What fascinates me the most was his unwillingness to let me in.
At every turn there was a guard and I got tired of trying to break them down. It became a fools errand.
I am disappointed in him. A child should never have to reach a point where it is forced to scorch away it's parent. I still get the chucks even admitting that I have a father. Thirty one and seven years out to open life and it's boggling. When I finally grew enough to understand that he couldn't break me, he didn't want to discuss why we got to that place in the first. I won't say I'll never be able to understand it, but he made it clear, many years my senior and able to make decisions on a much more vast scale, that he would never come to the table to view my entire history objectively.
"Where are you from?" I will never know. I can speak on it, but I will never be granted 360 degree vision.
"What were you before you entered citizenship?" I will never know. It's all hearsay from my siblings and I believe them because they would not lie to me.
"Where is he now?" Rotting, I hope. I'm waiting for him to die. I won't be any better for it, I certainly won't be any worse. I will be better. The questions will have answers then. The "I" will be dotted, the "T" crossed, and the pain inflicted, the trauma, accounted for. The books closed.
"Given the opportunity, would you kill him?" Yes.
"Why will you not have an audience with him?" When I reached my own voice and understood I was an individual, he would not have an audience with me and it went on for five years and I had to stop taking refusals because it made me want to kill myself. I will never return to that state.
Everyone talks big about love. Demons. Addiction. Religion. Shan and shan. It's not all bullshit. I tried my best to love and care for him. I don't know why he heeled me to the curb at near incalculable turns (I've faded some memories because I couldn't deal with them so they are dungeon locked and will remain that I may live). I don't want pity. I don't want his love. I don't want his ire. I don't want to hear his voice.
I wanted him to let me in. His resistance and fortress will be a mystery until the day he dies. I may go to his funeral to hear the eulogizers put his unsung thoughts on wax. Not for closure; to get a view into what was behind those brown eyes. Rose tinted? Of course. I can parse with terrible efficiency.
He was the first iron giant I ever knew. Scaled up to city proportions. I learned not to fear him when I realized I became one. I've chosen to use my bones differently. When I reach through the atmosphere, waste is not laid to communities and vessels. Virus does not spread. The horsemen do not ride at once. I'm not ashamed to have been born. I'm not ashamed to have come from a fire and furnace. I'm baffled as to the why. That's all. I've asked for many things through my life, is it too much to ask for straight answers from your point of origin? In this world, half created, half designed, the answer will always be yes.
Original equipment manufacturer fail.
///Thom Yorke- "The Clock"
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 follow through. Show all posts
Showing posts with label follow through. Show all posts
7/2/16
1/8/16
The Year End Look
Never forget that any day you do not think about killing yourself is a pretty damn good day. Let's run the damage report to begin. One concussion. One fractured jaw. Pretty okay. What the hell, did we learn? What is the outlook on this year? I am afraid of saying "I don't know." It's all there. I don't want to sift through it. Slug through it. I want to try to take my reference point from the year end look to begin 2015 and see where we go; so let's go!
First of all, caution paid off. Before the major injury to my face, everything was humming on the hardware. When you suffer a debilitating injury, a person cannot help slipping into ways to deal with that pain. No friends were lost and no new real friends were won. Relationships grew deeper and more sovereign. The realization that the only person who can take care of you at the bottom line, when bone strikes metal, is you and the only person you can rely on absolutely, the only person you can control with high fidelity is you. Everyone else are variables. Your friends will help you and attempt to intercede and interject. Some who do are tourists. That is acceptable. Emotional tourism is a fact of life.
Nice guys finish last, but they finish clean and if that means something to your heart then it is absolutely worth pursuing. You cannot wear hats that do not fit before they blow off in the wind or constrict the blood vessels in your forehead hard enough to give you a migraine. Through the incident, I learned that I am a violent person at heart, but the jacket around that bullet is a jacket formed in a forge of love, kindness, emotion and the ability to feel. Sure, sometimes you feel nothing and sympathy and empathy are things I have to manufacture, but I realized very quickly, unable to eat, laugh, smile, frown, grimace, sneeze or cough, that manufactured or not, however you arrive at it, rage and violence is not the way to go. Thinking back on it, had I lashed out and taken the governors off of myself and won the day instead of trying to talk it through and getting cold cocked, I would be sitting at home afraid to go out at night, worried that someone I did something to still remembers and is looking for me and I have no idea what their faces look like. In retrospect, I am fine with the outcome and more comfortable in my own skin for it. I know the switch is there. They do not. That is all the security I need. Sometimes I ask myself if I am being too nice. I ask myself if I am behaving too well. I shrug. I tell myself I am not a rat on a sinking ship. Certainly, I am not the king of the rats. There is much more to do with my life than project my violent heart on the screens of the world around me. What happens when the video skips and the rainbow scaled dragon leaps across the screen and azure clouds belching constellations and weapons blueprints? Focus less on projections and more on allowing that mean streak to roll. Why guide it? Kick back and watch the waves break and listen to the sound. A person doesn't stand at the sea's lip and scream at the waves. Attempt to enjoy it, understand where they are from, listen to the sound, and watch the sun set. Nice guys finish last; violent guys finish dead.
I am pressing myself toward creating music. A good friend of mine is fairly deep into the art and it is intriguing. I didn't talk about it much last year because I didn't expect it to come forward in the ways that it did. I didn't compose a single story last year. I did, but I did not write a single one down. There is no writer's block. Task lock engaged pretty hard through the year. What I thought would be three months off turned into three, then four, months of person to person tasking. Exchanging information at a very high rate. Person to person relationships are still amazing difficult to me to this day. I can do it. I CAN do it. It takes heaven, earth, and hell out of me to make it happen. It is like cutting off one's own digits one at a time. Day by day. Another knuckle. Another knuckle. Another knuckle. At the palm? Next digit. Fingernail. Knuckle. Another knuckle. Another knuckle. Another knuckle. At the palm? Next digit.
On the cusp of actual free time, I am typing with nubs. The fingers are growing back. Healing the psychological wounds. It's amazing to think about how I am still alive. Think about the conversations that lead to continuing to soldier on. There were two very bad psychological breaking points that I did not see coming. I know it does not mean that I am getting better. It doesn't mean that I'm getting worse either. I haven't abandoned writing. It's grown distant. More intangible than it's ever been. "What's the point?" When so many outside forces are bearing down on you and you don't answer the phone and it goes 'click'. I laugh and cry because you never know if the next phone call is going to be the one in the chamber.
The year was severely back loaded with surprises and paperwork. I am still working on the sleeve of scarification. I still use the strokes on my face as a daily reminder to never forget what I cannot go back to. I am envious sometimes that some people have "home"s. I nearly slipped up. It was a phenomenal year for seeing my sister. She is wonderful and sprite. The suggestions creep in: open the door a little. Do not. Do not ever. I remind myself each morning that I am where I am with what freedom and freedoms I do have by, to coin my father's phrase "pruning." To let them back in is to let years and years of work fall away. The garden is not beautiful. It is in animal and entity. Do stellar objects have a soul and intent? Yes. I will not subject myself to it again. Ever. I will never go back. "I don't hate you either, but I really don't like you." The kind phrase he put together after I finally told him I didn't hate him. I wasn't lying. No one was asked to be born. You cannot hate your point of origin. It is you. Whether you like it or not. The only thing separating him from outright hate is the blood connection.
If you will, allow me this thought experiment:
Your memories begin where they will. Your father is just some guy you are forced to live with for the first 24 years of your life. Can you hate him? Yes. Now, that guy happens to be the person who impregnated the womb you came out of. You realize you would not exist, save for his cock. Can you hate him? Well, we're all here now and conscious. Yes and no. If there is a flake, a sliver, a hair between hate and intense "fuck him and his whole set up" to quote Josh Norman, yes. The only thing stopping me from outright hatred is the unfortunate fact that he decided to create another person with her (which holds her culpable too; is where the pass card comes in, but the general manager and the head coach come and go as a pair). It is kind of funny to wonder who the owner is. I laugh thinking about a god as the team owner. God is like "what the fuck, we need to move this franchise and clean house." The commissioner is saying, god's god, is saying "aye Danny, you've got to do something with this team, ticket sales are bombing."
The early months of the year was a fantastic cruise of steady work and hand tools. When everything boiled down to getting people to talk to one another and getting people to a place to sign forms, things got dicey. I left a few relationships behind in 2015. I realized I will never be my brother's equal and he will never see the world through my lens. Same thing with my older sister. If I never see either one of them again I will not be better for it, but I will never be worse for it either. Not the case with my little sister. Every time I get to see her I learn something new and a new way to be. My family doesn't shrink year by year. The depth of my connection with the folks around me that I can call and respond with as family grows. No love has been lost, though some has changed as their relationships to their loved ones and their religions changes.
I think, as we loop around the year and close in on the last things, we are moving in an appropriate direction. The death threats are real. Make no mistake. My love for the friends that I can call family in my new colony is real. My love for my little sister is real. My ambivalence toward my elder siblings is real. As I get older, my tolerance for pain increases as a function of my diminishing indestructibility. I feel sad for connections that burned out faster than I thought they would, but everyone has their own lives and what is convenient and warm and loving to you is harassment and pipe dreaming and gaudy and ancient and plastic and misplaced to them.
The reason no one talks to you may be because your ability to survive is so tightly tied to your ability to carry a conversation with yourself and the other human beings around you are polite enough, kind enough, human enough, to not interrupt.
The takeaway from 2015 is that we are more conscious than ever before. We still feel and we still can. We can love and we can hate and we will take caution. Our days are numbered and taking the most out of each one is not important at all. We will never be famous. We will never be complete. Our family is not the family we were born into, but we can run operating systems on top of each other to make a complete system. You're not born alone and you will not ever, ever, die alone. Waste your breath, waste your time, but do not trick yourself into believing a moment is ever wasted in putting down your hammer, your knife, your gun, your fire, your heart string marionette, your pen, your piss jar, your hat with matching gloves, your shoes, your cigarette, your car keys, your lube, your teeth, your comb, eyeshadow, rubber band, your space suit, your glasses, your sword, your helmet, means nothing.
2015 taught me about faith in people. Faith in friends. They don't have to know everything about you to know where you are from. They don't have to tell you what you mean to them to understand you should pick up the damn phone now and then. Sometimes it works the opposite way. You don't have to worry your pretty head about tabs. They're watching and waiting the same way you are. Fires on hillsides miles apart on the same planet. Give them the credit due yourself. I love you. It was a good year. The friends that I do have and the friends that I can call family sincerely, from Houston to NYC to California to Washington to Baltimore to Michigan... well, it's America off of the top of my head... ain't no family overseas. The point is this: I am not alone in 2015.
I don't know what 2016 will bring. I am taking on new jobs and expanding limits of circuitry and I am afraid. It is going to be messy by my standards. The outlook is heavy and hardline and will take a focus I have not had to muster before. The bonus will be a new body for this red dragon. And, and, and, no one will have to die to get there, yeah? Yeah! How good is that. How great is that. It will not be nose to the grind stone. 2016 will be about how far do you trust me? I promise you that you will not be able to throw me that far. I weigh upwards of 185 pounds. It's only going to get heavier as I get back into the gym after being forced to take three months off when I screwed up and got my face fractured. How far can you throw 200 pounds? Joking. I do think trust will come into play in a big way this year. Trust in caution, trust in going through the motions of writing to find my muse again, trust in friends to standby and trust in friends to see their vision along their lines and do what is asked of me without question.
Let's make 2016 about trust and make progress on our scarification sleeve.
Let's do it. It's not going to be comfortable. It's not going to be easy. If you want easy, kill yourself.
