How much of your hand should you show? Once you have worked to find your voice, how afraid are you that it will be duplicated? What if the person you want to collaborate with, the person who has the ends in hand, can duplicate your means if you have to go through them to gain exposure?
Eventually you can cut them out. Eventually you will not have to worry about intellectual theft. You'll always be one step ahead by default. What if the person you have chosen to work with is capable of pirating everything you have created prior and your only proof is a series of time stamps? What if you have the capabilities and where-with-all and all out gall and disregard to forge time stamps too? What if the skillsets you have used to survive for so long, all thirty years of you, forced you to develop the skills you needed to make any claim of origin moot? You can design locks and you also have a very fine set of lock picks. The line between used and new blurs to infinity.
Collaboration is a minefield. When an artist opens their book to you, enjoy it. Do not see it as a requisite. See it as a privilege. See it as a pact of ultimate trust. Closer than sex. Closer than that bullshit conversation heart to heart over a beer or nine. Closer than that time they drove you home drunk when you were too drunk to drive and they almost crashed, killing the two people in the backseat not buckled up. Closer than that girl you've been talking to and haven't closed the deal on. Closer than that friend that dropped you off at the emergency room when you died for twenty seconds and had to be resuscitated with a balled up fist to your chest. Closer than that secret your dad told you when you finally got a couple drinks in him when he hit fifty and waxed nostalgic. Closer than that blank spot in your memory everyone else knows. It's a minefield.
If I show you how the sausage is made, do you see dollars or do you see a way to be a better you? Do you see a way out or do you see a way in? Will you steal or will you harmonize and create?
Every creator has the hang up of collaboration. How many collaborations have started and failed? How many flash in the pan, in the searing oil, spill over for an instant, lick the flame and light the entire venture ablaze? Every time someone asks me to collaborate, I am reluctant. It never ends well. It never ends well! IT NEVER ENDS WELL! It is to a point that I know it is me. I know I am at fault. I go on tears. I have vision. I am the spark. I am the fire. I am the galaxy. I am the clouds. I am the sky. I am the grass. I am the atom. I am the brick. I am the pipe. I am the fist. I am the womb. I am the rain and the sword. The broom and the dust. The wall and the fist. The string and the mattress. The thimble and the apple crushed during lunch breaks. I am the napkin and the grease. The spear and the beast. The insect eaten bone and the loam.
There is never any commitment. No real sticktoitiveness. I churn and it burns and they push thumb to index and make empty promises and break appointments that actually matter and it goes round and round until it hits the drain. That's not the end. I go into the waste lines, shrink myself down and dive in, like that mini sub movie we all know that I can't remember. Sealab? Fantastic Voyage! And I dive through the septic system after I get no response long enough and search it out and try to revive it and report back and the reports come thinner from the surface until it's a science fiction movie with a starship in The Dark Between the Stars and I'm hoping I can land somewhere and I do not want to do it again.
Forgive my apprehension because I will not forgive your abandonment. Not again. You say you want to collaborate. I say prove it. You say you want to work with me, show me something I have not seen. Give me a reason to believe in you because your word is worth dog ____. Hell, help me be a person better than myself right now and I will trade you. If you call yourself an asshole and behave like one, the book of life will not open for you. Fear is not stopping me, hate is not stopping me. Waste is. Time is. Trust is. Anyone can shout into a hole in the ground. Anyone can shout into a knot in a tree. Anyone can program a machine. Anyone can build one. Craft is another being altogether.
Another state. If you are searching for your voice, say so. If you are searching for your base, say so. If you need guidance, say so. Make it clear. As it stands, you have nothing to offer me. Nothing within your catalog will help me refine, reinvent, understand, or see myself anew. What you ask of me is to help you. Help you do what? Why should I care? Why should I turn myself on the spit so you can eat while I listen to what a self starter and go getter you are on and on through the nights? Show me something. Show me you have learned something. If you show me that you have learned something beyond your current state, I will engage you like you have a soul. I will answer your questions and accept your challenges. Keep coasting. I will leave you behind. Challenge me and I will fight. Challenge me hollow and I will go through the motions right along with you and play down.
