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
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 extrapolation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label extrapolation. Show all posts
7/29/15
Summer Days Are Beautiful
Summer days are beautiful. Walk around in the grass that probably should have been cut yesterday and feel how fluffy and wet it is before the sun dries it out. Take time away from watering the garden to blow a bubble of mist around you and spin yourself around to see the rainbow halo around your waist. The birds are off on their errands. By now you do not hear their 5:30 A.M. alarm, but you will miss it a lot when it is gone and cold water chills instead of refreshes.
Sit in the wet grass and feel it soak through your shorts and underwear to the hairs and through to your skin. Wiggle down a little and lean back on your elbows and wait for the sun and the breeze to start drying your hair for you. Blowing kisses on the backs of your ears and neck and every few minutes a touch of lips to cheek and eyebrow, no more. A slip of hands around your wet hips and up your back until you cannot help a giggle, no more.
I am just like you, though we are different. Thinking about what my insides look like after patching things, jumping circuits, replacing parts, swapping connections, and fabricating new ones over and over again to keep on going, to function in place of everything that was torn out or never mounted or heavily damaged from the beginning. Thinking about the engineering and trial and error and discovery it took to get there, sitting in a backyard, watering a garden, and laughing at the sun, cooing in the palm of earth's hand, content.
Though we are different. The obstacles are unbelievable sometimes. Taking responsibility sometimes crosses into blaming myself for everything and hating myself and my make up more and more and more until all I can feel or think about is killing myself and it feels so good, so great, to remember the afternoon, even as obstacles to continued or increased or even maintained success close the horizon in every direction like the lips around an enormous crater.
It makes me smile wry: 30 years old, crippling social anxieties, manic depression, paranoid schizophrenia, anger management "problems," bringing in a whopping $12,000 a year, and ... what? I don't know. I don't know what is next. I've been lied to again and lost all confidence in what I thought I would do until I retired or never retired. That sweet sweet 12k paycheck. It is a joke. At 30? Is that really the best I am going to be able to do?
After I discovered that I had no job security whatsoever and a friend explained to me how my job has allowed me to stay in place and build a foundation for my life, but that the very nature of my job would not allow me to grow much further than that, she asked me about what I wanted to do.
I always want to write, but that's not a career for me for the foreseeable future. That's for fun. My passion and deep rooted connection to writing has its origins in my inabilities to communicate and express myself and my ideas through normal everyday means a lot, I would say most, people enjoy. It is a love and desire best described as an unexpected, exceptionally useful, child of the continuous process of patching and repairing and placing new equipment where normal/standard/necessary/"born with" equipment was never mounted to begin with or ripped away or smashed in. I don't love and pursue writing as a career, I have come to realize. I love and pursue writing because it is the best developed, low loss, way I know how to communicate like a normal person. When it works the way I need it to, it allows me to bridge myself to friends and people and know that I am not howling at my otherwise mashed, screwed, and missing communications centers and abilities with nothing coming across the interface at all in line with what is being spoken from inside.
The question was strange to me and it shouldn't have been. I had to think very hard. Being used to doing whatever I had to and was allowed to do for so many years after college flamed out against my will and things fell swiftly to pieces, taking whatever work would have me and clinging to what work would have me that I could also do and do well, the thought of what I wanted to do was foreign.
After an evening, I thought "master electrician" or "master plumber," since an MLS is completely unrealistic for the next decade or two at the least and I have loved the under the table work I've been able to do to help ends meet working on peoples homes for years. I thought "how great would it be to actually be paid the way you should for what you have in the skill files inside your head." After another day thinking about it, I knew it wasn't what I really wanted to do. It is something that I am good at that I like doing that fits well around my psyche, but not at all what I really want to do. Auto-mechanic.
The realization dawned on me. All of the schematics books I used to take from the library diagramming aircraft and race cars and automobiles. The perfect mix of tinkering and testing and results and giving life to machines and mechanisms. The smiles on folks faces. The tools and machines that allow the systems to be manipulated and molded to various functions. The solitude. All there. After so many years of being forced or trying to force so many paths in an effort to put food in my mouth and stay connected to life and society and have enough to sit in a backyard and smile at a garden, I forgot that I've wanted to be a mechanic for decades. I've only been alive for three, but I'm pretty sure I knew after decade one.
Thirty years old and getting no younger. A foundation finally established in this life, though shaky at times, an undeniable starting point. I am starting to see it as leaving a dying world. You have finally broken gravity's hold, do not concern yourself with trying to undo everything and erase everyone on the world's surface that brought it to its demise. Worry about what comes next in the stars. I have to try to find some security while there is a foundation. With no real job security, what was built could go away at a moments notice, a flash, a bang, some confetti, and a "thanks for playing, best of luck." So what? One more step through the yards to the next fence further away from the cell than you have ever been. Slip your fingers through the diamond wire links. Squeeze them until your fingers hurt and sniff the air on the other side.
It tastes different doesn't it. Oh it does! When the answer to the question "what do you want to do" is longer than "live another month." I cannot be happy living in the shadow of annihilation. I do not know if I will ever escape its reach entirely the way my insides are wired, dealing with, fighting, embracing, irreparable mental dysfunction. Will I ever make living money? Money that allows me to keep growing instead of treading water? Hold a standard 40 hour a week job without exploding into fragments or medicating? I have to find out.
Summer days are so beautiful. Even with warships of uncertainty hovering in orbit and peace negotiations fraying, feeling the tiny cool pricks of water landing on every inch of exposed skin feels absolutely wonderful. Chew a dandelion stem. As far back as can be remembered, love for the outdoors. The mysteriousness of the shadows infecting the gaps in the greens of the tree canopy smothering a hill across the river. Walk fingertips through blades of grass and poke a beetle's glimmering carapace. It is pretending to sleep. T-shirts almost dry. The garden dirt probably is too. One more go 'round. It is going to be a hot one today.
///The Future Sound of London - "Among Myselves"
Sit in the wet grass and feel it soak through your shorts and underwear to the hairs and through to your skin. Wiggle down a little and lean back on your elbows and wait for the sun and the breeze to start drying your hair for you. Blowing kisses on the backs of your ears and neck and every few minutes a touch of lips to cheek and eyebrow, no more. A slip of hands around your wet hips and up your back until you cannot help a giggle, no more.
I am just like you, though we are different. Thinking about what my insides look like after patching things, jumping circuits, replacing parts, swapping connections, and fabricating new ones over and over again to keep on going, to function in place of everything that was torn out or never mounted or heavily damaged from the beginning. Thinking about the engineering and trial and error and discovery it took to get there, sitting in a backyard, watering a garden, and laughing at the sun, cooing in the palm of earth's hand, content.