///How To Dress Well - "Us In The Sense of Forever"
///*the year end playlist up next
First of all, caution paid off. Before the major injury to my face, everything was humming on the hardware. When you suffer a debilitating injury, a person cannot help slipping into ways to deal with that pain. No friends were lost and no new real friends were won. Relationships grew deeper and more sovereign. The realization that the only person who can take care of you at the bottom line, when bone strikes metal, is you and the only person you can rely on absolutely, the only person you can control with high fidelity is you. Everyone else are variables. Your friends will help you and attempt to intercede and interject. Some who do are tourists. That is acceptable. Emotional tourism is a fact of life.
Nice guys finish last, but they finish clean and if that means something to your heart then it is absolutely worth pursuing. You cannot wear hats that do not fit before they blow off in the wind or constrict the blood vessels in your forehead hard enough to give you a migraine. Through the incident, I learned that I am a violent person at heart, but the jacket around that bullet is a jacket formed in a forge of love, kindness, emotion and the ability to feel. Sure, sometimes you feel nothing and sympathy and empathy are things I have to manufacture, but I realized very quickly, unable to eat, laugh, smile, frown, grimace, sneeze or cough, that manufactured or not, however you arrive at it, rage and violence is not the way to go. Thinking back on it, had I lashed out and taken the governors off of myself and won the day instead of trying to talk it through and getting cold cocked, I would be sitting at home afraid to go out at night, worried that someone I did something to still remembers and is looking for me and I have no idea what their faces look like. In retrospect, I am fine with the outcome and more comfortable in my own skin for it. I know the switch is there. They do not. That is all the security I need. Sometimes I ask myself if I am being too nice. I ask myself if I am behaving too well. I shrug. I tell myself I am not a rat on a sinking ship. Certainly, I am not the king of the rats. There is much more to do with my life than project my violent heart on the screens of the world around me. What happens when the video skips and the rainbow scaled dragon leaps across the screen and azure clouds belching constellations and weapons blueprints? Focus less on projections and more on allowing that mean streak to roll. Why guide it? Kick back and watch the waves break and listen to the sound. A person doesn't stand at the sea's lip and scream at the waves. Attempt to enjoy it, understand where they are from, listen to the sound, and watch the sun set. Nice guys finish last; violent guys finish dead.
I am pressing myself toward creating music. A good friend of mine is fairly deep into the art and it is intriguing. I didn't talk about it much last year because I didn't expect it to come forward in the ways that it did. I didn't compose a single story last year. I did, but I did not write a single one down. There is no writer's block. Task lock engaged pretty hard through the year. What I thought would be three months off turned into three, then four, months of person to person tasking. Exchanging information at a very high rate. Person to person relationships are still amazing difficult to me to this day. I can do it. I CAN do it. It takes heaven, earth, and hell out of me to make it happen. It is like cutting off one's own digits one at a time. Day by day. Another knuckle. Another knuckle. Another knuckle. At the palm? Next digit. Fingernail. Knuckle. Another knuckle. Another knuckle. Another knuckle. At the palm? Next digit.
On the cusp of actual free time, I am typing with nubs. The fingers are growing back. Healing the psychological wounds. It's amazing to think about how I am still alive. Think about the conversations that lead to continuing to soldier on. There were two very bad psychological breaking points that I did not see coming. I know it does not mean that I am getting better. It doesn't mean that I'm getting worse either. I haven't abandoned writing. It's grown distant. More intangible than it's ever been. "What's the point?" When so many outside forces are bearing down on you and you don't answer the phone and it goes 'click'. I laugh and cry because you never know if the next phone call is going to be the one in the chamber.
The year was severely back loaded with surprises and paperwork. I am still working on the sleeve of scarification. I still use the strokes on my face as a daily reminder to never forget what I cannot go back to. I am envious sometimes that some people have "home"s. I nearly slipped up. It was a phenomenal year for seeing my sister. She is wonderful and sprite. The suggestions creep in: open the door a little. Do not. Do not ever. I remind myself each morning that I am where I am with what freedom and freedoms I do have by, to coin my father's phrase "pruning." To let them back in is to let years and years of work fall away. The garden is not beautiful. It is in animal and entity. Do stellar objects have a soul and intent? Yes. I will not subject myself to it again. Ever. I will never go back. "I don't hate you either, but I really don't like you." The kind phrase he put together after I finally told him I didn't hate him. I wasn't lying. No one was asked to be born. You cannot hate your point of origin. It is you. Whether you like it or not. The only thing separating him from outright hate is the blood connection.
If you will, allow me this thought experiment:
Your memories begin where they will. Your father is just some guy you are forced to live with for the first 24 years of your life. Can you hate him? Yes. Now, that guy happens to be the person who impregnated the womb you came out of. You realize you would not exist, save for his cock. Can you hate him? Well, we're all here now and conscious. Yes and no. If there is a flake, a sliver, a hair between hate and intense "fuck him and his whole set up" to quote Josh Norman, yes. The only thing stopping me from outright hatred is the unfortunate fact that he decided to create another person with her (which holds her culpable too; is where the pass card comes in, but the general manager and the head coach come and go as a pair). It is kind of funny to wonder who the owner is. I laugh thinking about a god as the team owner. God is like "what the fuck, we need to move this franchise and clean house." The commissioner is saying, god's god, is saying "aye Danny, you've got to do something with this team, ticket sales are bombing."
The early months of the year was a fantastic cruise of steady work and hand tools. When everything boiled down to getting people to talk to one another and getting people to a place to sign forms, things got dicey. I left a few relationships behind in 2015. I realized I will never be my brother's equal and he will never see the world through my lens. Same thing with my older sister. If I never see either one of them again I will not be better for it, but I will never be worse for it either. Not the case with my little sister. Every time I get to see her I learn something new and a new way to be. My family doesn't shrink year by year. The depth of my connection with the folks around me that I can call and respond with as family grows. No love has been lost, though some has changed as their relationships to their loved ones and their religions changes.
I think, as we loop around the year and close in on the last things, we are moving in an appropriate direction. The death threats are real. Make no mistake. My love for the friends that I can call family in my new colony is real. My love for my little sister is real. My ambivalence toward my elder siblings is real. As I get older, my tolerance for pain increases as a function of my diminishing indestructibility. I feel sad for connections that burned out faster than I thought they would, but everyone has their own lives and what is convenient and warm and loving to you is harassment and pipe dreaming and gaudy and ancient and plastic and misplaced to them.
The reason no one talks to you may be because your ability to survive is so tightly tied to your ability to carry a conversation with yourself and the other human beings around you are polite enough, kind enough, human enough, to not interrupt.
The takeaway from 2015 is that we are more conscious than ever before. We still feel and we still can. We can love and we can hate and we will take caution. Our days are numbered and taking the most out of each one is not important at all. We will never be famous. We will never be complete. Our family is not the family we were born into, but we can run operating systems on top of each other to make a complete system. You're not born alone and you will not ever, ever, die alone. Waste your breath, waste your time, but do not trick yourself into believing a moment is ever wasted in putting down your hammer, your knife, your gun, your fire, your heart string marionette, your pen, your piss jar, your hat with matching gloves, your shoes, your cigarette, your car keys, your lube, your teeth, your comb, eyeshadow, rubber band, your space suit, your glasses, your sword, your helmet, means nothing.
2015 taught me about faith in people. Faith in friends. They don't have to know everything about you to know where you are from. They don't have to tell you what you mean to them to understand you should pick up the damn phone now and then. Sometimes it works the opposite way. You don't have to worry your pretty head about tabs. They're watching and waiting the same way you are. Fires on hillsides miles apart on the same planet. Give them the credit due yourself. I love you. It was a good year. The friends that I do have and the friends that I can call family sincerely, from Houston to NYC to California to Washington to Baltimore to Michigan... well, it's America off of the top of my head... ain't no family overseas. The point is this: I am not alone in 2015.
I don't know what 2016 will bring. I am taking on new jobs and expanding limits of circuitry and I am afraid. It is going to be messy by my standards. The outlook is heavy and hardline and will take a focus I have not had to muster before. The bonus will be a new body for this red dragon. And, and, and, no one will have to die to get there, yeah? Yeah! How good is that. How great is that. It will not be nose to the grind stone. 2016 will be about how far do you trust me? I promise you that you will not be able to throw me that far. I weigh upwards of 185 pounds. It's only going to get heavier as I get back into the gym after being forced to take three months off when I screwed up and got my face fractured. How far can you throw 200 pounds? Joking. I do think trust will come into play in a big way this year. Trust in caution, trust in going through the motions of writing to find my muse again, trust in friends to standby and trust in friends to see their vision along their lines and do what is asked of me without question.
Let's make 2016 about trust and make progress on our scarification sleeve.
Let's do it. It's not going to be comfortable. It's not going to be easy. If you want easy, kill yourself.
///How To Dress Well - "Us In The Sense of Forever"
///*the year end playlist up next
12/19/15
In Consideration of Empathy
You attack and beat yourself up over your inability to see eye to eye with your brother. Eye to eye about what? Everything. Not everything, just things now. The formation and configuration of our immediate family. Who funds what and why. Who goes and does what and where. Who can. Why do you want to see eye to eye with him on that? You just watched a video of yourself dancing and you thought it was awesome, but the truth is if bodies could have Tourette Syndrome, you would probably be the poster boy with Elaine Benes as the prom Queen. Why do you want to see eye to eye with him at all? You are two completely different human beings, down to sexual orientations and the arrangement of your individual eyelashes. You are not supposed to agree. You are about as different as they come between siblings. You do realize this, I hope. You are a stamped coin. Do you get it now? You are never going to see eye to eye about just about everything. If you want to see the other side, you are probably going to have to bend time and space and, last I heard, that shits pretty difficult with a thousand acre facility so good luck trying to do it with a few cubic inches of fatty gray matter.
You don't have to see anything his way. He doesn't have to see anything your way. What is this weird aggression toward a shared emotional experience? It's not there. Stop looking. I don't say that as a warning sign like marking something so damaging and toxic you will die immediately, if not soon after. I say that as a time saver. I say that as a wayfarer. Stop looking. There is nothing at the end of that ocean. There is nothing on the other side of that desert. The globe does not loop around. It is infinite in the darkness beyond the stars. Stop looking. Occasionally whip your binoculars up to your face and take down the range, time, and windage and then duck back down into the reeds. You do love him, but you do hate him too. Not for any particular reason. Just envy. Change positions. Skulls, skin, bones, you do know you wouldn't be able to change circuitry. Can't I? No. Mightn't I? No. Impossible-r-y-ing I? No, and that's definitely not a word or fragment. What the hell is that? I just stroked off for a minute. What were you saying?
I was saying, we're never going to see eye to eye, so stop beating yourself up when you try and do not. You're not a bad person. You're not a flaming heap of garbage to be kept at arms length all of the time. Sometimes you cannot control your volatility. It's a fine problem to have. You don't have to kill him and you don't have to fight him. Just let him be himself and you be yourself and the chips will land where they please and are directed. Your engagement with the world can never be his. It can be emulated. Where's the fun in tracing? Where's the existence in tracing? Do not get angry with yourself for being irrevocably, irreconcilably, different. No, you are not stupid for trying. Anyone in their right mind would see their closest genetic match and want to touch it like a mirror to make sure what they saw was not a reflection. You are me? No. I am me and you are you, and never the two shall meet.
///Dan Deacon - "Feel the Lightning" polishing the brass on warships that will and need never leave Earth. Fear is healthy. A degree of worry is healthy. Don't take it too far.
You don't have to see anything his way. He doesn't have to see anything your way. What is this weird aggression toward a shared emotional experience? It's not there. Stop looking. I don't say that as a warning sign like marking something so damaging and toxic you will die immediately, if not soon after. I say that as a time saver. I say that as a wayfarer. Stop looking. There is nothing at the end of that ocean. There is nothing on the other side of that desert. The globe does not loop around. It is infinite in the darkness beyond the stars. Stop looking. Occasionally whip your binoculars up to your face and take down the range, time, and windage and then duck back down into the reeds. You do love him, but you do hate him too. Not for any particular reason. Just envy. Change positions. Skulls, skin, bones, you do know you wouldn't be able to change circuitry. Can't I? No. Mightn't I? No. Impossible-r-y-ing I? No, and that's definitely not a word or fragment. What the hell is that? I just stroked off for a minute. What were you saying?