Hell, I'll help you bury it. Our collaboration. I don't take it lightly. I do not like feeling used. I know I am not disposable. It is fun to feel like or be an inspiration or muse or riff target or mirror or foundry, however in collaboration I demand more, expect more, I want to be inspired, mused, riff against, see a reflection in you, and forge new alloys and atoms through you. As I gift you, give me something to work with. Turn my gears. Blow my turbines. Feed my generator, as I shovel coal into your own.
Do not make me regret this. Not again. Never again. Do not waste my time.
///Mazzy Star - "Look On Down From The Bridge" rainy winter. the river never froze. it is strange to be disappointed in the spring. it is immensely frustrating when i can't talk art with you; when everything turns toward monetization and consumers. screw that, can we look at a sky and say it's nice without you turning it into coin?
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 hate. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hate. Show all posts
10/16/15
At the End of the Seventh Week (damage report)
Out of the fog of wars, asked for and not, comes the final damage report.
The total bill:
1 fractured left jawbone submandibular fossa.
1 dislocated left jawbone condylar process.
1 dislocated left jawbone coronoid process.
The total paid:
1 healed jawbone submandibullar fossa.
1 healed jawbone condylar process.
I don't think the coronoid process will ever heal correctly.
Total bill:
Zero $.
Constant pain in the coronoid process, but bearable and adaptable.
Final result:
No crippling pain.
Unforgettable pain. The kind of pain every morning and every evening and every time I think about eating. However, the kind of pain that will remind me to be a better a person. The kind of pain that is unforgettable and good in its way because it will diffuse further scuff ups and other opportunities to speak my mind whenever I feel like, be it the thrill of getting ice cream or the the assuage of killing off the thrill of murdering someone else because I ... a good deterrent. There are only so many ways to explain so many things. This one is adequate.
I can eat. I can chew. I can tear. I can exercise. I can use the rest of my body. I refuse to incriminate myself. And I will not start here.
The healing has been amazing. I am able to smoke again. I wake up every morning feeling like a railroad spike has been shoved through my skull from the left side, right up through my ear, behind my eye socket and I've never had a migraine by definition, but this must be close to it.
I choose to let it go.
I choose to move on.
I have to.
Head hunters don't lead good lives.
I am furious and love struck and oh so amber and rose and pink in the joy of being able to wake up with 90% of my function back and if that's as good as it gets, hell baby, I got off lucky. I will take that and dance and swing hammers and think about the next time and maybe I will strike first or maybe I will disarm myself before what you are carrying becomes an issues, but for fucks sake, it is good to be able to laugh free again.
The final damage report is this:
Mistakes were made on one side. Mine. I ate it. I came out on the other side, tempered and galvinized. A shorter fuse and a shorter leash too. I expect less of other people and more of myself. And that is flipping pretty good for a prognosis of a wire job.
I've known what it is to not be able to speak for days at a time, not because you couldn't, because you were literally locked closed. A blindness. I've known unprovoked hate in the shade of unbridled happiness. Your spectrum is Roy G, Biv. Mine is unspeakable in its range and color and temperature and length. It has no name yet and I may not be able to give it a convenient one.
I now have the power to teach, and I will not. Unless you press me.
///TV on the Radio - (Lovers Day) of course, there are miracles... the people we think you are. give me the keys to your hiding place
The total bill:
1 fractured left jawbone submandibular fossa.
1 dislocated left jawbone condylar process.
1 dislocated left jawbone coronoid process.
The total paid:
1 healed jawbone submandibullar fossa.
1 healed jawbone condylar process.
I don't think the coronoid process will ever heal correctly.
Total bill:
Zero $.
Constant pain in the coronoid process, but bearable and adaptable.
Final result:
No crippling pain.
Unforgettable pain. The kind of pain every morning and every evening and every time I think about eating. However, the kind of pain that will remind me to be a better a person. The kind of pain that is unforgettable and good in its way because it will diffuse further scuff ups and other opportunities to speak my mind whenever I feel like, be it the thrill of getting ice cream or the the assuage of killing off the thrill of murdering someone else because I ... a good deterrent. There are only so many ways to explain so many things. This one is adequate.
I can eat. I can chew. I can tear. I can exercise. I can use the rest of my body. I refuse to incriminate myself. And I will not start here.