Though we are different. The obstacles are unbelievable sometimes. Taking responsibility sometimes crosses into blaming myself for everything and hating myself and my make up more and more and more until all I can feel or think about is killing myself and it feels so good, so great, to remember the afternoon, even as obstacles to continued or increased or even maintained success close the horizon in every direction like the lips around an enormous crater.
It makes me smile wry: 30 years old, crippling social anxieties, manic depression, paranoid schizophrenia, anger management "problems," bringing in a whopping $12,000 a year, and ... what? I don't know. I don't know what is next. I've been lied to again and lost all confidence in what I thought I would do until I retired or never retired. That sweet sweet 12k paycheck. It is a joke. At 30? Is that really the best I am going to be able to do?
After I discovered that I had no job security whatsoever and a friend explained to me how my job has allowed me to stay in place and build a foundation for my life, but that the very nature of my job would not allow me to grow much further than that, she asked me about what I wanted to do.
I always want to write, but that's not a career for me for the foreseeable future. That's for fun. My passion and deep rooted connection to writing has its origins in my inabilities to communicate and express myself and my ideas through normal everyday means a lot, I would say most, people enjoy. It is a love and desire best described as an unexpected, exceptionally useful, child of the continuous process of patching and repairing and placing new equipment where normal/standard/necessary/"born with" equipment was never mounted to begin with or ripped away or smashed in. I don't love and pursue writing as a career, I have come to realize. I love and pursue writing because it is the best developed, low loss, way I know how to communicate like a normal person. When it works the way I need it to, it allows me to bridge myself to friends and people and know that I am not howling at my otherwise mashed, screwed, and missing communications centers and abilities with nothing coming across the interface at all in line with what is being spoken from inside.
The question was strange to me and it shouldn't have been. I had to think very hard. Being used to doing whatever I had to and was allowed to do for so many years after college flamed out against my will and things fell swiftly to pieces, taking whatever work would have me and clinging to what work would have me that I could also do and do well, the thought of what I wanted to do was foreign.
After an evening, I thought "master electrician" or "master plumber," since an MLS is completely unrealistic for the next decade or two at the least and I have loved the under the table work I've been able to do to help ends meet working on peoples homes for years. I thought "how great would it be to actually be paid the way you should for what you have in the skill files inside your head." After another day thinking about it, I knew it wasn't what I really wanted to do. It is something that I am good at that I like doing that fits well around my psyche, but not at all what I really want to do. Auto-mechanic.
The realization dawned on me. All of the schematics books I used to take from the library diagramming aircraft and race cars and automobiles. The perfect mix of tinkering and testing and results and giving life to machines and mechanisms. The smiles on folks faces. The tools and machines that allow the systems to be manipulated and molded to various functions. The solitude. All there. After so many years of being forced or trying to force so many paths in an effort to put food in my mouth and stay connected to life and society and have enough to sit in a backyard and smile at a garden, I forgot that I've wanted to be a mechanic for decades. I've only been alive for three, but I'm pretty sure I knew after decade one.
Thirty years old and getting no younger. A foundation finally established in this life, though shaky at times, an undeniable starting point. I am starting to see it as leaving a dying world. You have finally broken gravity's hold, do not concern yourself with trying to undo everything and erase everyone on the world's surface that brought it to its demise. Worry about what comes next in the stars. I have to try to find some security while there is a foundation. With no real job security, what was built could go away at a moments notice, a flash, a bang, some confetti, and a "thanks for playing, best of luck." So what? One more step through the yards to the next fence further away from the cell than you have ever been. Slip your fingers through the diamond wire links. Squeeze them until your fingers hurt and sniff the air on the other side.
It tastes different doesn't it. Oh it does! When the answer to the question "what do you want to do" is longer than "live another month." I cannot be happy living in the shadow of annihilation. I do not know if I will ever escape its reach entirely the way my insides are wired, dealing with, fighting, embracing, irreparable mental dysfunction. Will I ever make living money? Money that allows me to keep growing instead of treading water? Hold a standard 40 hour a week job without exploding into fragments or medicating? I have to find out.
Summer days are so beautiful. Even with warships of uncertainty hovering in orbit and peace negotiations fraying, feeling the tiny cool pricks of water landing on every inch of exposed skin feels absolutely wonderful. Chew a dandelion stem. As far back as can be remembered, love for the outdoors. The mysteriousness of the shadows infecting the gaps in the greens of the tree canopy smothering a hill across the river. Walk fingertips through blades of grass and poke a beetle's glimmering carapace. It is pretending to sleep. T-shirts almost dry. The garden dirt probably is too. One more go 'round. It is going to be a hot one today.
///The Future Sound of London - "Among Myselves"
10/3/14
Thursday (explication of what came to be "I'll Come See You" the poem)
I don't know how you read it, but this is how I meant it.
Knock the slag off, with air piston jacked hammers.
When I kicked this off, the intent was to put something down in writing that was blunt force enough to make me need to go further to explain it because I know I do paint myself into corners, at least I feel that I do, to add clarity to what I say. From that spark, the spark of shedding light, everything else developed.
Sitting on a crate opposite you
sitting on another,
printed in yellow block stencil
underneath, 98 mm high explosive x 75.
From that spark I imagined our meeting. What I said before about knocking off slag with jack hammers was a reference to work. From that reference, I immediately jumped into the warzone of language and how often times that is how I view my relationship with the world outside of me. It really is a, put it on whatever scale you want to, some kind of war and this blog is a bit of a foxhole and we are literally sitting on our mental ammunition boxes.
Underneath my ass 150 mm
aye pee
times 30. My feet dangling like our cigarette's
smoke mingling on a windless afternoon.
This verse is kind of a wink and a nod because I do avoid actually smoking as much as possible, but I vape pretty hard. The main thing about it though is that I am prone to large gauge action while most people are happy to work with suppressing fire. My actions are much more leaned toward "kill them all in one sweep of gun barrel barking." I can go accurate, but it is much more fun to swamp them in flames the way I have been. Hence, the large gauge ammo underneath my bum and the smaller gauge, but still deadly, ammunition box underneath the interpolated.
The front is 220 miles out
East as the crow flies.
We will have to refuel
over the mediterranean
and I am looking forward to seeing
how you do it.
This is where we bring in the mechs and how the mechs will get to the front lines, where the action is happening and a short reference to how we wage ware once we get there. This is a reference to the fact that what is about to happen is not new to either of us. We know exactly where it is and what needs to be done to get there. And also speaks to the fact that we have no problem with how the mission succeeds as long as it succeeds.