I was saying, we're never going to see eye to eye, so stop beating yourself up when you try and do not. You're not a bad person. You're not a flaming heap of garbage to be kept at arms length all of the time. Sometimes you cannot control your volatility. It's a fine problem to have. You don't have to kill him and you don't have to fight him. Just let him be himself and you be yourself and the chips will land where they please and are directed. Your engagement with the world can never be his. It can be emulated. Where's the fun in tracing? Where's the existence in tracing? Do not get angry with yourself for being irrevocably, irreconcilably, different. No, you are not stupid for trying. Anyone in their right mind would see their closest genetic match and want to touch it like a mirror to make sure what they saw was not a reflection. You are me? No. I am me and you are you, and never the two shall meet.
///Dan Deacon - "Feel the Lightning" polishing the brass on warships that will and need never leave Earth. Fear is healthy. A degree of worry is healthy. Don't take it too far.
3/14/15
The Bars (short and sweet)
They're duf===- error. Error. Error. Error. Thb. Error. They'
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j. Error.
They're difficult to approach. I do have rabbit ears when it comes to waving around the word "retard". Not because I've known people that have fallen into that "category" so much as I have fallen into that category kicking and screaming and have grown to appreciate it through the years as a very and very viable and conscious segment of society.
It's not some sort of syndrome or some sort of recognition and therefore adoption. It's reel and real. Much more real than reel. I've done a lot of things to accommodate for my "deficiencies", some more successful than others. I'm still not sure if an attempt at self diagnosis is a paltry cry for help for socio-societal issues and maladjustment or not, but I soldier on and that's cool.
Sometimes it's really thrilling to fit it in successfully like a bandit, however, sometimes I do latch on to other people around me that appear to be similar or at least similarly categorized and otherwised appropriately boxed off and well segregated. Not necessarily in a bad way. People that do not remember to shower or pick their eyes. People that do no clip their nails or cannot do so. People that can only talk if they can see the left ear of the person they are talking to. People they can only talk to if they have a lock of their hair in their own pocket. regular things, ya know? Is it aggravating? Yeah, absolutely. Do you find ways around it? Yeah, absolutely.
Who am I to get mad?
Let's keep this bitch short and sweet, honey bee!
I didn't get around to talking about what I wanted to talk about, but
I flattened out some of the da'gum'errs and that's mighty fine, I'll take it.
I hope you will too.
I promise I'll be back soon, but I hate promising anything, but I promise I'l be back soon.
I'll finish this thought:
Never felt bad with my bulbous nose tween thighs.
To be continued:
Error.
j. Error.
They're difficult to approach. I do have rabbit ears when it comes to waving around the word "retard". Not because I've known people that have fallen into that "category" so much as I have fallen into that category kicking and screaming and have grown to appreciate it through the years as a very and very viable and conscious segment of society.
It's not some sort of syndrome or some sort of recognition and therefore adoption. It's reel and real. Much more real than reel. I've done a lot of things to accommodate for my "deficiencies", some more successful than others. I'm still not sure if an attempt at self diagnosis is a paltry cry for help for socio-societal issues and maladjustment or not, but I soldier on and that's cool.
Sometimes it's really thrilling to fit it in successfully like a bandit, however, sometimes I do latch on to other people around me that appear to be similar or at least similarly categorized and otherwised appropriately boxed off and well segregated. Not necessarily in a bad way. People that do not remember to shower or pick their eyes. People that do no clip their nails or cannot do so. People that can only talk if they can see the left ear of the person they are talking to. People they can only talk to if they have a lock of their hair in their own pocket. regular things, ya know? Is it aggravating? Yeah, absolutely. Do you find ways around it? Yeah, absolutely.
Who am I to get mad?
Let's keep this bitch short and sweet, honey bee!
I didn't get around to talking about what I wanted to talk about, but
I flattened out some of the da'gum'errs and that's mighty fine, I'll take it.
I hope you will too.
I promise I'll be back soon, but I hate promising anything, but I promise I'l be back soon.
I'll finish this thought:
Never felt bad with my bulbous nose tween thighs.
To be continued:
Bah
Engage the suppo meta super chim gank ja ja ja hahaha ckck la la la jhjh gohgoh fukjj aooao uiw way of looking at things. Or make a hard break, no?
It's been a very long time, we know. All of us know. It's been a long time for a reason and we support that reason whatever that reason may be and however that reason came to be. We support it. It has taken a lot of force to bring everyone to the table. Hell, it's taken a lot of brute force simply to bring us all to the table, let alone a table.
Some of us want to wave around our individuals flags. I am fighting, as the selected individual to represent our collective passport, to wave a single one, but everyone wants to be heard so, I guess I will step away for the song, it's a rarity, but feels appropriate:
well that did not take long to fail. As soon as the spotlight descended they scattered like cockroaches. Big surprise. Machinations of my brain. Faults and artifacts you say. I say. Could it be that the prices I would have to pay should they be named may be so high that I cannot let their names loose anymore or must erase the names as soon as I have let them loose should they be known and summoned on an account other than my own I and I alone should feel the repercussions or should I say that even having mentioned them I should now fall under their disgrace and suffer the consequences in utter paranoia and I should I now tell you that having disclosed that much information the knowledge alone will tell the body and mind collective to brace for impact that other worldly souls should be (this is all in a Britton accent) coming down upon my head?
No. Some of that's true. Most of it's not. I know a lot of what happens inside my head is my own fault. I know a lot of it is not and if I could pluck your eye balls out of your head and implant them into mine you'd want to kill yourself to. Every day. Maybe not every hour. Sometimes some hours people you surround yourself with help you to forget what is all around.
You can all laugh and drink and I drink to forget but not to forget my circumstances or anything like that. I get it. I didn't do good in school and I missed out on trade school by going to learning school and I couldve jumped out of it if I'd known or had the balls to do it instead of taking everything I was force fed, because being a mechanic is tip top, but I didn't so... whatever.
Look up in the sky, it's a bird, it's a plane, it's whatever man! Rimshot.
I drink to forget my father and the senseless beatings and I drink to forget the fact that I can't see straight into a vagina and I drink that I cant see straight at children because they give me the heebee jeebees every time I'm alone with them and I can't stop imagining what a giant penis feels like in a tiny weewee or if a tiny wenis gets hard or if they know or if I knew back then if someone was cleaning me or just being fucking weird or if there's someone who should be on my end of days "I'm going to scoop your motherfucking eyeball out with a margerine plastic knife" or not or if patting one of them bastards on the back is too much contact or too little or if I should shuffle on down to Maryland and kill my father and just have it out, take my time, and have a happy weird time with a kid of my own eventually and explain to him or her that you'll never meet your father because he's dead because I killed him.
Look up in the sky, it's a bird, it's a plane, it's whatever man! Rimshot.
A friend of mine keeps saying "bah" and I think he's doing it in part because I told him saying "it is what it is" is the Pittsburgher, PAer, way of saying "I dunno" northeaster-ish. Northeaster shit. You could just say ellipsis but that's too many penstrokes, yeah? Yeah is an ellipsis too. Dot dot doooooooooooooooooooooooooooot. To other thoughts along the same train, not quite a hard break, however hard enough to change the frames position along the wall to be noticeable. Hard enough to be, should someone visit, a highlight in the tour to the tune of "you've changed."
So we're here and we've arrived and I will borrow in the meantime a "bah."
I cannot tell you how much I've loved you but I can tell you how much I've missed you.
It's good to work. It's good to work at what you love. It's better when the work brings me closer to you.
Breaking trail. Breaking silence. Breaking my heart for you. I miss you every day. You have no idea how much I wish multitasking was an actual thing.
Keep streamlined. Stay feathered. The wind is screaming aginst your nose and mine too. Feather through the days and weeks.
///Unkle & Sparklehorse - (Maria Gur Cover [Insane Lullaby]) ....upon a podium.... you're charming and you're brave
It's been a very long time, we know. All of us know. It's been a long time for a reason and we support that reason whatever that reason may be and however that reason came to be. We support it. It has taken a lot of force to bring everyone to the table. Hell, it's taken a lot of brute force simply to bring us all to the table, let alone a table.
Some of us want to wave around our individuals flags. I am fighting, as the selected individual to represent our collective passport, to wave a single one, but everyone wants to be heard so, I guess I will step away for the song, it's a rarity, but feels appropriate:
well that did not take long to fail. As soon as the spotlight descended they scattered like cockroaches. Big surprise. Machinations of my brain. Faults and artifacts you say. I say. Could it be that the prices I would have to pay should they be named may be so high that I cannot let their names loose anymore or must erase the names as soon as I have let them loose should they be known and summoned on an account other than my own I and I alone should feel the repercussions or should I say that even having mentioned them I should now fall under their disgrace and suffer the consequences in utter paranoia and I should I now tell you that having disclosed that much information the knowledge alone will tell the body and mind collective to brace for impact that other worldly souls should be (this is all in a Britton accent) coming down upon my head?
No. Some of that's true. Most of it's not. I know a lot of what happens inside my head is my own fault. I know a lot of it is not and if I could pluck your eye balls out of your head and implant them into mine you'd want to kill yourself to. Every day. Maybe not every hour. Sometimes some hours people you surround yourself with help you to forget what is all around.
You can all laugh and drink and I drink to forget but not to forget my circumstances or anything like that. I get it. I didn't do good in school and I missed out on trade school by going to learning school and I couldve jumped out of it if I'd known or had the balls to do it instead of taking everything I was force fed, because being a mechanic is tip top, but I didn't so... whatever.
Look up in the sky, it's a bird, it's a plane, it's whatever man! Rimshot.
I drink to forget my father and the senseless beatings and I drink to forget the fact that I can't see straight into a vagina and I drink that I cant see straight at children because they give me the heebee jeebees every time I'm alone with them and I can't stop imagining what a giant penis feels like in a tiny weewee or if a tiny wenis gets hard or if they know or if I knew back then if someone was cleaning me or just being fucking weird or if there's someone who should be on my end of days "I'm going to scoop your motherfucking eyeball out with a margerine plastic knife" or not or if patting one of them bastards on the back is too much contact or too little or if I should shuffle on down to Maryland and kill my father and just have it out, take my time, and have a happy weird time with a kid of my own eventually and explain to him or her that you'll never meet your father because he's dead because I killed him.
Look up in the sky, it's a bird, it's a plane, it's whatever man! Rimshot.
A friend of mine keeps saying "bah" and I think he's doing it in part because I told him saying "it is what it is" is the Pittsburgher, PAer, way of saying "I dunno" northeaster-ish. Northeaster shit. You could just say ellipsis but that's too many penstrokes, yeah? Yeah is an ellipsis too. Dot dot doooooooooooooooooooooooooooot. To other thoughts along the same train, not quite a hard break, however hard enough to change the frames position along the wall to be noticeable. Hard enough to be, should someone visit, a highlight in the tour to the tune of "you've changed."
So we're here and we've arrived and I will borrow in the meantime a "bah."
I cannot tell you how much I've loved you but I can tell you how much I've missed you.
It's good to work. It's good to work at what you love. It's better when the work brings me closer to you.
Breaking trail. Breaking silence. Breaking my heart for you. I miss you every day. You have no idea how much I wish multitasking was an actual thing.
Keep streamlined. Stay feathered. The wind is screaming aginst your nose and mine too. Feather through the days and weeks.
///Unkle & Sparklehorse - (Maria Gur Cover [Insane Lullaby]) ....upon a podium.... you're charming and you're brave
12/1/13
Overkill
Having a difficult time taking Is and Yous and Mes out of my poetry. I wish I had a different face, but apparently I am no longer allowed to hack away at it. I want to get back to wonder. I want to get back to visions of enormous dinosaurs, but the real world continues to push back and it's not fair and I can't figure out a way to circumvent the charges.
