunch. Remember how they said you were going to eat good when you got there and lunch turned out to be finger sandwiches and punch and sandwich cookies? Nope, because I brought my own from home and I gotta tell you this chipped ham sandwich with springs and spicy brown mustard and pepperoni tastes so much better than. Bagging.
Hedging is bagging. Hedging is bagging with a backhand because everyone knows when you're doing it. Everyone knows, once you bag, that you came in with low expectations and those expectations played out. It's not an insult to get bagged on. If anything, besides an insult, it says your friends love you enough to show up at all and your enemies did too. To see you fail, maybe. Faces get scarce the older you get when life changes veins. We all know that. Most of us know that. At least make their ticket fee worthwhile. It's not easy to bag. Sometimes you have to take a chance. Everyone bags sometimes. Sometimes bagging on someone or something is as simple as making back up plans or coinciding plans so there can be an ejector seat button that lands you somewhere more comfortable. Nothing wrong with bagging. Most of the time.
Girls are crazy. I'll just say it. They are. I sat through a very long exposition about how some other girl was going crazy and kicked people out of her house even though it wasn't her house or her right to kick anyone out (I would have felt the same if it was a guy doing it and relating the story). While she was telling the story,I kept remembering all of the times she went ape shit while we were hanging out. A diagram. A verbal diagram. Ladies take note. They don't teach you this in college orientation. They only teach the rape threshold.
1 drink: Guys) alright it's official. Girls) Did I get my ride home set up?
3 drinks: Guys) what time is it. Girls) oh my god, why is no one dancing?
6 drinks: Guys) games? how about yes! Girls) i feel sick. this is the song I requested!
9 drinks: Guys) game two, muthafucka! I rule you. Girls) this is fun. I'm having fun. Can you see my tits? I can see my tits. I bet he can see my tits.
11 drinks: Guys) game two, I'm up! Girls) what are you guys playing? Can I play?
14 drinks: Guys) game three, I'm in. Fugg that. I'm winning this round. Girls) You look great, what are you talking about? Oh my god, I go to the same place!
16 drinks: Guys) hah, no way. what he should have done in that fight is... Girls) oh please. That's bullshit. You're better than that. Have you seen my shoes yet? They're discount, but...
22 drinks: Guys) no, let me show you. Okay, okay, okay, let's finish this. We're too grown up to fight... unless you want to. Girls) [throwing up and/or passed out.... if not the latter, forward to the next...] I'm tired/want to go home/what time is it/i'm fine {not fine}.
24 gender war
Girls are crazy. It was simply hilarious though, hearing a woman rail against another about her behavior at a party and it was a kettle calling the pot black. I kept snickering while she was relating the story and getting really into it and painting her as this kind of horrible villain. At the same time, I was thinking about her moments and she's a fiery girl too. It was beyond me to try to explain to her that she did the exact same things except she was hanging out in my place and there's no way to kick anyone out of my house so she left and tried to kick her boy toy out of my place by proxy, but the attitude and acclimation that I have is: if you want to stay you can stay; if you want to leave you can leave. It's that simple. Feel obligated if you want to. If you don't then don't. If you're invited in, you're in for as long as you want to be. I'll do what I want and you can do what you want and if you over step I'll let you know. If you don't over step I'm good too. It might become uncomfortable for you and that's fine with me. I'll be comfortable. Do what makes you. If you don't like it, cash out. No one's holding you here so don't feel obligated, because I don't. Girls are crazy.
I miss my crack year. It was fun. A couple bars closed near me. You'd think they'd have the courtesy to let their patrons know. I miss the not knowing. The not knowing where you're going to get it. Those were the original adventure times... hold on... gotta change to headphones with better bass response... not knowing where you were going to wake up, but knowing who you were going to wake up with because there literally was no one else. I loved it. Still do love it. We're not low lifes. Don't put us there. Every night was time well spent. Now it's like those plastic chatter wind up teeth, except you're sitting on them. They're in your chair. All wound up. Every time you get up to do something, your butt holding them fast shut, they go off. CHA CHA CHA CHA CHA CHA CHA CHET CHET CHET CHET CHET CHET CHET CHET CHATATATATATARATATARATATATARATATARATARAATARATARAT. Wish they whispered. They don't.