Our conversation has already broken down
into objectives and way points with a little
bet mixed in to the after action report.
This verse simply speakes to the fact that we've been there before. Our conversation does not need to be enumerated here, only indicated, hinted at, ellipsed. We've done it so many times that the only thing that needs to be done is counting up how many people, targets, installations, were destroyed by the time we succeeded.
It is unfair
to where we land and to whom we mount against,
because they are not in on the game.
Again, this verse is a reference to the previous verse, assuming we both got back home after the operation safe and sound
Us both waiting for the KA-CHUNK
of couplings leaving us in free fall
to where our bombardier's decided
we could do our best
against the populace.
This verse is a credit to the people who get us to the target zone and an acknowledgement that we do not neccessarily know who exactly it is we are going up against inside of our mechs, however. However we have full faith that they, the pilots and/or controllers of our evening will not drop us into a situation that our equipment and skills directly related to our equipment cannot handle well, if not outright destroy them.
A little cheers of coffee.
A little double check of flight suits.
Is the mic where it needs to be?
Trial fit the helmet again
after a quadruple check;
be sure the reticle is in line.
Double check my nail polish
before the glove comes on.
Smash shoulders and opposing tattoos,
before the top of the flight suit
is zipped on.
This is an inside joke to a close friend who helped me tattoo myself. It is part inside joke and part coffee joke. "the best way to start your day" when you are going over your manifest for the day. You know whatever it is that is required of your skills will take all of your skills and you have to be sure when the time comes to pull the trigger, that trigger cannot fail, take practice shots.
Finish the coffee, with pills in our mouths.
They will learn what we live for,
they will learn what is loud.
They will learn that you do need coffee and that you do live for challenges and that you do know what horrible drugs are and that you are not about it.
Our flights will be long. I'll sleep inside the mech
along the way. I don't know what happens to you
while we wait out the sandbox for play.
The thup thup thup thup thup thup
I can hear, because I never turn off
the audio input once I am strapped in.
We both understand how to get to the battlefield. I don't understand how you are so calm. I feel like you've been here before and I have not.
For me, it is a very long long long grin
to watch you work. Guilty.
You know I have not been there before but youare looking forward to my struggling.
Watching, zone cleared against spear chuckers
who happened to have come into
a fushionable pile
and needed reckoning before
something terrible happened,
you break out a "grenade"
two tons strong and willing to-\
-/Christ, where is the pin?
A mixture of edge of tommorrow and starship troopers the book. In Starship Troopers the book they had miniature nukes. Miniature nukes could clear an entire area as long as they got clear. In edge of tomorrow the whole deal was differremt.
Mech against mech. Dust to dust.
Die another day.
Why can you not understand I do
feel the same?
This is myself, dropped onto this planet trying to stop you and yrtying to fighht you hardcore because what I would like to do is save everyone but I cannot. What I would also like to do is kill everyone but I can also cannot. I'm good with figthing you though. I am good with where you RE COMING FROM.
Fire the shell in my mechanized palm
to fire it just that strong
and knock it four miles out
to change the time of day from moonlit to
high noon in a fire ball that could eat city blocks,
but she's in the air. Fair. But "what the f@#$?"
Apologies, but I turned the palm and the gun built in to accelerate it against the what? The elbow cannon that went off and blew the palm muzzle off to an odd degree shot it off toward the dark horrizon and it lit up like noon day.
Overkill......... underneath your left foot,
underneath your left pedal inside your cockpit and
underneath you left foot outside your cockpit
you are grinding human flesh into a paste. And now is
the fucking time.
Do you remember being small? I do.
You don't get conscripted by chance.
Hearing him over the comm, realizing that the action he just did with the arm of his mech just required him to smush some people with the foot of his mech....
You find detonators. You stumble upon detonators.
Land mines Mines. I've never met a land mine like you.
Me on the ground amongst the flattened human beings trying to offer encouragement to my friend (the other pilot) while shaking my head at the damage he did without thinking about the power at his fingertips.
I will know how to move forward
regardless ,after you.
Everyone talks big. Yack, yack, yak yak yak, waaaan.
Him trying to make another move and myself watching, back in my own mech while our communicators crackle and guns go boom.
Cruiser. Angry. There was someone else here. I will find them, sonavubitch. Fail. My fault. Reset.
Reset.
Reset.
Reset.
Me trying to wipe my memory and undo the entire operation in my head. Each reset a muzzle flash.
Clutch in. Match revs. Time to the light. Gas pedal. Clutch out.
Release brake.
Gas pedal down.
Slowly.
Burnout.
Me, over the comm link trying to coach him and failing, instead focusing on what I can do. The work.
Knock the slag off, with air piston jacked hammers.
When I kicked this off, the intent was to put something down in writing that was blunt force enough to make me need to go further to explain it because I know I do paint myself into corners, at least I feel that I do, to add clarity to what I say. From that spark, the spark of shedding light, everything else developed.
Sitting on a crate opposite you
sitting on another,
printed in yellow block stencil
underneath, 98 mm high explosive x 75.
From that spark I imagined our meeting. What I said before about knocking off slag with jack hammers was a reference to work. From that reference, I immediately jumped into the warzone of language and how often times that is how I view my relationship with the world outside of me. It really is a, put it on whatever scale you want to, some kind of war and this blog is a bit of a foxhole and we are literally sitting on our mental ammunition boxes.
Underneath my ass 150 mm
aye pee
times 30. My feet dangling like our cigarette's
smoke mingling on a windless afternoon.
This verse is kind of a wink and a nod because I do avoid actually smoking as much as possible, but I vape pretty hard. The main thing about it though is that I am prone to large gauge action while most people are happy to work with suppressing fire. My actions are much more leaned toward "kill them all in one sweep of gun barrel barking." I can go accurate, but it is much more fun to swamp them in flames the way I have been. Hence, the large gauge ammo underneath my bum and the smaller gauge, but still deadly, ammunition box underneath the interpolated.
The front is 220 miles out
East as the crow flies.
We will have to refuel
over the mediterranean
and I am looking forward to seeing
how you do it.
This is where we bring in the mechs and how the mechs will get to the front lines, where the action is happening and a short reference to how we wage ware once we get there. This is a reference to the fact that what is about to happen is not new to either of us. We know exactly where it is and what needs to be done to get there. And also speaks to the fact that we have no problem with how the mission succeeds as long as it succeeds.
Our conversation has already broken down
into objectives and way points with a little
bet mixed in to the after action report.