The healing has been amazing. I am able to smoke again. I wake up every morning feeling like a railroad spike has been shoved through my skull from the left side, right up through my ear, behind my eye socket and I've never had a migraine by definition, but this must be close to it.
I choose to let it go.
I choose to move on.
I have to.
Head hunters don't lead good lives.
I am furious and love struck and oh so amber and rose and pink in the joy of being able to wake up with 90% of my function back and if that's as good as it gets, hell baby, I got off lucky. I will take that and dance and swing hammers and think about the next time and maybe I will strike first or maybe I will disarm myself before what you are carrying becomes an issues, but for fucks sake, it is good to be able to laugh free again.
The final damage report is this:
Mistakes were made on one side. Mine. I ate it. I came out on the other side, tempered and galvinized. A shorter fuse and a shorter leash too. I expect less of other people and more of myself. And that is flipping pretty good for a prognosis of a wire job.
I've known what it is to not be able to speak for days at a time, not because you couldn't, because you were literally locked closed. A blindness. I've known unprovoked hate in the shade of unbridled happiness. Your spectrum is Roy G, Biv. Mine is unspeakable in its range and color and temperature and length. It has no name yet and I may not be able to give it a convenient one.
I now have the power to teach, and I will not. Unless you press me.
///TV on the Radio - (Lovers Day) of course, there are miracles... the people we think you are. give me the keys to your hiding place
10/21/13
Giddy Up
I've been trying to chart my work books, but I don't want to see them. At all. Fantastic difficulty. I did the first class and the reminder came up to do the second class and I couldn't bring myself to do it. Part of it is horror. Part of it is blatant stupidity. Part of it is just not wanting to know how much further I am going to have to work to get back to zero.
I just want to put my fist through something. Anything! Not even through, but just break my hand. Null it. But I need my hands, both of them. And I need the ability to ambulate. I need my knees and my elbows and I have to protect them the same way people protect their investments. It breaks my heart sometimes knowing that I can't do what I need to do. It makes me cry a lot. I won't go to "it's not fair" because it's just a fact. I could probably cut a finger off. I think I would save it. Maybe eat it. Cook it somehow like a ham hock. Stew it or something. It's tantalizing and aggravating because I know where the knuckles join and have cut limbs apart before but I don't trust my left hand to operate the scissors on my right hand. Maybe just the pinky.
Gauging my pain threshold. I'm still not sure where it is exactly and I probably shouldn't be losing sleep about it, but I am. I think I get that from my father. How far are you willing to go before you jump to get what you need. Would I have to cauterize it myself? Probably. I don't know why I need to do these things, but I do and its getting more powerful and harder to swallow it down between suggestions. I don't know what that means! It scares me. It's getting harder to pretend to be normal. Normative? Baseline. Nullification. Talked to Martin about that for a while. It was a good conversation.
Relying more and more on emulation and I'm afraid I will be found out. Not about being gay or anything that trivial, but being found out about being a fucking psychopath. I want blood all the time, I don't care how it comes. I need help. I need assistance and I keep saying I can run this car until the wheels fall off, but I've been rolling on brake discs forever. So many years.
It would be easier if I was not aware of the degeneration, but I think a piece of the awareness has lent itself to a belief that I'm making it up and even as I'm speaking I know it sounds contrived. It isn't. It's motor and I know less and less how to change the fucking oil. I don't know what to do about it. I know where to go, but you better believe I'm not going there. Like I need more debt, don't make me laugh. I'll spit ice tea everywhere. I'm not getting interned again! No! I will never put down the ax! If you want it out of my hands you better be fucking prepared to take it from me.
I'm not a gun, but I will put one between your eyes and kiss you while I do it if you think it was going to be that easy. Don't touch me. Do not fucking touch me. Ever. I will break your fingers one by one while I sit on your chest so you don't move too much. Escalation. Take the escalator back down.
I know what's wrong with me, but I need a checkup and I don't know where to get one without the internment trap. I'm not doing that again. We're not doing that again. Just handle it. Just grab your ears and pull up your socks and eat it. Life hasn't been all that bad to me. I'm just tired of having to emulate to squeak by. Doing it by the skin of my teeth and I'm pretty sure some people have started to see through it so I have to work harder at it because the people that I do love I love dearly and want to keep them and want them to keep me to and the last thing that should happen is giving them a reason.