I will. Stand up act 9 is coming. Long dark tunnel. I conquered my fear of absolute darkness a while back. Doesn't mean that it's comfortable though. I want to pick up house and walk away from it all in a bad way. Maybe a good way. Tough to think about. Do you just throw your hard drives in a ruck sack? I don't know! I'm asking you! Who helps you plan that sort of thing out? I have no clue.
Do ya have to bring an umbrella or something or do you count on finding one along the route? Could probably thieve one. Do you really want to do that? That's not who you are. You can take whatever you really want, but don't. Every single time you take you are taking something from someone else and that's no good. Let someone hold your leash. They're not holding you back. They're just checking you. You have to allow yourself to be checked at the hip. Take it and bounce off or try to run them over, but whatever you do correct your path. Not correct, but make adjustments because you have to and understand that it is alright to make adjustments.
Adjusting the dials is okay. Not everyone likes to hear music at 11, hell you don't either. Not everyone wants or needs a kiss or needs your face two inches from their own. Not everyone can be famous and not everyone will remember events the same ways you do. You're losing your memory and maybe that plays into part of why you are losing connection fidelity with your dream states. Be okay with working on it. There's no breaker to fire off in between where you're going and where you can never go back to and that's perfectly fine.
Do you bring a knife or no? Do you need to? Would you need to? I don't know! You can take what you want, but you don't have to. Are you expecting battle? It's a funky kind of war we fight and I've been seeing some strange things I don't know how to handle off of the top of my head. I need time. No picking up sticks. No running away. No abuse. Abuse is shorthand for sadists. What's short hand for saints? I want to plow into a wall and obliterate my body in a mist of red and bone. I want humor. Get the fuck away from me! I swear to god I will taste your eye fluid before the night is out, you mother fucker piece of shit, do you not know there is no such thing as a fair fight?
Rules are in place to keep me out of you. Period. Maybe it's all a matter of timing? That may be what I'm getting wrong.
Wanderlust eats away at me and I nibble back. I almost lit a cat on fire again. I'm doing good though. Being on good behavior and going to work almost every time I am supposed to go. I want to keep it up through the end of the year. I am not expecting much from Santa. I still ask him for a 1911 against my better judgement. No resolutions forthcoming and none will be given. I think I'll treat myself to a box of ammunition this year. One step at a time. Baby steps. We'll travel, but I'm not pulling up sticks just yet. I'm trying to monitor my speech. I've been speaking much too fast and running words together and feeling like I need to apologize inside my head every time someone says "what did you say?" I said exactly what the hell I said. It's hyper frustrating. It's like a stutter, but backwards and difficult to correct and heart stabbing when I notice it flowing out of my damned mouth. Not fair!
Howling in my head wont stop. I haven't snorted anything serious in a long time and my sinuses feel like they are about to shatter. "...turning the music up so ya don't hear the engine falling apart..." by hook or by crook we are going to fix this thing so it runs smooth. Chatty Cathy. Slow the fuck down and take a moment. The world's not crazy. It is just you. Everything does not smell like burning metal. It is just you. Space invaders.
///Kelis - "I Don't Think So" just dont think you're at my speed
I will. Stand up act 9 is coming. Long dark tunnel. I conquered my fear of absolute darkness a while back. Doesn't mean that it's comfortable though. I want to pick up house and walk away from it all in a bad way. Maybe a good way. Tough to think about. Do you just throw your hard drives in a ruck sack? I don't know! I'm asking you! Who helps you plan that sort of thing out? I have no clue.
Do ya have to bring an umbrella or something or do you count on finding one along the route? Could probably thieve one. Do you really want to do that? That's not who you are. You can take whatever you really want, but don't. Every single time you take you are taking something from someone else and that's no good. Let someone hold your leash. They're not holding you back. They're just checking you. You have to allow yourself to be checked at the hip. Take it and bounce off or try to run them over, but whatever you do correct your path. Not correct, but make adjustments because you have to and understand that it is alright to make adjustments.
Adjusting the dials is okay. Not everyone likes to hear music at 11, hell you don't either. Not everyone wants or needs a kiss or needs your face two inches from their own. Not everyone can be famous and not everyone will remember events the same ways you do. You're losing your memory and maybe that plays into part of why you are losing connection fidelity with your dream states. Be okay with working on it. There's no breaker to fire off in between where you're going and where you can never go back to and that's perfectly fine.
Do you bring a knife or no? Do you need to? Would you need to? I don't know! You can take what you want, but you don't have to. Are you expecting battle? It's a funky kind of war we fight and I've been seeing some strange things I don't know how to handle off of the top of my head. I need time. No picking up sticks. No running away. No abuse. Abuse is shorthand for sadists. What's short hand for saints? I want to plow into a wall and obliterate my body in a mist of red and bone. I want humor. Get the fuck away from me! I swear to god I will taste your eye fluid before the night is out, you mother fucker piece of shit, do you not know there is no such thing as a fair fight?
Rules are in place to keep me out of you. Period. Maybe it's all a matter of timing? That may be what I'm getting wrong.
Wanderlust eats away at me and I nibble back. I almost lit a cat on fire again. I'm doing good though. Being on good behavior and going to work almost every time I am supposed to go. I want to keep it up through the end of the year. I am not expecting much from Santa. I still ask him for a 1911 against my better judgement. No resolutions forthcoming and none will be given. I think I'll treat myself to a box of ammunition this year. One step at a time. Baby steps. We'll travel, but I'm not pulling up sticks just yet. I'm trying to monitor my speech. I've been speaking much too fast and running words together and feeling like I need to apologize inside my head every time someone says "what did you say?" I said exactly what the hell I said. It's hyper frustrating. It's like a stutter, but backwards and difficult to correct and heart stabbing when I notice it flowing out of my damned mouth. Not fair!
Howling in my head wont stop. I haven't snorted anything serious in a long time and my sinuses feel like they are about to shatter. "...turning the music up so ya don't hear the engine falling apart..." by hook or by crook we are going to fix this thing so it runs smooth. Chatty Cathy. Slow the fuck down and take a moment. The world's not crazy. It is just you. Everything does not smell like burning metal. It is just you. Space invaders.
///Kelis - "I Don't Think So" just dont think you're at my speed
11/3/12
Steady As She Goes
Remember what that used to mean? I do. It used to mean taking the highs and lows in stride, but not to so much the taking in stride as cutting straight though the thick of the wave and coming out the back side and surfing her straight into dusk. Straight into the fall and the winter of the upcoming crest. It used to mean a lot more than it did before it became a platitude. Not that it's a platitude now. I guess what I'm saying is that steady as she goes is a bad way to describe the circuit of this ship.
Right now, I would place it somewhere between an oxygen fire in the vacuum of space and a flat spin dizzying enough to make the sublime a Picasso'd afterthought. It's terrifying in the same way a car accident is serene in the seconds before contact, except those seconds are stretching out days instead of seconds, weeks instead of days.
Steady as she goes, though. All flame and wreck and how many souls can she bring down with her as she spirals into a sun?
It's the wanting that is tearing. Shearing bolts and bulkheads and turning bodies like soil and plow spades, succumb to forces and forced things. Do not kill. Do not see. Do not hear. The touch of force like a kiss from a stranger who knows your one sided name. And no why. No why ever offered. It's thrilling and numbing and begging.
Waiting for another break and it arrives unannounced and unheralded and reasons for people to question never come up, but choke up like a batter for an infield single and everyone sees it coming except the pitcher. It's been tough. Songs for getaway car single shot thirty minute production reels. Everyone needs commas. Everyone needs comas.
You want it both ways. I want it both ways. I want the privilege of mistake. I want the forgiveness and the forgiving to see me in the light of a human being flawed by default and on the same hand I want the respect and the conversation granted to the sound. I want what's coming to me and mine and I want to fight it at the same time. I want answers. Sometimes I can't sleep at night because I keep asking myself "why me?" I keep saying that over and over and it would be so convenient to point to some kind of god or chance or a version of determinism with some kind of optical illusion at it's end. The best I can point up is some kind of medicated psuedo goodness. Some kind of hard parsed commonality or functionality. Is that enough?
What ever is? Am I going to kill myself is a matter of convenience and circumstance. When I'm sure I'll be sure, Is all I can say I won't be able to write some kind of flowery death note. I hold my loved ones, and they do exist, no more hostage than anything or anyone else anyone or anything else can hold a thing or person dear. It burns me that things can be that simple. That simple and that hard. I guess that's what becomes what burns me so hard.
That a person can want all of the rights, all of the allowances, of personhood and still be counted as damaged and warrant of special circumstance and consideration. It boils down, a little bit, to I am just like you staring I am nothing like you dead in the face. Because I want with all of my heart to be just like you. And I know I'll never be. Do you know how special you are?
Do you know how special you are now?
How about now?
Okay, well, how about now?
///War - "Me and Baby Brother" everytime I hear this song I think of fifth grade and all the growing up I had to do and how I took my siblings for granted and how we stole from eachother constantly, but lately I think about all of our adventures and misadventures and I think if I ever have kids there will be a two head minimum because every dog may have its day, but what is a day without some belloved arse you'll be forever linked with to share it with.
///Skrillex - "Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites" ...for I am just like you...
Right now, I would place it somewhere between an oxygen fire in the vacuum of space and a flat spin dizzying enough to make the sublime a Picasso'd afterthought. It's terrifying in the same way a car accident is serene in the seconds before contact, except those seconds are stretching out days instead of seconds, weeks instead of days.
Steady as she goes, though. All flame and wreck and how many souls can she bring down with her as she spirals into a sun?
It's the wanting that is tearing. Shearing bolts and bulkheads and turning bodies like soil and plow spades, succumb to forces and forced things. Do not kill. Do not see. Do not hear. The touch of force like a kiss from a stranger who knows your one sided name. And no why. No why ever offered. It's thrilling and numbing and begging.
Waiting for another break and it arrives unannounced and unheralded and reasons for people to question never come up, but choke up like a batter for an infield single and everyone sees it coming except the pitcher. It's been tough. Songs for getaway car single shot thirty minute production reels. Everyone needs commas. Everyone needs comas.
You want it both ways. I want it both ways. I want the privilege of mistake. I want the forgiveness and the forgiving to see me in the light of a human being flawed by default and on the same hand I want the respect and the conversation granted to the sound. I want what's coming to me and mine and I want to fight it at the same time. I want answers. Sometimes I can't sleep at night because I keep asking myself "why me?" I keep saying that over and over and it would be so convenient to point to some kind of god or chance or a version of determinism with some kind of optical illusion at it's end. The best I can point up is some kind of medicated psuedo goodness. Some kind of hard parsed commonality or functionality. Is that enough?
What ever is? Am I going to kill myself is a matter of convenience and circumstance. When I'm sure I'll be sure, Is all I can say I won't be able to write some kind of flowery death note. I hold my loved ones, and they do exist, no more hostage than anything or anyone else anyone or anything else can hold a thing or person dear. It burns me that things can be that simple. That simple and that hard. I guess that's what becomes what burns me so hard.
That a person can want all of the rights, all of the allowances, of personhood and still be counted as damaged and warrant of special circumstance and consideration. It boils down, a little bit, to I am just like you staring I am nothing like you dead in the face. Because I want with all of my heart to be just like you. And I know I'll never be. Do you know how special you are?
Do you know how special you are now?
How about now?
Okay, well, how about now?
///War - "Me and Baby Brother" everytime I hear this song I think of fifth grade and all the growing up I had to do and how I took my siblings for granted and how we stole from eachother constantly, but lately I think about all of our adventures and misadventures and I think if I ever have kids there will be a two head minimum because every dog may have its day, but what is a day without some belloved arse you'll be forever linked with to share it with.
///Skrillex - "Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites" ...for I am just like you...