This verse simply speakes to the fact that we've been there before. Our conversation does not need to be enumerated here, only indicated, hinted at, ellipsed. We've done it so many times that the only thing that needs to be done is counting up how many people, targets, installations, were destroyed by the time we succeeded.
It is unfair
to where we land and to whom we mount against,
because they are not in on the game.
Again, this verse is a reference to the previous verse, assuming we both got back home after the operation safe and sound
Us both waiting for the KA-CHUNK
of couplings leaving us in free fall
to where our bombardier's decided
we could do our best
against the populace.
This verse is a credit to the people who get us to the target zone and an acknowledgement that we do not neccessarily know who exactly it is we are going up against inside of our mechs, however. However we have full faith that they, the pilots and/or controllers of our evening will not drop us into a situation that our equipment and skills directly related to our equipment cannot handle well, if not outright destroy them.
A little cheers of coffee.
A little double check of flight suits.
Is the mic where it needs to be?
Trial fit the helmet again
after a quadruple check;
be sure the reticle is in line.
Double check my nail polish
before the glove comes on.
Smash shoulders and opposing tattoos,
before the top of the flight suit
is zipped on.
This is an inside joke to a close friend who helped me tattoo myself. It is part inside joke and part coffee joke. "the best way to start your day" when you are going over your manifest for the day. You know whatever it is that is required of your skills will take all of your skills and you have to be sure when the time comes to pull the trigger, that trigger cannot fail, take practice shots.
Finish the coffee, with pills in our mouths.
They will learn what we live for,
they will learn what is loud.
They will learn that you do need coffee and that you do live for challenges and that you do know what horrible drugs are and that you are not about it.
Our flights will be long. I'll sleep inside the mech
along the way. I don't know what happens to you
while we wait out the sandbox for play.
The thup thup thup thup thup thup
I can hear, because I never turn off
the audio input once I am strapped in.
We both understand how to get to the battlefield. I don't understand how you are so calm. I feel like you've been here before and I have not.
For me, it is a very long long long grin
to watch you work. Guilty.
You know I have not been there before but youare looking forward to my struggling.
Watching, zone cleared against spear chuckers
who happened to have come into
a fushionable pile
and needed reckoning before
something terrible happened,
you break out a "grenade"
two tons strong and willing to-\
-/Christ, where is the pin?
A mixture of edge of tommorrow and starship troopers the book. In Starship Troopers the book they had miniature nukes. Miniature nukes could clear an entire area as long as they got clear. In edge of tomorrow the whole deal was differremt.
Mech against mech. Dust to dust.
Die another day.
Why can you not understand I do
feel the same?
This is myself, dropped onto this planet trying to stop you and yrtying to fighht you hardcore because what I would like to do is save everyone but I cannot. What I would also like to do is kill everyone but I can also cannot. I'm good with figthing you though. I am good with where you RE COMING FROM.
Fire the shell in my mechanized palm
to fire it just that strong
and knock it four miles out
to change the time of day from moonlit to
high noon in a fire ball that could eat city blocks,
but she's in the air. Fair. But "what the f@#$?"
Apologies, but I turned the palm and the gun built in to accelerate it against the what? The elbow cannon that went off and blew the palm muzzle off to an odd degree shot it off toward the dark horrizon and it lit up like noon day.
Overkill......... underneath your left foot,
underneath your left pedal inside your cockpit and
underneath you left foot outside your cockpit
you are grinding human flesh into a paste. And now is
the fucking time.
Do you remember being small? I do.
You don't get conscripted by chance.
Hearing him over the comm, realizing that the action he just did with the arm of his mech just required him to smush some people with the foot of his mech....
You find detonators. You stumble upon detonators.
Land mines Mines. I've never met a land mine like you.
Me on the ground amongst the flattened human beings trying to offer encouragement to my friend (the other pilot) while shaking my head at the damage he did without thinking about the power at his fingertips.
I will know how to move forward
regardless ,after you.
Everyone talks big. Yack, yack, yak yak yak, waaaan.
Him trying to make another move and myself watching, back in my own mech while our communicators crackle and guns go boom.
Cruiser. Angry. There was someone else here. I will find them, sonavubitch. Fail. My fault. Reset.
Reset.
Reset.
Reset.
Me trying to wipe my memory and undo the entire operation in my head. Each reset a muzzle flash.
Clutch in. Match revs. Time to the light. Gas pedal. Clutch out.
Release brake.
Gas pedal down.
Slowly.
Burnout.
Me, over the comm link trying to coach him and failing, instead focusing on what I can do. The work.
9/16/14
Reason #439 Why Pancakes Are Evil
Let's just say, hypothetically there is an electromagnetic pulse attack that blankets the East Coast, or wherever it is you live, some terrible afternoon. Not that the afternoon was going terrible for you, but obviously after an EMP attack things probably went down hill pretty quickly.
Let's say following the EMP attack was to come a nuclear strike on the place, town, coast, whatever, your apartment building, and we know this because before the EMP attack wiped out all unprotected and delicate electronics we saw the missiles going up and were like "oh, damn. That's not great."
Let's say right before that horrible afternoon, you had the morning off from work and figured you would hit up the diner, because most of the time you cannot even stop to smell your coffee on your way to work. While you were sitting there, that beautiful and limitless morning you decided to go with the bacon and eggs and half bagel.
The news on the television behind the counter was interesting. The commercials were funny. Your booth was clean. The coffee was smooth. You even dropped a piece of bacon and it landed in a crease of your jean pant leg instead of on the floor. A real "hell yeah" of a morning. Even the wait staff was chipper and topped up your cup of coffee without you asking.
They ask you if you would like to try a few pancakes with syrups and flavors and chips in them and the day is going so great, and you've got the time off to take a little nap when you get home, and you say an emphatic yes.
Now lying there on your couch, people sprinting through the halls of your apartment building, policemen at street level with horns and whistles shouting the way to the nearest bomb shelters, fists pounding on walls and feet banging echoes down fire escapes and stairwells, and your belly full of more pancakes than you've eaten all year you know there is no way you can possibly get up. There is no way you are making it off of your couch. There is no way you will be able to run anywhere for at least another 4 hours, gripped in a carbohydrate coma the likes of which you've only heard stories about.
Nodding, resigned, that terrible afternoon; you always knew pancakes were going to get you killed one day. Pancakes are evil.
Let's say following the EMP attack was to come a nuclear strike on the place, town, coast, whatever, your apartment building, and we know this because before the EMP attack wiped out all unprotected and delicate electronics we saw the missiles going up and were like "oh, damn. That's not great."