They go ritttttereretetetet and I second guess what I'm doing and wonder if I could do it better breathing it, because some things I can. I don't know if that makes addiction. I don't want to know the answer. I just kicked paint. That was harder than kicking rock. Bad things, really bad things are still too fresh in my head from kicking it. At least with paint everything got super buttery. Like, seeing light, sunlight, made me taste green butter buds with fuzzy tips on my tongue when I saw leaves of plants and leaves of flooring interlocking. Endless energy came to me like I was whispering into the ear of Zeus himself when I was smoking. Something above and away beyond cannabis. There's no replacing that. I wish I could, but there is no way beyond it past pretending it never happened. You sit on that set of spring activated teeth and they don't go off until you stand up and then doubts crowds in hard and fast. Hundred million ----ing strong like a riot where your brain meets your mouth. How your ears get hot when you're about to fuck except it's right there in the back of your skull where you can't scratch and you know if you did itch it the entire thing you are trying to do will treat you so good you will never troll craigslist again looking for the desparate night flyer fuck to help you feel better without the peace between your lips. Fuck.
I miss the time I spent already. Only 4 years removed from abuse. 4 years of being myself. 4 years of knowing how to be and who I am and how to enjoy and how not to be. Her name came up in my head today. I was walking. It came up right after I saw the zebra and I was thinking about one times. I'll live it down. I will. She was nothing. I like to think I got lucky.
Growing up fast. I will give his name that shall never be spoken this one credit: he once said to me "you didn't have time, or you didn't make time" that was before he beat me for not cleaning my room. It stuck with me for different reasons than. What it taught me was that sometimes you just have to make what it is that you want. If you're always short of coke by the end of the week and have to go through the hassle every friday, what you should be doing is budgeting out to double or triple up your order. If you keep running out of fresh fruit by mid month, you need to buy the unripe fruits and mix them in with the ones ready to eat so that by week three you're golden.
A little planning goes a long way. You will find a way to make time for the things that you want. You will make time. What you do with that time is debatable. Once you have that time it's a matter of control. It's a matter of control and liberation because that freedom comes at cost to your doorstep and there's no way to flip it for profit out of the gate. Photoshoot? Writing? Sleeping? Everything that you paid to get that time free bears down guns blazing, Which bullet strikes your heart is not up to you. At least not as often as the wounds would love it to be.
Life is viscous.
Life doesn't care.
Life is what you can make out of it.
Life does not turn the other cheek. Ever.
Don't kid yourself.
Love yourself.
Never. Ever.
Lock yourself
into fear.
///Hot Chip - "You Ride, We Ride, In My Ride" its out here I may find my reasons for. ... found some distance. The distance that I needed to be... whatever the hell it is I am supposed to. Still figuring it out. Ghosts have returned. Hallucinations. I want the simpler times. But where you're going you never really come back from. Some of you comes back. A little bit always stays out there. I just wonder when the numbers run over years what it is that adds up to. How far away is it do you have to stay to make sure everyone else is safe.
Sometimes car manufacturers will throw a new suspension geometry and engine and transmission underneath an old cowl and body work to shake it out and make sure it does what its supposed to do. I thought that might be what it was, so I didn't go for my camera. There are thousands of pictures of test mules and chasis that won't match when it comes to production or even car shows that are wrapped in zebra camo and it was nothing special, until I started to make out the lines.
The lines did not match up to anything I saw before. Two doors. Shorter C pillar. Thin B. A really long A. The thing was going pretty fast, but once I could start to see past the clutter of the zebra print I knew it was something new. I ripped at my pockets and threw off my backpack to try and find my phone so I could take a picture of it. It blew past me, with the chase car in tow and I was getting ready to chase it down just in case the streetlight changed. The lines were awesome. Way better than the last Cadillac coupe, but the light did not change and it went on. The exhaust note was kind of weird, but I'm sure they'll fix that in post. Watching it blow away, I knew I would never see it again. Possibly never see another prototype in action again, underneath the zebra wrap. If I do, from whatever distance, I know I should get my camera ready just in case. I don't know why I love machines so much. I do. I envy them. So damn sexy. So damn easy. So damn difficult at the same time.