It's tough. Everything worth having is hard. Is a myth. Perpetuated by people who think "difficult" is possession in the material sense or the kid rearing sense. Everything worth having is hard in the interpersonal intrapersonal sense. Having ground you do not need to give inside your skull is worth having. Maintaining relationships with the people you care about and trust is worth having. Put in work, no doubt, but put in secondary work too.
///Amon Tobin - "Back from Space" I wish I could fly, but not just to the atmosphere, to the stars. I want to explore the Oort cloud and be the first man to land on an asteroid and be out there in the zero cold and see the sun without atmospheric interference. I want to see Jupiter up close at all costs and I want to die out there. But I'm stuck here. And have to keep coming back to this fucking planet every time I wake up. Bullshit.
I just want to put my fist through something. Anything! Not even through, but just break my hand. Null it. But I need my hands, both of them. And I need the ability to ambulate. I need my knees and my elbows and I have to protect them the same way people protect their investments. It breaks my heart sometimes knowing that I can't do what I need to do. It makes me cry a lot. I won't go to "it's not fair" because it's just a fact. I could probably cut a finger off. I think I would save it. Maybe eat it. Cook it somehow like a ham hock. Stew it or something. It's tantalizing and aggravating because I know where the knuckles join and have cut limbs apart before but I don't trust my left hand to operate the scissors on my right hand. Maybe just the pinky.
Gauging my pain threshold. I'm still not sure where it is exactly and I probably shouldn't be losing sleep about it, but I am. I think I get that from my father. How far are you willing to go before you jump to get what you need. Would I have to cauterize it myself? Probably. I don't know why I need to do these things, but I do and its getting more powerful and harder to swallow it down between suggestions. I don't know what that means! It scares me. It's getting harder to pretend to be normal. Normative? Baseline. Nullification. Talked to Martin about that for a while. It was a good conversation.
Relying more and more on emulation and I'm afraid I will be found out. Not about being gay or anything that trivial, but being found out about being a fucking psychopath. I want blood all the time, I don't care how it comes. I need help. I need assistance and I keep saying I can run this car until the wheels fall off, but I've been rolling on brake discs forever. So many years.
It would be easier if I was not aware of the degeneration, but I think a piece of the awareness has lent itself to a belief that I'm making it up and even as I'm speaking I know it sounds contrived. It isn't. It's motor and I know less and less how to change the fucking oil. I don't know what to do about it. I know where to go, but you better believe I'm not going there. Like I need more debt, don't make me laugh. I'll spit ice tea everywhere. I'm not getting interned again! No! I will never put down the ax! If you want it out of my hands you better be fucking prepared to take it from me.
I'm not a gun, but I will put one between your eyes and kiss you while I do it if you think it was going to be that easy. Don't touch me. Do not fucking touch me. Ever. I will break your fingers one by one while I sit on your chest so you don't move too much. Escalation. Take the escalator back down.
I know what's wrong with me, but I need a checkup and I don't know where to get one without the internment trap. I'm not doing that again. We're not doing that again. Just handle it. Just grab your ears and pull up your socks and eat it. Life hasn't been all that bad to me. I'm just tired of having to emulate to squeak by. Doing it by the skin of my teeth and I'm pretty sure some people have started to see through it so I have to work harder at it because the people that I do love I love dearly and want to keep them and want them to keep me to and the last thing that should happen is giving them a reason.
It's tough. Everything worth having is hard. Is a myth. Perpetuated by people who think "difficult" is possession in the material sense or the kid rearing sense. Everything worth having is hard in the interpersonal intrapersonal sense. Having ground you do not need to give inside your skull is worth having. Maintaining relationships with the people you care about and trust is worth having. Put in work, no doubt, but put in secondary work too.
///Amon Tobin - "Back from Space" I wish I could fly, but not just to the atmosphere, to the stars. I want to explore the Oort cloud and be the first man to land on an asteroid and be out there in the zero cold and see the sun without atmospheric interference. I want to see Jupiter up close at all costs and I want to die out there. But I'm stuck here. And have to keep coming back to this fucking planet every time I wake up. Bullshit.