Let's say right before that horrible afternoon, you had the morning off from work and figured you would hit up the diner, because most of the time you cannot even stop to smell your coffee on your way to work. While you were sitting there, that beautiful and limitless morning you decided to go with the bacon and eggs and half bagel.
The news on the television behind the counter was interesting. The commercials were funny. Your booth was clean. The coffee was smooth. You even dropped a piece of bacon and it landed in a crease of your jean pant leg instead of on the floor. A real "hell yeah" of a morning. Even the wait staff was chipper and topped up your cup of coffee without you asking.
They ask you if you would like to try a few pancakes with syrups and flavors and chips in them and the day is going so great, and you've got the time off to take a little nap when you get home, and you say an emphatic yes.
Now lying there on your couch, people sprinting through the halls of your apartment building, policemen at street level with horns and whistles shouting the way to the nearest bomb shelters, fists pounding on walls and feet banging echoes down fire escapes and stairwells, and your belly full of more pancakes than you've eaten all year you know there is no way you can possibly get up. There is no way you are making it off of your couch. There is no way you will be able to run anywhere for at least another 4 hours, gripped in a carbohydrate coma the likes of which you've only heard stories about.
Nodding, resigned, that terrible afternoon; you always knew pancakes were going to get you killed one day. Pancakes are evil.
3/17/14
Sequencer
It's been a very long time. I have no apologies (I do). The growing distance was daunting and becoming a thing alive all it's own. Retreating crash zoom, but we're safe again. Contained. Able to love and much more importantly to pick up threads of circuits and lay them new against the board and chips that have melted, over heated beyond recovery, and reached the end of their service lives and that's good. It's a beautiful thing to open the panel and watch sunlight dazzle every which way against the gold and green and know every thing, multicolored, bent, pinched, blackened, and water seized can go directly to the heap for recycling or trash.
What kept me? What kept you! We've been here forever. If you didn't want me to slam reverse for ten feet and then floor it while you sped ahead to the first hairpin, you shouldn't have said the first one to cross the finish line wins. You could've mentioned... ah whatever, it's a joke, but I'm not funny.
Control is not my strong point, but I try to make it a stronger point and that's something. I'm beginning to understand anew that I will never reach a point where we all agree on anything on a consistent basis. I'm not okay with that. Are you?
I saw him again today. I am not happy about it. I have to be more careful. I think I may have slipped up before and mentioned him by name to a friend again after I told him it would never happen again. He was not happy about it. If I'm not careful we will have to pay for it. I will be. Let's kick things forward. Snap the key off in the ignition. What are you waiting for? You creep me out when you stand still. You look like you're not breathing. You look like you're drowning and I can't swim, hon'. I'm sorry. I should know by now and I don't. It's not going to be alright. Can I snap a photo of my face on the water atop your head? I'll get the angle right so my phone is not visible and it'll be me with Thursday's overcast over my shoulder. I'll make it look good this time around. Not like the first time you made my skin crawl away from my ribs like a window shade when I had to touch your face to be sure you were still there and not a fried up bit of my retina.
Let's enter the sequencer. Let's wind it up. If not now, when? Forget the God damned mission for a minute. Never forget, but do not let it overwhelm you. These are very key pieces. These are very important stages in construction and becoming and missteps will cost, but not more than ghost steps. Engage the sequencer and do not fear yourself. Fear is the mind killer and aboard a destroyer as capable as yours, fear cannot be afforded safe passage.
///El-P - "A Christmas Fucking Miracle" they can never take away what you were born with
What kept me? What kept you! We've been here forever. If you didn't want me to slam reverse for ten feet and then floor it while you sped ahead to the first hairpin, you shouldn't have said the first one to cross the finish line wins. You could've mentioned... ah whatever, it's a joke, but I'm not funny.
Control is not my strong point, but I try to make it a stronger point and that's something. I'm beginning to understand anew that I will never reach a point where we all agree on anything on a consistent basis. I'm not okay with that. Are you?
I saw him again today. I am not happy about it. I have to be more careful. I think I may have slipped up before and mentioned him by name to a friend again after I told him it would never happen again. He was not happy about it. If I'm not careful we will have to pay for it. I will be. Let's kick things forward. Snap the key off in the ignition. What are you waiting for? You creep me out when you stand still. You look like you're not breathing. You look like you're drowning and I can't swim, hon'. I'm sorry. I should know by now and I don't. It's not going to be alright. Can I snap a photo of my face on the water atop your head? I'll get the angle right so my phone is not visible and it'll be me with Thursday's overcast over my shoulder. I'll make it look good this time around. Not like the first time you made my skin crawl away from my ribs like a window shade when I had to touch your face to be sure you were still there and not a fried up bit of my retina.
Let's enter the sequencer. Let's wind it up. If not now, when? Forget the God damned mission for a minute. Never forget, but do not let it overwhelm you. These are very key pieces. These are very important stages in construction and becoming and missteps will cost, but not more than ghost steps. Engage the sequencer and do not fear yourself. Fear is the mind killer and aboard a destroyer as capable as yours, fear cannot be afforded safe passage.
///El-P - "A Christmas Fucking Miracle" they can never take away what you were born with
2/24/14
The Difficulty With Plural Being
There is a stark difficulty that faces harsh light when existing on multiple planes, the first being sudden hunger and damn near undeniable sleepiness that strikes at inopportune hours. You can't remember with reliable accuracy the last time you ate, so you make up stories to keep the rest of the story in line. Sometimes, though, they're accurate memories of eating denied with the fullsomeness of passion that denotes some kind of dedication to the farce and the enforced and necessary truth.
Social media contributes to the complication, making sign posts more difficult to spot, but they are there. Multiple accounts in multiple names. A multiplying outlet of personas allowing for better and more extensive development of those personas. When does it operate to a fault? Active contribution toward managing split personalities becoming a game of musical chairs?
Limit the number of chairs? Add definition and resolution? Or take the pills. Fastidious compartmentalization. And further compartmentalization and specialization. To be called upon at will or at least with some prefabrication, editing, summoning, and purpose, because that is the difference between the ill and the capable. The ability to select, observe, compensate, and respond in a reasonable and human fashion.
Everyone is plural, their "plural" being unanimous instead of fractured.
What happens when dominance is completely unpredictable, highly divided, and deeply embattled one against the other and prone, all the while, toward miscommunication? Are there special exceptions? Is there an "out"? When do you have to press the hand dealt and keep the game going, come whatever consequences, and when do you have the right to put the cards down and say "this is what is here, they add up to nonsense in terms of what the rules of the game dictate, and I do not want to play with them, have no heart in them, and would like to be dealt a new set or at least counted out of this particular round, but not necessarily the game."