I was going to tell my friends about it. The backlog of knowledge was overwhelming. They're good people, but they wouldn't get it. They wouldn't get it and on top of it all there was no picture. What I would be talking about would be a caption without a picture. I'd ramble on and on and on and in the end I would say something like "whatever, you had to be there." My heart shook watching it slip by like a knife into skin. The thing itself was so beautiful. Once my brain resolved the lines of the machine, I felt like a cheetah caught sleeping while a gazelle pranced on by in a giant Sunday flower hat on its way to church. Missed meals.
I'm not bagging on myself though. It's the first time that's ever happened. It wasn't a mule. It wasn't a prototype. It was the body design that will probably see production. I guess part of me just wanted to be as cool as everyone else who breaks photos on the car blogs and magazines. What it brings me to is bagging on things. "Baggin." Where does that come from? I found myself saying it the other day after thinking about something I said earlier to someone.
It's the writer in me. When you know you're a writer, you think about what you thought about when you said what you said and why you said it that way instead of another way. I don't count myself as a writer anymore. I see myself as a tool. Sometimes as a tool and sometimes as a tool. A tool that sometimes produces. Maybe I'm just a producer. Hah, no. I hate producing. A tool that generates? Yes. I'm a generator. Autonomic generator, that's as far as I can take ya, do you wanna be a part of, oh yes, yeah, I'm on it.
Bagging. I thought about it way too much. Bagging. To bag on someone. Bag on something. The Urban Dictionary was no help. What I think it means, as I've understood it, is to understand that what you are going up against is not at all what you wanted or needed and so you bag. You bag your street clothes because there's no work to be done. No actual work. Bag your street clothes. Whatever was thought to be done was already done or otherwise not doable, so bag your street clothes because the minute you get there is the same minute you know you didn't need to be there. Bag your drugs. The minute you get there and get a feel for what's going on you know you didn't need to be there, but you are, so you might as well enjoy the time you've already set aside. Get to a good place and everything else will follow for you. Maybe not for them, for you it's golden. Bag your expectations. Bag 'em up. Bag 'em up. Take them home with you and flush them down the toilet when you get there. Bag your lunch. Remember how they said you were going to eat good when you got there and lunch turned out to be finger sandwiches and punch and sandwich cookies? Nope, because I brought my own from home and I gotta tell you this chipped ham sandwich with springs and spicy brown mustard and pepperoni tastes so much better than. Bagging.
Hedging is bagging. Hedging is bagging with a backhand because everyone knows when you're doing it. Everyone knows, once you bag, that you came in with low expectations and those expectations played out. It's not an insult to get bagged on. If anything, besides an insult, it says your friends love you enough to show up at all and your enemies did too. To see you fail, maybe. Faces get scarce the older you get when life changes veins. We all know that. Most of us know that. At least make their ticket fee worthwhile. It's not easy to bag. Sometimes you have to take a chance. Everyone bags sometimes. Sometimes bagging on someone or something is as simple as making back up plans or coinciding plans so there can be an ejector seat button that lands you somewhere more comfortable. Nothing wrong with bagging. Most of the time.
Girls are crazy. I'll just say it. They are. I sat through a very long exposition about how some other girl was going crazy and kicked people out of her house even though it wasn't her house or her right to kick anyone out (I would have felt the same if it was a guy doing it and relating the story). While she was telling the story,I kept remembering all of the times she went ape shit while we were hanging out. A diagram. A verbal diagram. Ladies take note. They don't teach you this in college orientation. They only teach the rape threshold.
1 drink: Guys) alright it's official. Girls) Did I get my ride home set up?
3 drinks: Guys) what time is it. Girls) oh my god, why is no one dancing?
6 drinks: Guys) games? how about yes! Girls) i feel sick. this is the song I requested!
9 drinks: Guys) game two, muthafucka! I rule you. Girls) this is fun. I'm having fun. Can you see my tits? I can see my tits. I bet he can see my tits.
11 drinks: Guys) game two, I'm up! Girls) what are you guys playing? Can I play?
14 drinks: Guys) game three, I'm in. Fugg that. I'm winning this round. Girls) You look great, what are you talking about? Oh my god, I go to the same place!
16 drinks: Guys) hah, no way. what he should have done in that fight is... Girls) oh please. That's bullshit. You're better than that. Have you seen my shoes yet? They're discount, but...
22 drinks: Guys) no, let me show you. Okay, okay, okay, let's finish this. We're too grown up to fight... unless you want to. Girls) [throwing up and/or passed out.... if not the latter, forward to the next...] I'm tired/want to go home/what time is it/i'm fine {not fine}.