9/3/11
End of the World, so Plan For It
I have a unique problem. It's a lot like when you run into the end of the internet regarding a particularly niche topic. You expect it to go on forever. Porn doesn't just end. What do you mean there are a fixed number of videos circulating that feature fisting and prolapsed orifices and cake sitting. But thats how it is. There's a finite anoint of magic out there and eventually you end up with a paid subscription to stuff you saw years ago.
Thats pretty much impossible to plan for. I have done more planning for the end of the world, in all it's glorious senarios, than I have for the eventuality of getting to the end of sub neighborhoods and niches of the web. What do you mean the supply of singing dogs can't meet my continuous demand for watching dogs sing songs to cats playing pianos! What do you mean there's only one video detailing how to break down and reassemble I bicycle cassette using household tools?!
It happens. My problem is more of the pornographic type. I have run out of ways to masturbate. Flat out run out of ways to do it. Maybe it's just that its overdone, but I think it's more along the line of there are only so many ways to pleasure yourself and I've pretty much exhausted them all. I've gotten to the end of my intranet and there's nothing else there, but white space. Of course I could begin inventing. I am about as creative a blue collar mind as anyone is likely to encounter in their life time. I could do it. However, I am very much concerned that things might get dangerously elaborate. Dangerously elaborate masturbation leads to candidacy for the list of one thousand exceptionally embarrassing ways to die. That is something, I think, I don't want. Not yet anyway, as I plan to die in a so grand a fashion that there is literally nothing left of me to bury or put in the ground. Something fast and fiery and adventurous... something that is not auto-erotic asphyxiation<- which is totally played out anyway.
It's something I never planned for. Mainly because, like the internet, I never really thought I would traverse all the available avenues and find myself right back where I started. Figured those streets would and could go on forever. So I guess I will invent, and plan for the eventually of running out of ways to invent. Every world ends. Plan for it. Would be my advice. Yet another life lesson learned.
Thats pretty much impossible to plan for. I have done more planning for the end of the world, in all it's glorious senarios, than I have for the eventuality of getting to the end of sub neighborhoods and niches of the web. What do you mean the supply of singing dogs can't meet my continuous demand for watching dogs sing songs to cats playing pianos! What do you mean there's only one video detailing how to break down and reassemble I bicycle cassette using household tools?!
It happens. My problem is more of the pornographic type. I have run out of ways to masturbate. Flat out run out of ways to do it. Maybe it's just that its overdone, but I think it's more along the line of there are only so many ways to pleasure yourself and I've pretty much exhausted them all. I've gotten to the end of my intranet and there's nothing else there, but white space. Of course I could begin inventing. I am about as creative a blue collar mind as anyone is likely to encounter in their life time. I could do it. However, I am very much concerned that things might get dangerously elaborate. Dangerously elaborate masturbation leads to candidacy for the list of one thousand exceptionally embarrassing ways to die. That is something, I think, I don't want. Not yet anyway, as I plan to die in a so grand a fashion that there is literally nothing left of me to bury or put in the ground. Something fast and fiery and adventurous... something that is not auto-erotic asphyxiation<- which is totally played out anyway.
It's something I never planned for. Mainly because, like the internet, I never really thought I would traverse all the available avenues and find myself right back where I started. Figured those streets would and could go on forever. So I guess I will invent, and plan for the eventually of running out of ways to invent. Every world ends. Plan for it. Would be my advice. Yet another life lesson learned.
8/8/11
Lookit, Lookit
The Music That Makes the Living got a redesign today. Now with 200% less headache on the eyeballs. Aren't I awesome? Don't answer that.
This is the new background:
The old background was okay but had way too many colors that demanded a strange set of colors for the text and the whole thing never really worked and it's bothered me since I put it up.
Old background:
I think the new background keeps the visual interest and loses the visual headache. So overall, a win. Not as interesting as visual confetti, but also not as blinding. An answer to a visual problem. It's nice when you can make answers materialize with enough effort fired off. One of those things where, thankfully, production does not mirror life and the end result is a big ol' pot of buttery eye candy. Still trying to restore my skill sets to where they once were and this I think is a step in the right direction. Everybody on the factory floor working towards the same ends. Well, maybe not everybody, but enough of the bodies. To make something worth remembering happen.
Also, Hai :) enough with the coffee. Time for sleep.
///Justice - "DVNO" ...do you really need to know my name, to figure out how cool I am? The bass is so live on this. I can almost feel the fingers smacking the steel. Need something to get your head nodding on a friday pre-game before whatever the hell else you planned on doing later? Answered.
This is the new background:
The old background was okay but had way too many colors that demanded a strange set of colors for the text and the whole thing never really worked and it's bothered me since I put it up.
Old background:
I think the new background keeps the visual interest and loses the visual headache. So overall, a win. Not as interesting as visual confetti, but also not as blinding. An answer to a visual problem. It's nice when you can make answers materialize with enough effort fired off. One of those things where, thankfully, production does not mirror life and the end result is a big ol' pot of buttery eye candy. Still trying to restore my skill sets to where they once were and this I think is a step in the right direction. Everybody on the factory floor working towards the same ends. Well, maybe not everybody, but enough of the bodies. To make something worth remembering happen.
Also, Hai :) enough with the coffee. Time for sleep.
///Justice - "DVNO" ...do you really need to know my name, to figure out how cool I am? The bass is so live on this. I can almost feel the fingers smacking the steel. Need something to get your head nodding on a friday pre-game before whatever the hell else you planned on doing later? Answered.
7/22/11
The New Grading System, Thoughts on Construction, and I Hate Flowers
Well, I spent four hours this morning trying to draw that scorpion flower tattoo and failed miserably again. You can sort of start to see it, but personally I hate how it turned out.
It's starting to look like something. Instead of working on it for thirty minutes and getting pissed off and quitting I worked on it for six times as long, but eventually gave up and went to bed to think about it there or at least find success in doing other things. Maybe it's just the brush selection. Or maybe it's that I just hate drawing flowers and have always struggled with drawing them up close. Or maybe it's that I haven't spent enough time looking at flowers before. Really committing them to memory. I've certainly spent, when I think about it, at least 1000 times more minutes looking at schematics, machines, and geometric constructions in general. Perhaps there is porting that can be done. Reduce the organic to the geometric, fix the perspective there and then port it back to the organic. It's bothering me, in case I haven't made that clear. An unscratchable itch that I have to prove to myself is not unscratchable, but merely located in a place that's hard to reach, but reachable. I hate flowers.
So while I was asleep I had the pleasure of grading papers. At the end. Well, not the end. But in the second dream. The first dream was pretty awesome. I went to the pacific rim and started a new life as a bounty hunter in Oceania. It was all well and good. Then things got bloody and did not end well at all, but that's a story for another time. I'm going to talk about the boring epiphany. So I'm sitting there grading these papers and the papers are both written by potheads, except that I already know what happens to them in the future because I've gone back in time to grade their work as college freshman. I already know one of them is going to run off and work for big name companies out of the gate and I already know the other one is going to end up dropping out and moving in with his mother and working for Borders until they go bankrupt.
I'm reading the writing notes and they're both there in the classroom after school waiting to see what their grades are because the papers will make or break both of their years in my class and as I finish up and go back to reread the stories along with my first impression notes I start ticking things off in columns labeled B, S, and N. I have no idea what the labels mean or their relevance to a fiction class so I pull my perspective back out of my head and I ask the me/not me doing the grading what the columns and labels are for and he tells me "B stands for believable, S stands for continuity, and N stands for noticeable." I ask the grader a follow up question: what do you mean by noticeable? He answers, "noticeable means a moment in the story where the reader notices something and commits the action, event, item, whatever the subject or object being read about is, to their active memory reserved for things they would normally encounter, care about, or keep track of in their own lives and for their own sake." Aha, says I and then I climbed back into my head and went back to reading and grading.
I can't remember exactly what the successful pothead's story was about, but it was pretty boring to grade. All of the things that were supposed to be there were there, but it was obvious that he had no interest in writing and was taking the course for required credit so I found myself loosening my standards mainly to avoid having to deal with arguing about it when I handed him his paper, but also because I couldn't bring myself to nail him on finer points when the subject he chose to write about was thin, safe, and bland to begin with. I didn't think about it at the time as rewarding mediocrity or the ultra conservative, "cover your bases", approach that tends to net good grades in Universities, but thinking about it now it was a pretty slanted thing to do.
The second paper was much more interesting. It was a story about a boy who promises to help his mother kill herself before winter after being disgraced by her husband's lascivious activities in the new year that came to light just as the summer began. The husband leaves her in the same week school ends and the boy is home with his mother throughout the summer months and into fall when he finally begins to realize what he's agreed to help her do and it's impact on his life as school begins again. That's when I got to see the new grading system in action. The columns were divided into rows labeled A, B, C, D, and F. For the continuity category an X in a row meant that was the grade earned. For every other category you started the strikes at the bottom of the column and moved upward to an A. So five noticeable moments meant a technical A. Five continuity issues meant a technical F. Five moments of the suspension of disbelief meant a technical A. There was also built in consideration for length. For short stories, one strike was all that was allowed per letter grade. Middle and longer lengths and word counts meant more ground for the student to cover so additional strikes were made available, two then three per letter grade etc. For particularly short papers letters could be knocked off of the scale so that a person couldn't score an F for not packing enough junk into a paper to satisfy the system and help prevent people from playing to the syllabus or the requirements. And of course more columns could be added or eliminated as subject matter, literary devices, and exercises demanded. Though that did not stop me from allowing it to happen despite the mechanisms in place to alert me to it.
There were continuity issues. Lots of continuity issues. Not impressionistic issues, but just hard de facto mistakes of alignment for a five page story. There were also many, many, many believable moments and moments where I was committing pieces of the story to my memory as though I were reading about neighbors or friends that I thought I knew. The first paper did the same thing, albeit with far less subtlety. So I ended up in a situation where the second paper scored two As and an F. Averaged out to a C. From the stand point of "as hard a science as something subjective as grading papers can be." In the end I tuned the C up to a B for the other points of craftsmanship that can't really be covered and agreed upon in the realm of the lowest common denominator of general and identifiable human experience. I probably should have tuned the other paper from an A to a B as well for rote underachievement.
As a grading system it struck me as fairly useful as a starting point for getting a sense of issues, strengths, and weaknesses. But also as a starting point for conversation, discussion, and argument about grades being given out. Using it, I could explain to student A why their paper of X length graded out better than student B's paper of Y length without having to think back to what I was thinking about when I scribbled the notes I scribbled and then have to hunt through the nebulous territory of assigning those thoughts to grades. Now I had a way of saying "everything else aside, this is why you got this score" and "all things considered in concert, this is how my personal opinion and subjectivity changed that score." It was a pretty detailed dream for half an hour of sleeping. Not as ridiculous or action packed as the other dream, but just as good.
I made that this afternoon. Just trying to get away from failure and into a little success. Turned out exactly how I wanted it too. I wish there was a way to make it rain in the summer time. Anything to peel back the heat. Summer really is the most miserable set of months known to man. Gotta move farther north. Since there is no cloud generator available. I'll tell you about the other dream later. I'll try and draw it up a little more. Get back to doing what I love to do when I'm not writing or out getting dirty playing in the sun or at home moping and cringing against the ticks of time. I wanted to do some paper crafts today, but I'm out of time - because I went out to play for three hours instead of working, but I still think I managed to better myself either way. Oh well. Sorry to bore you. I guess not every day is a hustle. Some days are a shuffle. Or maybe just a think. And now I'm tired and I still have to go to work so, let's get it on. And by get it on I mean dive into sleep. Might try to cross the bridge for a little while and see what's going on in Universe B. Or not. Those trips can be just as tiring as walking these planes some days.
See ya later.
///Boards of Canada - "Seeya Later" I have to leave, but wait up for me. I'll be back soon.