I think the long sentence is probably the grounds for the answer. No matter how difficult or nonsensical the answer seems to me, the majority is fairly straightforward and a lot easier to comprehend. It does not hurt that they are alike too. I think that is one of the things that continues to vex me.
///The Echo Friendly - "Same Mistakes"
Social media contributes to the complication, making sign posts more difficult to spot, but they are there. Multiple accounts in multiple names. A multiplying outlet of personas allowing for better and more extensive development of those personas. When does it operate to a fault? Active contribution toward managing split personalities becoming a game of musical chairs?
Limit the number of chairs? Add definition and resolution? Or take the pills. Fastidious compartmentalization. And further compartmentalization and specialization. To be called upon at will or at least with some prefabrication, editing, summoning, and purpose, because that is the difference between the ill and the capable. The ability to select, observe, compensate, and respond in a reasonable and human fashion.
Everyone is plural, their "plural" being unanimous instead of fractured.
What happens when dominance is completely unpredictable, highly divided, and deeply embattled one against the other and prone, all the while, toward miscommunication? Are there special exceptions? Is there an "out"? When do you have to press the hand dealt and keep the game going, come whatever consequences, and when do you have the right to put the cards down and say "this is what is here, they add up to nonsense in terms of what the rules of the game dictate, and I do not want to play with them, have no heart in them, and would like to be dealt a new set or at least counted out of this particular round, but not necessarily the game."
I think the long sentence is probably the grounds for the answer. No matter how difficult or nonsensical the answer seems to me, the majority is fairly straightforward and a lot easier to comprehend. It does not hurt that they are alike too. I think that is one of the things that continues to vex me.
///The Echo Friendly - "Same Mistakes"
7/27/12
Communications Fault: Line 446890-C0-CC1 (circuit a1 >> branch 9)
I've had a very difficult time with communication. The heat hasn't helped. The pressure cooker of my apartment hasn't helped. I know what it's an extension of, and yes, I don't want to talk about it directly because it has been all consuming. Requiring maximum effort to distance myself from and hide from others, but even the lack of communication is telling enough for the people that know me, so even the hiding has been a full time occupation. Let alone maintaining myself. That has also been a full time occupation. Missing too many consecutive days of eating. Not too many in the personal book of what too many days is, as I once went a solid week without eating until a friend intervened. But, I've come to understand that one day of not eating when the option is available, is too many days. A new standard that makes me feel glutinous, but shouldn't by any means do so, but it's a hold over from another time and another segment of my life that refuses to go away.
Communications have been strained. Within myself. Production is down. Simply not happening. Close to zero cooperation from the parties involved, but that happens. Hallucinations are up. Managing them has sucked up a lot of "up" time. Sleep is off the charts.14 to 16 hours. Cross bridge explorations, however have been phenomenal. For quite some time I couldn't remember anything and then I started coming back with pieces and parts. It got to a point yesterday where I woke up and reached for a pocket watch I found after I asked a dead body in a half crushed fully rusted barge (it was an interstate race across a state made up of only islands arranged in a rapids a half continent wide [the waves were high enough to bury the Petronas towers if they were perched on top of the Dover cliffs, and then some], but I got off course and ended up trapped in an island surrounded by weirs that made it impossible to get off it without something with an engine) if there was anything of value and he woke up and pointed to a muddy box with a finger that had a key ring dangling from it. I opened the box and there was a spring loaded clock as big as my fist with a vest fob attached to it, and I was honestly surprised that it wasn't there and I realized I was dreaming again.
There was a very large bear in my room yesterday. A very large, unusually square shaped, bear. Which tipped me off that I was probably dreaming, but then my cat popped up on my pillow and poked me in the face and the bear was still there and I realized I was symptomatic again and so I pulled up my covers, rolled over, and tried to shut it out. The sun came up, though, so everything was resolved well enough. Daylight has its uses. My sleep cycle went completely out of whack. As far as it could possibly go without looping over on itself. And then I got sick. And slept for 36 hours. I needed to. Things have been righting since. A little bit on their own, a little bit through my own efforts to force them to.
What comes next is a re-assumption of some kind of routine to protect the balance. Shield myself from the bad wiring. That's really all I am trying to do. Remake the failsafes. It was one of those rare times when one breaker fail set up the ability for the next one to fault. And the next fault set up the next two to fail. The next two set up the next four. A large part of the mental restructuring is redeveloping the system to avoid that kind of expansion. That kind of breakage leads to zero to atmosphere times that feel like blinks of the eye. I was still talking about today as though today were Sunday. With the understanding that today was Sunday. Functionally that was where I left off. Imagine your body is a car. You jump in after dreaming and turn the key and halfway to your friend's house you realize there are 30,000 more miles on it than the last time you can remember driving it. Not fun. A little scary. Where the hell have I been?
So much unmounted rage. Learning all over again how to deal with it. How to manage it effectively. How to operate within a range of reason and reasonable values. Your base language is either violence or love and the communicator operating system between them either works or it doesn't. 1 or 0. I envy the analog. They really are a different species of human being. A holdover from another time that still procreates and propagates with great success. Us digital human beings still propagate, often despite ourselves. I don't mean digital in the respect of the how our communications are moved between people. We're all digital enough to make that not matter in that respect. The step before digitization though is a separate story. A separate breakdown for another time, but it's there. Digital communication at its root is violence or love. Extreme to extreme and the methods and ways, the words and letters provide the ability to create shades of the experience. For some. For others there is an increasingly fine number of ways to say things and the translation to digital fields is easier to the point of effortlessness. It's like an exam paper. Every paper being different depending on who you are and how you were engineered. Some people receive a paper where every question has twenty boxes. Some people receive a paper with two boxes. They both have the right answer to the question on them. Expressing that answer is a lot easier when you have twenty boxes to choose from instead of two boxes and a bunch of blank space to try to scrawl in explanations and clarifications and other junk to help the twenty boxers understand what you meant.
Established frameworks of communications. No one's to blame. At least I'm not blaming anyone. I'm just frustrated with my machinery. But I already explained, you can't build new machinery with bad tools. Perhaps I didn't. A lot of things do not make it passed the cutting floor, believe it or not. The idea was this: if the tools that make new tools are broken already or offset somehow, the new tools those tools make will be off by even more. And those tools will build structures off by that much more. And those structures will house tools constructed with that offset and be poor to look at to begin with and it just continues rolling up until it all collapses and you start again with the same crappy hammer and chisel and furnace trying to build a lathe to turn some sense out of something and you end up with nothing all over again. So I dunno. I do not know. Maybe just try to enjoy the work more than the product? Maybe? Anthem of my life if I ever had to write one. Probably needs more gunshots. And more cowbell. A little more clap hands and foot stomping and a little less dirge. A little more "remember the mission and all you might do" and a little less "quarterly review for the noble and 'a societal remove' sorts of moves. Nobility, much less nobelity, is passing and as beholden to the eye as anything ever was.