24 gender war
Girls are crazy. It was simply hilarious though, hearing a woman rail against another about her behavior at a party and it was a kettle calling the pot black. I kept snickering while she was relating the story and getting really into it and painting her as this kind of horrible villain. At the same time, I was thinking about her moments and she's a fiery girl too. It was beyond me to try to explain to her that she did the exact same things except she was hanging out in my place and there's no way to kick anyone out of my house so she left and tried to kick her boy toy out of my place by proxy, but the attitude and acclimation that I have is: if you want to stay you can stay; if you want to leave you can leave. It's that simple. Feel obligated if you want to. If you don't then don't. If you're invited in, you're in for as long as you want to be. I'll do what I want and you can do what you want and if you over step I'll let you know. If you don't over step I'm good too. It might become uncomfortable for you and that's fine with me. I'll be comfortable. Do what makes you. If you don't like it, cash out. No one's holding you here so don't feel obligated, because I don't. Girls are crazy.
I miss my crack year. It was fun. A couple bars closed near me. You'd think they'd have the courtesy to let their patrons know. I miss the not knowing. The not knowing where you're going to get it. Those were the original adventure times... hold on... gotta change to headphones with better bass response... not knowing where you were going to wake up, but knowing who you were going to wake up with because there literally was no one else. I loved it. Still do love it. We're not low lifes. Don't put us there. Every night was time well spent. Now it's like those plastic chatter wind up teeth, except you're sitting on them. They're in your chair. All wound up. Every time you get up to do something, your butt holding them fast shut, they go off. CHA CHA CHA CHA CHA CHA CHA CHET CHET CHET CHET CHET CHET CHET CHET CHATATATATATARATATARATATATARATATARATARAATARATARAT. Wish they whispered. They don't.
They go ritttttereretetetet and I second guess what I'm doing and wonder if I could do it better breathing it, because some things I can. I don't know if that makes addiction. I don't want to know the answer. I just kicked paint. That was harder than kicking rock. Bad things, really bad things are still too fresh in my head from kicking it. At least with paint everything got super buttery. Like, seeing light, sunlight, made me taste green butter buds with fuzzy tips on my tongue when I saw leaves of plants and leaves of flooring interlocking. Endless energy came to me like I was whispering into the ear of Zeus himself when I was smoking. Something above and away beyond cannabis. There's no replacing that. I wish I could, but there is no way beyond it past pretending it never happened. You sit on that set of spring activated teeth and they don't go off until you stand up and then doubts crowds in hard and fast. Hundred million ----ing strong like a riot where your brain meets your mouth. How your ears get hot when you're about to fuck except it's right there in the back of your skull where you can't scratch and you know if you did itch it the entire thing you are trying to do will treat you so good you will never troll craigslist again looking for the desparate night flyer fuck to help you feel better without the peace between your lips. Fuck.
I miss the time I spent already. Only 4 years removed from abuse. 4 years of being myself. 4 years of knowing how to be and who I am and how to enjoy and how not to be. Her name came up in my head today. I was walking. It came up right after I saw the zebra and I was thinking about one times. I'll live it down. I will. She was nothing. I like to think I got lucky.
Growing up fast. I will give his name that shall never be spoken this one credit: he once said to me "you didn't have time, or you didn't make time" that was before he beat me for not cleaning my room. It stuck with me for different reasons than. What it taught me was that sometimes you just have to make what it is that you want. If you're always short of coke by the end of the week and have to go through the hassle every friday, what you should be doing is budgeting out to double or triple up your order. If you keep running out of fresh fruit by mid month, you need to buy the unripe fruits and mix them in with the ones ready to eat so that by week three you're golden.
A little planning goes a long way. You will find a way to make time for the things that you want. You will make time. What you do with that time is debatable. Once you have that time it's a matter of control. It's a matter of control and liberation because that freedom comes at cost to your doorstep and there's no way to flip it for profit out of the gate. Photoshoot? Writing? Sleeping? Everything that you paid to get that time free bears down guns blazing, Which bullet strikes your heart is not up to you. At least not as often as the wounds would love it to be.
Life is viscous.
Life doesn't care.
Life is what you can make out of it.