It's starting to look like something. Instead of working on it for thirty minutes and getting pissed off and quitting I worked on it for six times as long, but eventually gave up and went to bed to think about it there or at least find success in doing other things. Maybe it's just the brush selection. Or maybe it's that I just hate drawing flowers and have always struggled with drawing them up close. Or maybe it's that I haven't spent enough time looking at flowers before. Really committing them to memory. I've certainly spent, when I think about it, at least 1000 times more minutes looking at schematics, machines, and geometric constructions in general. Perhaps there is porting that can be done. Reduce the organic to the geometric, fix the perspective there and then port it back to the organic. It's bothering me, in case I haven't made that clear. An unscratchable itch that I have to prove to myself is not unscratchable, but merely located in a place that's hard to reach, but reachable. I hate flowers.
So while I was asleep I had the pleasure of grading papers. At the end. Well, not the end. But in the second dream. The first dream was pretty awesome. I went to the pacific rim and started a new life as a bounty hunter in Oceania. It was all well and good. Then things got bloody and did not end well at all, but that's a story for another time. I'm going to talk about the boring epiphany. So I'm sitting there grading these papers and the papers are both written by potheads, except that I already know what happens to them in the future because I've gone back in time to grade their work as college freshman. I already know one of them is going to run off and work for big name companies out of the gate and I already know the other one is going to end up dropping out and moving in with his mother and working for Borders until they go bankrupt.
I'm reading the writing notes and they're both there in the classroom after school waiting to see what their grades are because the papers will make or break both of their years in my class and as I finish up and go back to reread the stories along with my first impression notes I start ticking things off in columns labeled B, S, and N. I have no idea what the labels mean or their relevance to a fiction class so I pull my perspective back out of my head and I ask the me/not me doing the grading what the columns and labels are for and he tells me "B stands for believable, S stands for continuity, and N stands for noticeable." I ask the grader a follow up question: what do you mean by noticeable? He answers, "noticeable means a moment in the story where the reader notices something and commits the action, event, item, whatever the subject or object being read about is, to their active memory reserved for things they would normally encounter, care about, or keep track of in their own lives and for their own sake." Aha, says I and then I climbed back into my head and went back to reading and grading.
I can't remember exactly what the successful pothead's story was about, but it was pretty boring to grade. All of the things that were supposed to be there were there, but it was obvious that he had no interest in writing and was taking the course for required credit so I found myself loosening my standards mainly to avoid having to deal with arguing about it when I handed him his paper, but also because I couldn't bring myself to nail him on finer points when the subject he chose to write about was thin, safe, and bland to begin with. I didn't think about it at the time as rewarding mediocrity or the ultra conservative, "cover your bases", approach that tends to net good grades in Universities, but thinking about it now it was a pretty slanted thing to do.
The second paper was much more interesting. It was a story about a boy who promises to help his mother kill herself before winter after being disgraced by her husband's lascivious activities in the new year that came to light just as the summer began. The husband leaves her in the same week school ends and the boy is home with his mother throughout the summer months and into fall when he finally begins to realize what he's agreed to help her do and it's impact on his life as school begins again. That's when I got to see the new grading system in action. The columns were divided into rows labeled A, B, C, D, and F. For the continuity category an X in a row meant that was the grade earned. For every other category you started the strikes at the bottom of the column and moved upward to an A. So five noticeable moments meant a technical A. Five continuity issues meant a technical F. Five moments of the suspension of disbelief meant a technical A. There was also built in consideration for length. For short stories, one strike was all that was allowed per letter grade. Middle and longer lengths and word counts meant more ground for the student to cover so additional strikes were made available, two then three per letter grade etc. For particularly short papers letters could be knocked off of the scale so that a person couldn't score an F for not packing enough junk into a paper to satisfy the system and help prevent people from playing to the syllabus or the requirements. And of course more columns could be added or eliminated as subject matter, literary devices, and exercises demanded. Though that did not stop me from allowing it to happen despite the mechanisms in place to alert me to it.
There were continuity issues. Lots of continuity issues. Not impressionistic issues, but just hard de facto mistakes of alignment for a five page story. There were also many, many, many believable moments and moments where I was committing pieces of the story to my memory as though I were reading about neighbors or friends that I thought I knew. The first paper did the same thing, albeit with far less subtlety. So I ended up in a situation where the second paper scored two As and an F. Averaged out to a C. From the stand point of "as hard a science as something subjective as grading papers can be." In the end I tuned the C up to a B for the other points of craftsmanship that can't really be covered and agreed upon in the realm of the lowest common denominator of general and identifiable human experience. I probably should have tuned the other paper from an A to a B as well for rote underachievement.
As a grading system it struck me as fairly useful as a starting point for getting a sense of issues, strengths, and weaknesses. But also as a starting point for conversation, discussion, and argument about grades being given out. Using it, I could explain to student A why their paper of X length graded out better than student B's paper of Y length without having to think back to what I was thinking about when I scribbled the notes I scribbled and then have to hunt through the nebulous territory of assigning those thoughts to grades. Now I had a way of saying "everything else aside, this is why you got this score" and "all things considered in concert, this is how my personal opinion and subjectivity changed that score." It was a pretty detailed dream for half an hour of sleeping. Not as ridiculous or action packed as the other dream, but just as good.
I made that this afternoon. Just trying to get away from failure and into a little success. Turned out exactly how I wanted it too. I wish there was a way to make it rain in the summer time. Anything to peel back the heat. Summer really is the most miserable set of months known to man. Gotta move farther north. Since there is no cloud generator available. I'll tell you about the other dream later. I'll try and draw it up a little more. Get back to doing what I love to do when I'm not writing or out getting dirty playing in the sun or at home moping and cringing against the ticks of time. I wanted to do some paper crafts today, but I'm out of time - because I went out to play for three hours instead of working, but I still think I managed to better myself either way. Oh well. Sorry to bore you. I guess not every day is a hustle. Some days are a shuffle. Or maybe just a think. And now I'm tired and I still have to go to work so, let's get it on. And by get it on I mean dive into sleep. Might try to cross the bridge for a little while and see what's going on in Universe B. Or not. Those trips can be just as tiring as walking these planes some days.
See ya later.
///Boards of Canada - "Seeya Later" I have to leave, but wait up for me. I'll be back soon.
7/7/11
In the Back Woods and Friendship Tugs of War
Well, I've been gone for a minute, but it's been something of a stroll in the backwoods. The creepy backwoods that are often not to be strolled until the circumstances demand some sort of outing and the only reasonable place to go where you can't be bothered is the back 9 of the mind. Keeping a good clip with poetry. A minor defeat of writer's block that has allowed some things to flourish. I haven't used that word in a while, if at all. Flourish. It has a certain pirouette to it that has to be reserved for unique measures of success.
Success in the face of nightmares.
Actual nightmares. Actual moments of the involuntary bridging of dream and real states. Of seeing what is there and what isn't or at least shouldn't be in the same instance of breathing and having to close my eyes and repeat after me "you are safe"s. If repeating is believing. I guess that's one of the reasons why I don't believe in heaven or hell. I've seen them both and they're not what anyone says they are supposed to be. I've been to the end of the world and it's nothing like what we've been told is it? Few things ever are. If I smell a little like death it's because we've been bedfellows on and off recently. A flirting couple that knows neither is really committed to anything serious, but when is play ever except when it is?
So we've pumped and ground and made and done and life has gone on for less and worse and better and blood. The organs still pump and the sound still comes in fountains and so I continue. I continue on in the backwoods and little leaps to foregrounds until, I have come to convince myself recently in the train of reasons to reason in, the day when my life transposes from discrete experiences into a singular piece of poesis. A perfect and sustainable solid state. And then I'll happily call it a day. Not in a bid for immortality because immortality is only to memory and human memory will never break the solid state barrier (so even immortals are no more than incarnates), but in a bid to have become. I suppose there are probably many things I am becoming, but to have definitively crossed that boundary of becomingness to the hell pots of posterity is a thing worth aspiring to if there is anything worth shooting for. Call the stars, or the moon, or glory, or whatever. Incarnations of the become be damned. To have is to have in some way shape and form held in hands so often dropped in emptiness. To have gripped, and not let go even in whatever can be termed death.
There have been joys in the backwoods. Joys tasted rarely in and the travel has been hard and light, but worth it in some ways and a waste in many others. And I don't know why I am trying to see this in two points of view. Oh wait I do! Friendship tug of war. You can pick your nose. You can pick your friends. But you can't favor one person over the other though they both know you in pathetically thin terms. What the hell does it matter, you idiots? I mean really. Can we all just grow up a good four years and call this bullshit a day. Not to rant on so silly a topic. It's just aggravating. Neither one of you could really keep pace with what I'm up to so what the hell difference does it make. Both of you would probably have nothing to do with me if you knew me to the fullest possible extent so can we please all just get along by the terms of the established sensibilities of isness? Probably not.
I have got too much to run from to ever fully open to either so what can I possibly be expected to do when I can't even begin to describe what can be reasonably expected of myself. How can you love anybody when you don't love yourself? Well, it's kind of easy if you try. Just kidding, it's impossible, but still- what the hell. Are my choices really to go hang with the one person who always lies to me and makes assertions they can never back up and keep trusting in them and keep getting screwed up worse than I am, or is it to drag myself across town to hang with someone who has no idea who i actually am and will be put in a weird situation when he does. I guess the one thing I do have to consider is that I shouldn't presume to know people I - don't know. Simply stated. So maybe it's worth a shot. Maybe it's time to bend the orbit a little bit and come in close enough to lay some mathematics and calculus to a potential short rendezvous. Haven't used that word in a while either. Generally reserved for important things. Like scenes from 2001 A Space Odyssey. Elegant things. My staff of scientists are not elegant or important. Their idea of a delicate landing is detonating on the surface. They didn't do so well in school, I guess. If shithead A gets a shot, I think it stands to reason that potential decent friend B should also get a shot to play the table and fit into my arbitrary and ridiculous set of rules for friendship that, I swear these people do exist, few people can seem to fit into. I miss those people a ton. I guess the stupid thing is they'll never know who they are. If they did know they probably wouldn't care what it is they accomplished. Alright I'm gonna pipe this down as I'm making myself slightly depressed. And by slightly I mean massively. It's been a tough week. Sorry I've been away.
Well anyway, thought I would drop off some graphics. Because what is a road trip without photographs. There are things that live when you sleep that do not sleep as you are living. They wait for you to come on back. Come on home. One more time. You'll not leave this place alive, but you can try. You can try for old time's sake. We'll give you a fit and running start. See how far you go before we are there, sucking the lengths of string of your calf through your heel like fine noodles through a straw of shredded skin. Don't stay up too late.
///The Black Angels - "Mission District" You can sometimes hear it. You can always feel it when it comes beating on your heart like a death threat. You will write or you will suffer in ways you did not know existed, but will become intimately familiar with. And you do it. And you duck away into the grass and you listen to it beat it's way farther along and then it's gone and you can't really tell if you saved yourself or if maybe the entire thing is coming around again and this time at an angle you did not know was possible and maybe you'll hear it. You'll certainly feel it closing in, but how much less warning will there be next time?
Success in the face of nightmares.
Actual nightmares. Actual moments of the involuntary bridging of dream and real states. Of seeing what is there and what isn't or at least shouldn't be in the same instance of breathing and having to close my eyes and repeat after me "you are safe"s. If repeating is believing. I guess that's one of the reasons why I don't believe in heaven or hell. I've seen them both and they're not what anyone says they are supposed to be. I've been to the end of the world and it's nothing like what we've been told is it? Few things ever are. If I smell a little like death it's because we've been bedfellows on and off recently. A flirting couple that knows neither is really committed to anything serious, but when is play ever except when it is?So we've pumped and ground and made and done and life has gone on for less and worse and better and blood. The organs still pump and the sound still comes in fountains and so I continue. I continue on in the backwoods and little leaps to foregrounds until, I have come to convince myself recently in the train of reasons to reason in, the day when my life transposes from discrete experiences into a singular piece of poesis. A perfect and sustainable solid state. And then I'll happily call it a day. Not in a bid for immortality because immortality is only to memory and human memory will never break the solid state barrier (so even immortals are no more than incarnates), but in a bid to have become. I suppose there are probably many things I am becoming, but to have definitively crossed that boundary of becomingness to the hell pots of posterity is a thing worth aspiring to if there is anything worth shooting for. Call the stars, or the moon, or glory, or whatever. Incarnations of the become be damned. To have is to have in some way shape and form held in hands so often dropped in emptiness. To have gripped, and not let go even in whatever can be termed death.