///Bjork - "Pluto" ... a little bit tired, but brand new
Communications have been strained. Within myself. Production is down. Simply not happening. Close to zero cooperation from the parties involved, but that happens. Hallucinations are up. Managing them has sucked up a lot of "up" time. Sleep is off the charts.14 to 16 hours. Cross bridge explorations, however have been phenomenal. For quite some time I couldn't remember anything and then I started coming back with pieces and parts. It got to a point yesterday where I woke up and reached for a pocket watch I found after I asked a dead body in a half crushed fully rusted barge (it was an interstate race across a state made up of only islands arranged in a rapids a half continent wide [the waves were high enough to bury the Petronas towers if they were perched on top of the Dover cliffs, and then some], but I got off course and ended up trapped in an island surrounded by weirs that made it impossible to get off it without something with an engine) if there was anything of value and he woke up and pointed to a muddy box with a finger that had a key ring dangling from it. I opened the box and there was a spring loaded clock as big as my fist with a vest fob attached to it, and I was honestly surprised that it wasn't there and I realized I was dreaming again.
There was a very large bear in my room yesterday. A very large, unusually square shaped, bear. Which tipped me off that I was probably dreaming, but then my cat popped up on my pillow and poked me in the face and the bear was still there and I realized I was symptomatic again and so I pulled up my covers, rolled over, and tried to shut it out. The sun came up, though, so everything was resolved well enough. Daylight has its uses. My sleep cycle went completely out of whack. As far as it could possibly go without looping over on itself. And then I got sick. And slept for 36 hours. I needed to. Things have been righting since. A little bit on their own, a little bit through my own efforts to force them to.
What comes next is a re-assumption of some kind of routine to protect the balance. Shield myself from the bad wiring. That's really all I am trying to do. Remake the failsafes. It was one of those rare times when one breaker fail set up the ability for the next one to fault. And the next fault set up the next two to fail. The next two set up the next four. A large part of the mental restructuring is redeveloping the system to avoid that kind of expansion. That kind of breakage leads to zero to atmosphere times that feel like blinks of the eye. I was still talking about today as though today were Sunday. With the understanding that today was Sunday. Functionally that was where I left off. Imagine your body is a car. You jump in after dreaming and turn the key and halfway to your friend's house you realize there are 30,000 more miles on it than the last time you can remember driving it. Not fun. A little scary. Where the hell have I been?
So much unmounted rage. Learning all over again how to deal with it. How to manage it effectively. How to operate within a range of reason and reasonable values. Your base language is either violence or love and the communicator operating system between them either works or it doesn't. 1 or 0. I envy the analog. They really are a different species of human being. A holdover from another time that still procreates and propagates with great success. Us digital human beings still propagate, often despite ourselves. I don't mean digital in the respect of the how our communications are moved between people. We're all digital enough to make that not matter in that respect. The step before digitization though is a separate story. A separate breakdown for another time, but it's there. Digital communication at its root is violence or love. Extreme to extreme and the methods and ways, the words and letters provide the ability to create shades of the experience. For some. For others there is an increasingly fine number of ways to say things and the translation to digital fields is easier to the point of effortlessness. It's like an exam paper. Every paper being different depending on who you are and how you were engineered. Some people receive a paper where every question has twenty boxes. Some people receive a paper with two boxes. They both have the right answer to the question on them. Expressing that answer is a lot easier when you have twenty boxes to choose from instead of two boxes and a bunch of blank space to try to scrawl in explanations and clarifications and other junk to help the twenty boxers understand what you meant.
Established frameworks of communications. No one's to blame. At least I'm not blaming anyone. I'm just frustrated with my machinery. But I already explained, you can't build new machinery with bad tools. Perhaps I didn't. A lot of things do not make it passed the cutting floor, believe it or not. The idea was this: if the tools that make new tools are broken already or offset somehow, the new tools those tools make will be off by even more. And those tools will build structures off by that much more. And those structures will house tools constructed with that offset and be poor to look at to begin with and it just continues rolling up until it all collapses and you start again with the same crappy hammer and chisel and furnace trying to build a lathe to turn some sense out of something and you end up with nothing all over again. So I dunno. I do not know. Maybe just try to enjoy the work more than the product? Maybe? Anthem of my life if I ever had to write one. Probably needs more gunshots. And more cowbell. A little more clap hands and foot stomping and a little less dirge. A little more "remember the mission and all you might do" and a little less "quarterly review for the noble and 'a societal remove' sorts of moves. Nobility, much less nobelity, is passing and as beholden to the eye as anything ever was.
///Bjork - "Pluto" ... a little bit tired, but brand new
4/18/12
Mistakes
You can't let mistakes own you. There's only so far you can go taking ownership of mistakes that aren't yours to claim. It's not a witticism. It's just fact. At some point you have to stop apologizing and start carrying on and following through and it's so god damn easy to become enraptured in apologetics and turn it into a self sustaining art, but the sustentation of a self through apologetics is about as useful as... all of those words are too big for the facts. Missing the points.
I was a mistake. Hatched from a long train of mistakes. Raised on a book of mistakes. And there has not been or ever will be an apology. I stopped waiting for one a long time ago. The thing is, I just have to stop wanting one. It's hard to do, when you're muscle memory keeps running. When your boss talks to you and you almost piss your pants thinking he might hit you and you'll take it because that's all you knew growing up. But you cannot hurt me anymore. I am not responsible for the equipment I have to work with. I will see you dead someday. We'll call it even when that day comes.
I'm done apologizing for my psychological make up. I am, apparently, as God told my parents to make me. And apparently it ain't so good. For the last two years I've been working on undoing all of the bullshit. I'll get there. I'm done being sorry. I just want to be free.
///The Five Corners Quintet - "This Could Be the Start of Something Big"
I was a mistake. Hatched from a long train of mistakes. Raised on a book of mistakes. And there has not been or ever will be an apology. I stopped waiting for one a long time ago. The thing is, I just have to stop wanting one. It's hard to do, when you're muscle memory keeps running. When your boss talks to you and you almost piss your pants thinking he might hit you and you'll take it because that's all you knew growing up. But you cannot hurt me anymore. I am not responsible for the equipment I have to work with. I will see you dead someday. We'll call it even when that day comes.