Life does not turn the other cheek. Ever.
Don't kid yourself.
Love yourself.
Never. Ever.
Lock yourself
into fear.
///Hot Chip - "You Ride, We Ride, In My Ride" its out here I may find my reasons for. ... found some distance. The distance that I needed to be... whatever the hell it is I am supposed to. Still figuring it out. Ghosts have returned. Hallucinations. I want the simpler times. But where you're going you never really come back from. Some of you comes back. A little bit always stays out there. I just wonder when the numbers run over years what it is that adds up to. How far away is it do you have to stay to make sure everyone else is safe.
10/17/12
What Makes You Laugh
I was just thinking about unfortunate super powers and I laughed a little bit because of a dream I had. Not a dream, but a day dream while I was riding. I was burning down Center Avenue on my bicycle next to a tanker truck that had the high polished aluminum finish that was so glassed I could see my face and helmet and glasses in it when I glanced to my right. I was going fast enough to pass it, but the light was red so I cruised next to it while we rolled up to the intersection together.
I could of waited, but I was about to pull a right turn at the next light after the stretch of 200 feet, once the next light came up, so I figured (correctly) I would be out of the gate fast enough to beat him there by enough of a long shot and why suck truck exhaust and obstruction when you know what the score already is. Plus, sometimes it's just fun to flirt with disaster when you know the whale couldn't give two blinks for what you want to do, you being so small and flit a fish. They know you know if you knew what was good for you, you'll stay away from their fins and wheels, and I for the most part do. Sometimes I am a reckless jackass, but most of the times, this being one of those times, we both know I'm operating at my own risk and out not to cause trouble and enjoy the sights and speed. At least that's what I think.
It occurred to me, in day dreaming about it, how awesome it would be to see the tanker explode in slow motion, but not have to actually be there physically, yet have my point of view so close and so slowed down to see it happen. And then I wondered if, in real time, I would be able to see the flash or if my eyes would be disintegrated and turned to mist before my brain could know what was going on.
The whole thing made me think, in the few seconds before the light turned green, what an awful super power that would be. The power to make flammable things explode as long as you were close enough to be exploded too. You wouldn't die, but the one drawback, because super powers with no actual drawback besides responsibility makes you a comic book caricature, would be that you always experience the pain of death even though you are immediately reconstituted and the pain stays fresh. Furthermore you experience the compounded pain of everyone else who dies in the blast, directly and indirectly, so that even the people that don't immediately die still channel and communicate their living, burn ward, debilitated, living pain for as long as they live directly into your brain beneath the layers upon which drugs can intervene. So you have to really think about who and what you blow up and when and where, but not necessarily why.
Unfortunate super powers. Like the power to make yourself drunk. Like you can think about a specific BAC and put yourself there instantaneously. Instantaneously. However, you still get to deal with the health repercussions and you still have to figure out ways around hangovers and you still have to live your life. But, you get to be as drunk as you feel like, whenever you feel like, because you can call upon a secret power within yourself to generate alcohol directly into your blood stream from your bones. So, if, for instance, you have painted yourself into a corner and you know you are about to get the ass beating of a lifetime, you can instantly push yourself up to .2 BAC and not feel a thing and then meter yourself when you wake up at a solid .05 and continue to not feel a thing, but still be functional enough to ride a bus to work and do your job and go home. You could, potentially, never be hung over again, but will likely poop out your foam sponge liver by the time you're 40. I don't know, man. Every boring movie would suddenly be interesting. Every bad hookup would be forgettable, because you could have the power to black out instantaneously. It would be one hell of an unfortunate super power.
Speaking of explosions, I got an exploding pound today at the gas station. It was pretty absurd, because it came out of the blue. From a man who was clearly in his sixties. I don't know what that means. I wish I knew why I was attractive to older people. I have no idea. And why, of all things, the explosion pound? Is that what they think we're up to? Because I have no idea what the kids are up to today being the age that I am, I guess I probably would have no idea what the people my age are up to when I will be his age so I guess I will probably fire shots in the dark after the same fashion when I meet people my age when I am his age so I will probably go for some antiquated (but what I consider timeless) dap and talk about long resolved issues and the merits of industrial music, dub step, and the last relevant artist I knew or maybe go on a good fifteen minute rant about Goldie and underground hip hop by people that sold out decades before.