There have been joys in the backwoods. Joys tasted rarely in and the travel has been hard and light, but worth it in some ways and a waste in many others. And I don't know why I am trying to see this in two points of view. Oh wait I do! Friendship tug of war. You can pick your nose. You can pick your friends. But you can't favor one person over the other though they both know you in pathetically thin terms. What the hell does it matter, you idiots? I mean really. Can we all just grow up a good four years and call this bullshit a day. Not to rant on so silly a topic. It's just aggravating. Neither one of you could really keep pace with what I'm up to so what the hell difference does it make. Both of you would probably have nothing to do with me if you knew me to the fullest possible extent so can we please all just get along by the terms of the established sensibilities of isness? Probably not.
I have got too much to run from to ever fully open to either so what can I possibly be expected to do when I can't even begin to describe what can be reasonably expected of myself. How can you love anybody when you don't love yourself? Well, it's kind of easy if you try. Just kidding, it's impossible, but still- what the hell. Are my choices really to go hang with the one person who always lies to me and makes assertions they can never back up and keep trusting in them and keep getting screwed up worse than I am, or is it to drag myself across town to hang with someone who has no idea who i actually am and will be put in a weird situation when he does. I guess the one thing I do have to consider is that I shouldn't presume to know people I - don't know. Simply stated. So maybe it's worth a shot. Maybe it's time to bend the orbit a little bit and come in close enough to lay some mathematics and calculus to a potential short rendezvous. Haven't used that word in a while either. Generally reserved for important things. Like scenes from 2001 A Space Odyssey. Elegant things. My staff of scientists are not elegant or important. Their idea of a delicate landing is detonating on the surface. They didn't do so well in school, I guess. If shithead A gets a shot, I think it stands to reason that potential decent friend B should also get a shot to play the table and fit into my arbitrary and ridiculous set of rules for friendship that, I swear these people do exist, few people can seem to fit into. I miss those people a ton. I guess the stupid thing is they'll never know who they are. If they did know they probably wouldn't care what it is they accomplished. Alright I'm gonna pipe this down as I'm making myself slightly depressed. And by slightly I mean massively. It's been a tough week. Sorry I've been away.
Well anyway, thought I would drop off some graphics. Because what is a road trip without photographs. There are things that live when you sleep that do not sleep as you are living. They wait for you to come on back. Come on home. One more time. You'll not leave this place alive, but you can try. You can try for old time's sake. We'll give you a fit and running start. See how far you go before we are there, sucking the lengths of string of your calf through your heel like fine noodles through a straw of shredded skin. Don't stay up too late.
///The Black Angels - "Mission District" You can sometimes hear it. You can always feel it when it comes beating on your heart like a death threat. You will write or you will suffer in ways you did not know existed, but will become intimately familiar with. And you do it. And you duck away into the grass and you listen to it beat it's way farther along and then it's gone and you can't really tell if you saved yourself or if maybe the entire thing is coming around again and this time at an angle you did not know was possible and maybe you'll hear it. You'll certainly feel it closing in, but how much less warning will there be next time?
4/2/11
Counting Down Seconds
Counting down the seconds until I have to go outside again. It helps when it's dark out. It feels like there are two inch diameter screws pushing into the space behind my ears and doing their best to touch in the middle.
The wind blows up through the corner of my building where all the boiler rooms and utility closets align. I'm pretty sure I could climb down through the entire building to the basement through there. I'm pretty sure whatever's in the basement can climb up if it wanted to. I try not to think about that space. Sometimes I come home and that door is open. The lock on it is broken. Or maybe it never worked. I stuff socks in the door jamb to keep it shut, but socks don't have magical powers and it doesn't stay shut. I'm thinking about nailing it up.
Yesterday I was working so hard I started drooling and I didn't realize it until I felt the little tug on your shirt that tells you your taco just let a glob of skin temperature oil loose on the middle of your chest. I took it down a notch. The work is hard, but not hard enough. I like it when it's demanding. It helps me forget who I am. I'm no longer me. I'm levers and pulleys and little motors and wires and for loops and if then switches and I love that. Part of me wants that to be all. To rip away from the rest in a maniac's pursuit of perfectly synchronized movement. I'm clumsy. But when I've memorized all the actions it feels so good to make the calls to the functions and then revise them knowing they can't become worse.
I'm thinking about teaching myself to be a butcher, since I didn't get the post. It would be a fun pastime. By the time I can afford to buy the animals I'll be able to afford a freezer to put the parts in and have a nice place for all the tools too. Then I can extend the work from my job through the anxiety of my home and feel that relaxedness roll through me again. But that's a little ways off. It'll be fun.
I had this dream that I went forward in time to the same burned out bakery next to the house I want to buy. The house with the door boarded up in the front and all the doors and balconies open in the back where there was a fire that started at the furnace exhaust and worked it's way forward across the roof and slashed through the face of the third floor like a stroke of side armed bull whip. The place wasn't lived in. Or at least, when I looked in the one open window at ground level I didn't see any blankets in there. The day was already getting on by the time I came to and walked next door so I decided to head East toward the blight and see if I bought any property down that way since I didn't end up taking the home in the shadow of the bakery after all. It was a long walk and things were turning the blue gray of a rainy evening going dark for coming overcast more than precession. I came to the fields of weeds and tumble bricks and lost shopping bags and knit hats from past years turned into multicolored sidewalk band aids glued to the ground by leaves and dog pee and I started stopping at each building standing singular and appearing unoccupied, but none of them were mine. It took me an entire season to move as far ahead as I did and the trees were shedding and blowing across the ground and I was watching them go when my eye took on charcoal writing on the wide boards of a porch with empty windows. There was writing everywhere and it cut and curled like the shadows of crossing tree limbs if the sun were striking at first daylight. I didn't know whose house it was, but I had to know who would trace the veins of a building like that so I walking across another field where a home was knocked down into it's basement and covered over with dirt and crossed a street empty of cars and kicked an empty milk carton on my way up the stairs. There was thick black writing everywhere and on every single step and some dead vines that tried to impress, but were cut at the roots and left to rot. I went inside through the window into the dimness and walked through a living room that sagged in the middle where rain must have collected year in and year out. Walking along the walls to avoid the softest parts of the floor I found a sleeping bag with me inside and I took off my gloves to maintain a slip free grip and I started strangling myself until I felt my larynx collapse like a matchbox and I knelt there squeezing as hard as I could waiting for my eyes to open, but they never did. I left. I went back to the bakery beneath a starless sky and I didn't lay down to go back to my own time until the rain threatened earlier started to fall and I felt peaceful. I slept so good. And then I woke up.
The whole thing made me wonder how many unsolved murders are suicides. It's probably in horrible taste. I'm sure someone somewhere is probably being brutally raped and murdered by someone else who will never be caught. Maybe I'm already on some course for that to happen to me in my bids to connect with people I don't know. But how many people are killed by their time traveling suicidal selves. I don't want to meet myself. Not yet anyway, but I'm counting down the seconds until I have to go outside. I need some time to work on things. I hope I get some time off soon, even though I don't want it. My head hurts.
///Groove Armada - "At The River" Let's dance a little. Please? Don't make me dance by myself again.
The wind blows up through the corner of my building where all the boiler rooms and utility closets align. I'm pretty sure I could climb down through the entire building to the basement through there. I'm pretty sure whatever's in the basement can climb up if it wanted to. I try not to think about that space. Sometimes I come home and that door is open. The lock on it is broken. Or maybe it never worked. I stuff socks in the door jamb to keep it shut, but socks don't have magical powers and it doesn't stay shut. I'm thinking about nailing it up.
Yesterday I was working so hard I started drooling and I didn't realize it until I felt the little tug on your shirt that tells you your taco just let a glob of skin temperature oil loose on the middle of your chest. I took it down a notch. The work is hard, but not hard enough. I like it when it's demanding. It helps me forget who I am. I'm no longer me. I'm levers and pulleys and little motors and wires and for loops and if then switches and I love that. Part of me wants that to be all. To rip away from the rest in a maniac's pursuit of perfectly synchronized movement. I'm clumsy. But when I've memorized all the actions it feels so good to make the calls to the functions and then revise them knowing they can't become worse.
I'm thinking about teaching myself to be a butcher, since I didn't get the post. It would be a fun pastime. By the time I can afford to buy the animals I'll be able to afford a freezer to put the parts in and have a nice place for all the tools too. Then I can extend the work from my job through the anxiety of my home and feel that relaxedness roll through me again. But that's a little ways off. It'll be fun.
I had this dream that I went forward in time to the same burned out bakery next to the house I want to buy. The house with the door boarded up in the front and all the doors and balconies open in the back where there was a fire that started at the furnace exhaust and worked it's way forward across the roof and slashed through the face of the third floor like a stroke of side armed bull whip. The place wasn't lived in. Or at least, when I looked in the one open window at ground level I didn't see any blankets in there. The day was already getting on by the time I came to and walked next door so I decided to head East toward the blight and see if I bought any property down that way since I didn't end up taking the home in the shadow of the bakery after all. It was a long walk and things were turning the blue gray of a rainy evening going dark for coming overcast more than precession. I came to the fields of weeds and tumble bricks and lost shopping bags and knit hats from past years turned into multicolored sidewalk band aids glued to the ground by leaves and dog pee and I started stopping at each building standing singular and appearing unoccupied, but none of them were mine. It took me an entire season to move as far ahead as I did and the trees were shedding and blowing across the ground and I was watching them go when my eye took on charcoal writing on the wide boards of a porch with empty windows. There was writing everywhere and it cut and curled like the shadows of crossing tree limbs if the sun were striking at first daylight. I didn't know whose house it was, but I had to know who would trace the veins of a building like that so I walking across another field where a home was knocked down into it's basement and covered over with dirt and crossed a street empty of cars and kicked an empty milk carton on my way up the stairs. There was thick black writing everywhere and on every single step and some dead vines that tried to impress, but were cut at the roots and left to rot. I went inside through the window into the dimness and walked through a living room that sagged in the middle where rain must have collected year in and year out. Walking along the walls to avoid the softest parts of the floor I found a sleeping bag with me inside and I took off my gloves to maintain a slip free grip and I started strangling myself until I felt my larynx collapse like a matchbox and I knelt there squeezing as hard as I could waiting for my eyes to open, but they never did. I left. I went back to the bakery beneath a starless sky and I didn't lay down to go back to my own time until the rain threatened earlier started to fall and I felt peaceful. I slept so good. And then I woke up.
The whole thing made me wonder how many unsolved murders are suicides. It's probably in horrible taste. I'm sure someone somewhere is probably being brutally raped and murdered by someone else who will never be caught. Maybe I'm already on some course for that to happen to me in my bids to connect with people I don't know. But how many people are killed by their time traveling suicidal selves. I don't want to meet myself. Not yet anyway, but I'm counting down the seconds until I have to go outside. I need some time to work on things. I hope I get some time off soon, even though I don't want it. My head hurts.
///Groove Armada - "At The River" Let's dance a little. Please? Don't make me dance by myself again.
11/6/10
I Don't Think I'll Ever Get Used to Being Alive
Its been some time, I know,but I've been thinking about you mostly along with some other things. Quite honestly I don't think I'll ever get used to being alive. How about you?