I'm done apologizing for my psychological make up. I am, apparently, as God told my parents to make me. And apparently it ain't so good. For the last two years I've been working on undoing all of the bullshit. I'll get there. I'm done being sorry. I just want to be free.
///The Five Corners Quintet - "This Could Be the Start of Something Big"
4/12/12
Seventy One, Count Down to Twenty Seven
Ten days until the clock ticks over. I don't expect anything fantastic. It will be nice to be one again. I don't like being old. It takes too much energy, too much reflection, even the effort to look forward. A time consuming affair, the growing old. The metering. The constant gauging if older is keeping pace with wiser and if wiser is keeping pace with double faults and if ... how many times did I almost die this past iteration?
Let me see if I can recall. Not going into detail, but trying to recall. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Hmmm. Eight. The ninth time is a stretch so I won't count it. It was just before the tenth time, but even that one was more of a panic than a definite thing. So we'll leave it at eight. I believe I did say at one point that if you're not nearly dying more than ten times a year, you're not living hard enough. At the same time, though, that was a much more reckless me. Not careless. There's a difference. Intent is plastic explosive.
Not that I am that much more reckless then. Maybe, more unconscious. I do have some things to take care of in this body before I go skipping off in my next one. The seventy first birthday step. I definitely miscalculated how many birthdays I could pack into one year. Seventy one sounds about right. Well, seventy three, come day zero. Nothing like a midlife crisis at your twenty sixth iteration. Mostly I suppose I am trying to work out a way to celebrate my last iteration in tandem with my last birthday, so it'll take some fine tuning. Some years of fine tuning.
I think this year I'll go for eight day spacing. See how that turns out. I can't remember what happened on my last birthday so I assume nothing. Checking... no results found. Nothing is right. This iteration I want, I want to be a real trip. A real jumping off point to wake face up in a river with nothing but stars, beloved. It's going to be great. It might be my delusions of grandeur. My all knowing, all loving, stupidity with no regard for real or reasonable conclusions. Maybe I'll go get my ears pierced or something. There must be something to mark the occasion this time. Maybe a 27 shot poem. I was thinking about a 54 post facebook status. Maybe both. Because I know no one is taking me out.uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum, <<< thats what my kitten typed. His mark for posterity. I'm not going to die. Because I have a kitten to take care of now until he is at least a cat. So that's good timing. No space for oopsies for a while. So I'm kind of forced to commit to another year. Happily so. Apparently kittens don't like less than 55 degree weather. The little bastard keeps shivering. I can see my breath. Which means I should probably get to bed soon. But anyway, where am I going with all of this? It's been a long time since I had reason to be excited about a new iteration. A lot has changed. A lot has stayed the same. I'm going to continue to reflect on it as the days tick down. Hopefully with more clarity than I am mustering now. Trying hard not to muss new year resolutions and birthday wishes. Trying to aim low and let the reciprocating action of my mental Kalashnikov land me a headshot this time around. Don't force it. Be the leaf. Be the leaf in the wind, and for eulogy's sake don't die before dawn. In terms of goals though, gotta set goals, I have a few for the upcoming set of birthdays. Finish the crappy book I started to write. Make the mistakes I don't need to make when writing the second book. Get laid by people I can remotely care about. Embrace the dark side, and by dark side I mean myself. Consider flaunting it. Take more pictures of myself and distribute accordingly. And take a fantastic drug trip on something, anything, without dying halfway through. And finish the tricky dream hunt. Because that kind of big game hunting blows back and backfires way too easily. Not huge goals. Just real ones. We'll see what happens. ///El-P - "The Dance (Instrumental) ...one more year at the never ending prom
Let me see if I can recall. Not going into detail, but trying to recall. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Hmmm. Eight. The ninth time is a stretch so I won't count it. It was just before the tenth time, but even that one was more of a panic than a definite thing. So we'll leave it at eight. I believe I did say at one point that if you're not nearly dying more than ten times a year, you're not living hard enough. At the same time, though, that was a much more reckless me. Not careless. There's a difference. Intent is plastic explosive.
Not that I am that much more reckless then. Maybe, more unconscious. I do have some things to take care of in this body before I go skipping off in my next one. The seventy first birthday step. I definitely miscalculated how many birthdays I could pack into one year. Seventy one sounds about right. Well, seventy three, come day zero. Nothing like a midlife crisis at your twenty sixth iteration. Mostly I suppose I am trying to work out a way to celebrate my last iteration in tandem with my last birthday, so it'll take some fine tuning. Some years of fine tuning.
I think this year I'll go for eight day spacing. See how that turns out. I can't remember what happened on my last birthday so I assume nothing. Checking... no results found. Nothing is right. This iteration I want, I want to be a real trip. A real jumping off point to wake face up in a river with nothing but stars, beloved. It's going to be great. It might be my delusions of grandeur. My all knowing, all loving, stupidity with no regard for real or reasonable conclusions. Maybe I'll go get my ears pierced or something. There must be something to mark the occasion this time. Maybe a 27 shot poem. I was thinking about a 54 post facebook status. Maybe both. Because I know no one is taking me out.uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum, <<< thats what my kitten typed. His mark for posterity. I'm not going to die. Because I have a kitten to take care of now until he is at least a cat. So that's good timing. No space for oopsies for a while. So I'm kind of forced to commit to another year. Happily so. Apparently kittens don't like less than 55 degree weather. The little bastard keeps shivering. I can see my breath. Which means I should probably get to bed soon. But anyway, where am I going with all of this? It's been a long time since I had reason to be excited about a new iteration. A lot has changed. A lot has stayed the same. I'm going to continue to reflect on it as the days tick down. Hopefully with more clarity than I am mustering now. Trying hard not to muss new year resolutions and birthday wishes. Trying to aim low and let the reciprocating action of my mental Kalashnikov land me a headshot this time around. Don't force it. Be the leaf. Be the leaf in the wind, and for eulogy's sake don't die before dawn. In terms of goals though, gotta set goals, I have a few for the upcoming set of birthdays. Finish the crappy book I started to write. Make the mistakes I don't need to make when writing the second book. Get laid by people I can remotely care about. Embrace the dark side, and by dark side I mean myself. Consider flaunting it. Take more pictures of myself and distribute accordingly. And take a fantastic drug trip on something, anything, without dying halfway through. And finish the tricky dream hunt. Because that kind of big game hunting blows back and backfires way too easily. Not huge goals. Just real ones. We'll see what happens. ///El-P - "The Dance (Instrumental) ...one more year at the never ending prom
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