I have no idea why they love me, but I have no misgivings about loving them back. I think we ended up talking for a solid five minutes in the parking lot, smoking cigarettes. When I was walking home I couldn't help snickering a little bit. Still though, it was nice to connect briefly. I've been taking some talking point notes in working this up, mostly because I couldn't sleep, still can't, and didn't want to have to comb through my voice recordings to find the parts I wanted to expound upon.
Which brings to the point that people that fire their cum must have a hard time jerking off on short notice. Not super short notice, but I mean like you just rubbed one out and someone rang your doorbell, but you didn't go get toilet paper because you are almost broke and you're down to your last bit of lotion anyway, and who rings a doorbell at 1 P.M. on Saturday anyway and you're already downstairs opening the door before you realized you spooged four feet away from your computer and your chair is angled in such a way as to avoid spraying your monitor, but is pointed directly into the swatch of sunlight where your cum landed and when your guest comes upstairs to shoot the shit with you it'll be there sparkling like pixie dust on a Pan's head if a Pan's head were floor boards and pixie dust were cum? Did that turn into a question half way through? The next time you feel like less of a man for not having rocket cum, just remember it's a two edged talent. And everything will be okay.
Which is more than I can say about late night commercials. It seems every commercial after ten at night is about talking to people while jerking off, jerking off better, having sex with strangers, having sex with strangers better, buying cars, buying food that is somehow more expensive than it was last year even though it is in principle the same fucking thing it was the year before, buying cars, buying cars that cost the same for less money somehow and letting strangers jerk you off over the phone if you sit on your hand long enough and download the latest application that lets you download the latest application for getting strangers wet in the pants or making you feel less inadequate in your powers to make strangers wet in the pants. That and sleep aids that are non-addictive, and what fun is a drug without the blown relationship of all out love? An excuse, is what that is. Is what that is? Nyeh. Television outside of the hours of ten P.M. and 5 A.M. is garbage anyway, unless it's football. Plus, we all know commercials are lies. Sexy, colorful, somewhat intriguing lies.
Kinda sort of brings me to comics. Comedians. You like to think that maybe if you met them you'd be good friends, but they actually hate you. In real life. Which is in itself a little bit hilarious. They can't stand you. But they're so accessible, aren't they? The trip up is that you get excited and thrilled about the small, obscure, things they don't give two shits about. Where the common ground lies, they find very little joy because the joy in them is in the spaces where differences are most acute. I'm kidding. I'm sure they're nice people in real life if you are a part of the things they don't like. But they don't like so many things. Do they do that on purpose? I suppose this is a bad venue for dissecting comedy. The dissection simply reminds me of when you tell someone that you're going home, and sometimes suffix that comment with "to jerk off" or "to play some video games and then jerk off" and the person you are talking to comes back with some absurd bullshit like "well, I'm going yachting tomorrow so I should probably turn in."
What the fuck is that? Number one: I did not ask you what you were doing tomorrow. Did you decide to throw that in to make me feel worse about what I'm doing for the rest of tonight? That's kind of fucked up. It's not like I'm thrilled to say "yeah, my big plans are pretty much encapsulated in two hours of shame followed by sleeping into Saturday until the NCAA games start and then I'll get up and jerk off some more while half watching them and then go back to bed until the bars open and I can thinly veil a little afternoon sousing in catching late afternoon games." Did you want me to feel bad about myself for not having plans as grand? Because if you wanted me to feel included in your adventures you could have invited yourself over for the yankfest, but that would have been understandably awkward, but at least give me the chance to say so and decline instead of feeling left out of your life altogether, if that's where we're going. Because I mean, I only broached the topic of plans so you would know that I know my plans are not as great as yours, but at least you know that I know I'm not leaving the party because I don't want to be there, it's just because I can't over stay my fucking welcome.
I didn't ask you what you were going to go do, and you didn't ask me either, but I'm rolling over. It's a complement to your party. Why can't you take a complement? And that's why comics will never be your friends. Because you get excited about dumb, irrelevant, shit that is basically the frills and lace on the sides of granny panties to life. Granted, I'm not going to break into your house, duct tape your wrists together behind your back, drive you out to New England in the middle of the night until dawn, haul you out of the trunk in the middle of nowhere, and shove your face into the leaves by the side of a one lane road and scream "this is Fall!!! This is what autumn tastes like!!!" That's just not me. Plus, who has the time to do that these days? I don't. But forgive me if I don't give a !@#$ about the latest tech or music or who's hot on what coast and is performing half price and where. I'm never going to be in that sphere and the people that are also are not particularly fond of folks like me anyway.