///Junkie XL - "War" Saturday Teenage Kick shifted my musical landscape overnight. If you haven't listened to it, it's an album that is best heard from start to finish before calling out individual tracks. It's an album that uses the entire LP as the canvas and it came out in '97 when creation was the name of the game and even amongst the stand outs of the late 90s this one will stick with you just that little bit more.
I suppose I... no I don't believe so... I've thought about so many things and I know I should have been telling you about them and I haven't and that's my fault and I'm sorry. I'll try and get it together, but this place is so foreign. Everyday I open my eyes I feel like... feel like what? I don't think I'm a monster, but I suppose most monsters probably don't. Trying to see where the ocean ends and the new world begins, but it's all sea water and I don't know what it means.
///Junkie XL - "War" Saturday Teenage Kick shifted my musical landscape overnight. If you haven't listened to it, it's an album that is best heard from start to finish before calling out individual tracks. It's an album that uses the entire LP as the canvas and it came out in '97 when creation was the name of the game and even amongst the stand outs of the late 90s this one will stick with you just that little bit more.
I suppose I... no I don't believe so... I've thought about so many things and I know I should have been telling you about them and I haven't and that's my fault and I'm sorry. I'll try and get it together, but this place is so foreign. Everyday I open my eyes I feel like... feel like what? I don't think I'm a monster, but I suppose most monsters probably don't. Trying to see where the ocean ends and the new world begins, but it's all sea water and I don't know what it means.
7/2/10
Behold Again!!
Pchow Pchow, goes the Buck Rogers laser gun as I fire off good idea after great idea. Seriously though, I am just tired. While it's great to exercise my brain it also makes me tired, especially because the fridge has been particularly short on brain food and good scotch.
Check out that new banner! Is it or is it not the cats pj's. It counterbalances the chaos down that right side bar pretty nicely. I got rid of that text obstructing thing down at the bottom of each post too. See, I listen to you sometimes when I'm not arguing amongst my selves.
Speaking of arguments, I watched 500 Days of Summer recently. Great movie. Great writing in the movie is what I think made it so spectacular. The subtle bias toward the male pro-stagonist/underdog was very well done. It played off of the understood theme's in relationship movies and then flipped it quite handily on its head through- actually, hold on. I was going to talk about something else, but now I can't remember what.
Oh, the banner up there! Yes. So I might tweak it some more later on, and by later on I mean tomorrow. Just to help it blend more seamlessly. On second thought, scratch that. I think I may play up the difference to highlight and cut it off from the rest of the page to give the entire blog a more clearly defined personality instead of a mix mash of boarders and impressionistic pictures.
Ah, yes. Arguments. Today has struck me as something of a frustrating day. The two people I really want to talk to are not talking to me. Petty and self centered of me to say that right? Wrong! I am never wrong! You are wrong for even suggesting I may ever be wrong about anything! Mainly, I wonder what they're doing because I want to be a part of it, but I'm beginning to suspect that the role I thought I played in their lives is actually a tiny forgettable fraction. Or perhaps not so much forgettable as extremely occasion specific. I've niched myself. Or have I. The whole thing is confusing and the most frustrating thing about it all is that its probably almost entirely a product of differences in free time and my own insecurities. God damn it, just answer your phone and tell me you don't want to talk ever. That's what a nice person would do. Or maybe that's what an asshole would do. My interpersonal skills might be regressing, but the plus side is that my amateur psychology is progressing. No, wait, that might be a negative too.
I bet Kanye West thinks he's being a nice person every single time he opens his mouth (old I know). I wonder if he's having fun in India finding his soul. Ha, more like finding his soul's "dear john" letter! Pchow! Buck Rogers. Count it. Look out for the addition of more bells and whistles in the future. This place is always developing. Occasionally moping along like the progress of a blinking light around a string of Christmas lights still on in August of the following year, but like those lights we keep it changing.
///Jay-Z - "Empire State of Mind" maybe I'll move to NYC and seek my fortune there. Or even anywhere else in the state of New York. I think I'm out of options here. Either way, from where I stand the coasts feel like they're glittering.
Check out that new banner! Is it or is it not the cats pj's. It counterbalances the chaos down that right side bar pretty nicely. I got rid of that text obstructing thing down at the bottom of each post too. See, I listen to you sometimes when I'm not arguing amongst my selves.
Speaking of arguments, I watched 500 Days of Summer recently. Great movie. Great writing in the movie is what I think made it so spectacular. The subtle bias toward the male pro-stagonist/underdog was very well done. It played off of the understood theme's in relationship movies and then flipped it quite handily on its head through- actually, hold on. I was going to talk about something else, but now I can't remember what.
Oh, the banner up there! Yes. So I might tweak it some more later on, and by later on I mean tomorrow. Just to help it blend more seamlessly. On second thought, scratch that. I think I may play up the difference to highlight and cut it off from the rest of the page to give the entire blog a more clearly defined personality instead of a mix mash of boarders and impressionistic pictures.
Ah, yes. Arguments. Today has struck me as something of a frustrating day. The two people I really want to talk to are not talking to me. Petty and self centered of me to say that right? Wrong! I am never wrong! You are wrong for even suggesting I may ever be wrong about anything! Mainly, I wonder what they're doing because I want to be a part of it, but I'm beginning to suspect that the role I thought I played in their lives is actually a tiny forgettable fraction. Or perhaps not so much forgettable as extremely occasion specific. I've niched myself. Or have I. The whole thing is confusing and the most frustrating thing about it all is that its probably almost entirely a product of differences in free time and my own insecurities. God damn it, just answer your phone and tell me you don't want to talk ever. That's what a nice person would do. Or maybe that's what an asshole would do. My interpersonal skills might be regressing, but the plus side is that my amateur psychology is progressing. No, wait, that might be a negative too.
I bet Kanye West thinks he's being a nice person every single time he opens his mouth (old I know). I wonder if he's having fun in India finding his soul. Ha, more like finding his soul's "dear john" letter! Pchow! Buck Rogers. Count it. Look out for the addition of more bells and whistles in the future. This place is always developing. Occasionally moping along like the progress of a blinking light around a string of Christmas lights still on in August of the following year, but like those lights we keep it changing.
///Jay-Z - "Empire State of Mind" maybe I'll move to NYC and seek my fortune there. Or even anywhere else in the state of New York. I think I'm out of options here. Either way, from where I stand the coasts feel like they're glittering.
4/5/07
make good 04/05/07
Subject : make good ::: destroyer goodness
Posted Date: : Apr 5, 2007 6:59 PM
i cant really fault anyone for not being able to trust me. i spend a lot of time thinking to myself about things external to me before acting in ways that i myself have trouble predicting. im bipolar with shades of schizophrenia and a control freak streak a few hectares wide. i have anger management problems and i digest personal loss as easily as i shit bricks. i like to make people happy to my own detriment, and entertain quiet thoughts of bdsm when no ones looking. the one thing people seem to be able to catch on to is that i make good.
your damn fucking right i make good. LOLERZ. but seriously... when i put my mind to something i will try to carry it out till the treads fall off, and yes its my upbringing. i dont enjoy being this way sometimes. sometimes it sucks. sometimes it makes it impossible for people to trust my authenticity and sometimes the people that are close to me can see there's something else behind my eyes i dont want to talk about. sometimes it makes life unmanageable, unenjoyable, and downright sickening. i've tried to change. i still do try to change. soemtimes i succeed. sometimes i dont. sometimes i dance. seriously.
this is the last time ill talk about love this month. promise. love is where trust is important, obviously. my ability to committ to a course should not be confused with, interchanged with, or held above my ability to love without condition. i just want that in writing. so there. im gonna be 22 soon... past the one third mark... so i dont have time to fuck around when it comes to love. fucking around is done with, was done with, has been done with for almost five years, and will continue to be done with. one of my hobbies is not seeing how many people i can fuck before i wake up in a coffee shop, having dozed off in the afternoon after a weekend bender, having missed slept throught the morning, to find im 39-still hitting the clubs for 19 year olds-unable to remember the name of the second to last person i banged-and feeling sorry for myself.
i love. i make good.
the road is winding onward... friends are getting jobs... degrees... cars... lives... world travel... etc. i am not. but if there's one thing i remember (aside from repeating the that phrase as much as possible) its that you cant let the parade outside your window ruin your perfectly good day and your perfectly good can of beer and your perfectly good creative mind and your perfectly good herb. watch the world go by? hah! i've got better things to do (which may or may not be true, but what the hell do you care). i am a reasonable person. i dont destroy yer goodness (at least not actively i hope) so dont feel bad if you think youre treading on mine. if that makes sense. in retrospect i dont think it does. but im not going to explain it. i dont have to.
the phrase is good enough on its own.
///the pillows! - "hybrid rainbow" probably the best song to listen to when the rain is just starting to let up and the last drops are catching the sunlight and firing it off in orange and amber and sorbet rays of milk and you look to the sky to see a rainbow and there's nothing there but towers and towers of clouds that look like you could climb them if you only had a rope long enough to lasso the filaments of rain still falling and dreams big enough to believe in yourself.
yes, its a very hopeful outlook. yes, i manufactured it. yes, i believe in it. yes, i will refuse to acknowledge your criticism of my opinion in this matter.
Posted Date: : Apr 5, 2007 6:59 PM
i cant really fault anyone for not being able to trust me. i spend a lot of time thinking to myself about things external to me before acting in ways that i myself have trouble predicting. im bipolar with shades of schizophrenia and a control freak streak a few hectares wide. i have anger management problems and i digest personal loss as easily as i shit bricks. i like to make people happy to my own detriment, and entertain quiet thoughts of bdsm when no ones looking. the one thing people seem to be able to catch on to is that i make good.
your damn fucking right i make good. LOLERZ. but seriously... when i put my mind to something i will try to carry it out till the treads fall off, and yes its my upbringing. i dont enjoy being this way sometimes. sometimes it sucks. sometimes it makes it impossible for people to trust my authenticity and sometimes the people that are close to me can see there's something else behind my eyes i dont want to talk about. sometimes it makes life unmanageable, unenjoyable, and downright sickening. i've tried to change. i still do try to change. soemtimes i succeed. sometimes i dont. sometimes i dance. seriously.
this is the last time ill talk about love this month. promise. love is where trust is important, obviously. my ability to committ to a course should not be confused with, interchanged with, or held above my ability to love without condition. i just want that in writing. so there. im gonna be 22 soon... past the one third mark... so i dont have time to fuck around when it comes to love. fucking around is done with, was done with, has been done with for almost five years, and will continue to be done with. one of my hobbies is not seeing how many people i can fuck before i wake up in a coffee shop, having dozed off in the afternoon after a weekend bender, having missed slept throught the morning, to find im 39-still hitting the clubs for 19 year olds-unable to remember the name of the second to last person i banged-and feeling sorry for myself.
i love. i make good.
the road is winding onward... friends are getting jobs... degrees... cars... lives... world travel... etc. i am not. but if there's one thing i remember (aside from repeating the that phrase as much as possible) its that you cant let the parade outside your window ruin your perfectly good day and your perfectly good can of beer and your perfectly good creative mind and your perfectly good herb. watch the world go by? hah! i've got better things to do (which may or may not be true, but what the hell do you care). i am a reasonable person. i dont destroy yer goodness (at least not actively i hope) so dont feel bad if you think youre treading on mine. if that makes sense. in retrospect i dont think it does. but im not going to explain it. i dont have to.
the phrase is good enough on its own.
///the pillows! - "hybrid rainbow" probably the best song to listen to when the rain is just starting to let up and the last drops are catching the sunlight and firing it off in orange and amber and sorbet rays of milk and you look to the sky to see a rainbow and there's nothing there but towers and towers of clouds that look like you could climb them if you only had a rope long enough to lasso the filaments of rain still falling and dreams big enough to believe in yourself.
yes, its a very hopeful outlook. yes, i manufactured it. yes, i believe in it. yes, i will refuse to acknowledge your criticism of my opinion in this matter.
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