And that's what's made me laugh these days.
I could of waited, but I was about to pull a right turn at the next light after the stretch of 200 feet, once the next light came up, so I figured (correctly) I would be out of the gate fast enough to beat him there by enough of a long shot and why suck truck exhaust and obstruction when you know what the score already is. Plus, sometimes it's just fun to flirt with disaster when you know the whale couldn't give two blinks for what you want to do, you being so small and flit a fish. They know you know if you knew what was good for you, you'll stay away from their fins and wheels, and I for the most part do. Sometimes I am a reckless jackass, but most of the times, this being one of those times, we both know I'm operating at my own risk and out not to cause trouble and enjoy the sights and speed. At least that's what I think.
It occurred to me, in day dreaming about it, how awesome it would be to see the tanker explode in slow motion, but not have to actually be there physically, yet have my point of view so close and so slowed down to see it happen. And then I wondered if, in real time, I would be able to see the flash or if my eyes would be disintegrated and turned to mist before my brain could know what was going on.
The whole thing made me think, in the few seconds before the light turned green, what an awful super power that would be. The power to make flammable things explode as long as you were close enough to be exploded too. You wouldn't die, but the one drawback, because super powers with no actual drawback besides responsibility makes you a comic book caricature, would be that you always experience the pain of death even though you are immediately reconstituted and the pain stays fresh. Furthermore you experience the compounded pain of everyone else who dies in the blast, directly and indirectly, so that even the people that don't immediately die still channel and communicate their living, burn ward, debilitated, living pain for as long as they live directly into your brain beneath the layers upon which drugs can intervene. So you have to really think about who and what you blow up and when and where, but not necessarily why.
Unfortunate super powers. Like the power to make yourself drunk. Like you can think about a specific BAC and put yourself there instantaneously. Instantaneously. However, you still get to deal with the health repercussions and you still have to figure out ways around hangovers and you still have to live your life. But, you get to be as drunk as you feel like, whenever you feel like, because you can call upon a secret power within yourself to generate alcohol directly into your blood stream from your bones. So, if, for instance, you have painted yourself into a corner and you know you are about to get the ass beating of a lifetime, you can instantly push yourself up to .2 BAC and not feel a thing and then meter yourself when you wake up at a solid .05 and continue to not feel a thing, but still be functional enough to ride a bus to work and do your job and go home. You could, potentially, never be hung over again, but will likely poop out your foam sponge liver by the time you're 40. I don't know, man. Every boring movie would suddenly be interesting. Every bad hookup would be forgettable, because you could have the power to black out instantaneously. It would be one hell of an unfortunate super power.
Speaking of explosions, I got an exploding pound today at the gas station. It was pretty absurd, because it came out of the blue. From a man who was clearly in his sixties. I don't know what that means. I wish I knew why I was attractive to older people. I have no idea. And why, of all things, the explosion pound? Is that what they think we're up to? Because I have no idea what the kids are up to today being the age that I am, I guess I probably would have no idea what the people my age are up to when I will be his age so I guess I will probably fire shots in the dark after the same fashion when I meet people my age when I am his age so I will probably go for some antiquated (but what I consider timeless) dap and talk about long resolved issues and the merits of industrial music, dub step, and the last relevant artist I knew or maybe go on a good fifteen minute rant about Goldie and underground hip hop by people that sold out decades before.
I have no idea why they love me, but I have no misgivings about loving them back. I think we ended up talking for a solid five minutes in the parking lot, smoking cigarettes. When I was walking home I couldn't help snickering a little bit. Still though, it was nice to connect briefly. I've been taking some talking point notes in working this up, mostly because I couldn't sleep, still can't, and didn't want to have to comb through my voice recordings to find the parts I wanted to expound upon.
Which brings to the point that people that fire their cum must have a hard time jerking off on short notice. Not super short notice, but I mean like you just rubbed one out and someone rang your doorbell, but you didn't go get toilet paper because you are almost broke and you're down to your last bit of lotion anyway, and who rings a doorbell at 1 P.M. on Saturday anyway and you're already downstairs opening the door before you realized you spooged four feet away from your computer and your chair is angled in such a way as to avoid spraying your monitor, but is pointed directly into the swatch of sunlight where your cum landed and when your guest comes upstairs to shoot the shit with you it'll be there sparkling like pixie dust on a Pan's head if a Pan's head were floor boards and pixie dust were cum? Did that turn into a question half way through? The next time you feel like less of a man for not having rocket cum, just remember it's a two edged talent. And everything will be okay.
Which is more than I can say about late night commercials. It seems every commercial after ten at night is about talking to people while jerking off, jerking off better, having sex with strangers, having sex with strangers better, buying cars, buying food that is somehow more expensive than it was last year even though it is in principle the same fucking thing it was the year before, buying cars, buying cars that cost the same for less money somehow and letting strangers jerk you off over the phone if you sit on your hand long enough and download the latest application that lets you download the latest application for getting strangers wet in the pants or making you feel less inadequate in your powers to make strangers wet in the pants. That and sleep aids that are non-addictive, and what fun is a drug without the blown relationship of all out love? An excuse, is what that is. Is what that is? Nyeh. Television outside of the hours of ten P.M. and 5 A.M. is garbage anyway, unless it's football. Plus, we all know commercials are lies. Sexy, colorful, somewhat intriguing lies.
Kinda sort of brings me to comics. Comedians. You like to think that maybe if you met them you'd be good friends, but they actually hate you. In real life. Which is in itself a little bit hilarious. They can't stand you. But they're so accessible, aren't they? The trip up is that you get excited and thrilled about the small, obscure, things they don't give two shits about. Where the common ground lies, they find very little joy because the joy in them is in the spaces where differences are most acute. I'm kidding. I'm sure they're nice people in real life if you are a part of the things they don't like. But they don't like so many things. Do they do that on purpose? I suppose this is a bad venue for dissecting comedy. The dissection simply reminds me of when you tell someone that you're going home, and sometimes suffix that comment with "to jerk off" or "to play some video games and then jerk off" and the person you are talking to comes back with some absurd bullshit like "well, I'm going yachting tomorrow so I should probably turn in."
What the fuck is that? Number one: I did not ask you what you were doing tomorrow. Did you decide to throw that in to make me feel worse about what I'm doing for the rest of tonight? That's kind of fucked up. It's not like I'm thrilled to say "yeah, my big plans are pretty much encapsulated in two hours of shame followed by sleeping into Saturday until the NCAA games start and then I'll get up and jerk off some more while half watching them and then go back to bed until the bars open and I can thinly veil a little afternoon sousing in catching late afternoon games." Did you want me to feel bad about myself for not having plans as grand? Because if you wanted me to feel included in your adventures you could have invited yourself over for the yankfest, but that would have been understandably awkward, but at least give me the chance to say so and decline instead of feeling left out of your life altogether, if that's where we're going. Because I mean, I only broached the topic of plans so you would know that I know my plans are not as great as yours, but at least you know that I know I'm not leaving the party because I don't want to be there, it's just because I can't over stay my fucking welcome.
I didn't ask you what you were going to go do, and you didn't ask me either, but I'm rolling over. It's a complement to your party. Why can't you take a complement? And that's why comics will never be your friends. Because you get excited about dumb, irrelevant, shit that is basically the frills and lace on the sides of granny panties to life. Granted, I'm not going to break into your house, duct tape your wrists together behind your back, drive you out to New England in the middle of the night until dawn, haul you out of the trunk in the middle of nowhere, and shove your face into the leaves by the side of a one lane road and scream "this is Fall!!! This is what autumn tastes like!!!" That's just not me. Plus, who has the time to do that these days? I don't. But forgive me if I don't give a !@#$ about the latest tech or music or who's hot on what coast and is performing half price and where. I'm never going to be in that sphere and the people that are also are not particularly fond of folks like me anyway.
And that's what's made me laugh these days.
9/29/10
dear (______):
Dear Morning Birds,
I know I give you a lot of shit, but it's only because you never tell me who and what else is on the itinerary and some of your guests and most of your plans are highly suspect.
I know I give you a lot of shit, but it's only because you never tell me who and what else is on the itinerary and some of your guests and most of your plans are highly suspect.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)