5/13/13
Bricking the Computer
All I want to do is fix a hit and I know that I can't. That's the fast track to crack and it tastes so good. People get all concerned about weight loss and image that it grows insane. How about a powder that takes away the urge to snuffle? That would be nice. Get on it science! Help me rewire my brain maps. That's the pill conversation again though and that is looped over as many times as it can be without taking action. In the meantime I have a good stable of Krylon calling my name. I want to try the chrome, but my lungs are not having it. In fact they're not having much of anything lately. Just how it goes. At least I'm not pulling knives on anybody.
I hope people feel safe. Distance is its own thing. It's not a buffer though. As long as your legs work you can literally go anywhere to do anything. Been trying to figure out alibis. I could walk to New York or Virginia. The hard part is gonna be explaining my absence. That's also the easy part. I have a habit of disappearing. It happens. Sometimes you just have to tag up. If I disappeared for a week to walk to D.C. the only problem would be fueling myself along the way. Then it's mission accomplished, duck out back home, and problem solved. Still aggravating though. A bad kind of hassle.
Shrinking the maps, it gets easier. Shrinking the maps further, it's a day trip. Further still, it's a nighter. We don't do that anymore! Jexel. If you're going to accelerate, make it worth it. The hardest part about burning down a house is sealing the exits. Or at least making them difficult enough to dissuade navigation. Then again, you have to take into account the body types you are trying to ash. It's all math and I struggle with math a lot. I've always been more geometric. Visual spatial. One of the best days I ever had was guessing how many jelly beans were in a jar to the nearest ten.
Sure I could have estimated the volume of a jelly bean, the volume of the jar, and gotten fairly close with a little error mixed in for air space, but it was so much easier to hold in my head if I took a cube slice from one corner and moved it around in my head to form a disc and then raised the disc up to reach the lid. Same deal, I suppose, but different ways. Screw math. What have you done for me lately science?
I jerked off for twelve hours. Twelve god damn hours. Twelve gotdamn hours! I need a boyfriend pretty hard. Pretty sure I ran through half of my entire library between watching full length videos and skip tracking it to money shots. I'm not shamed or ashamed by the activity. At least I know my heart and my cock are still functional. I'm just head hung cuz I know I'll never get those hours back and I want them. The toughest thing about free time is figuring out where to spend it. I want those twelve hours back to draw and sketch and explore the things I can't put into words but I know I can put into pictures if I used that hand to do something besides stroke my pud. I'm pissed because it was supposed to be a fifteen minute quickie and I couldn't do it on my own that fast. And I'm pissed because I'm horny so often that it's become a problem that needs solved. Gotdamnit!
Melange. I think I may peirce my own nipples today. So much energy. Throwing off U two thirty something, or maybe fifty. Uranium all over the place. I don't know how to shut it off. Shoving carbon into the pile, but I can't undo Chernobyl no matter what I try. Part of the issue is dealing with getting my body back. I wanted it back so badly and now I have it and I can start building up from the foundation because I finally got back there, but the house that foundation wants only knows how to speak in terms of violence instead of the next step; love. That misunderstanding and shadow and grift breaks my heart and hurts. Does violence to me and I want to reverse it and I don't know how and if I could, a pure reversal, I do violence to everyone and everything within the radius. It's a lose lose.
You're breaking my heart, sweatness. Spill the bucket. We are weak ends. I need you. I need you to explain to me how rain comes about and tell me the little squirrels running at the corners of my eye are just shadows and not black lizards doing a slow hat dance.
I'm trying to brick the computer. I'm trying to reset it. If I can't reset it, I would be happy to silence it. Stop making noise you tire kicked fall out bumper bad doored dumb coded winkied rusted out piece of .... clawing at myself. I want that soft tissue out of me. I know a few ways to do it, but none of them are acceptable. Rip. Rip. Get out of me. Get out! I want them out. I want the caucus to end. I want the factory to shut down. I want there to be no more discussion. I want to be normal. I want to be you. I'm tired of tears strolling down my fucking face unprovoked. I want to love the idea of children. I want to be married. I want to be skilled. I want to be able to do math. I want to be able to be relied on. I want honey shots. I want more tree climbing. I want to hear less and nose more. I want shot for. I want dap. I want candy hahaahahahahahahahaha. I want ... I want a lot of things. I'm trying to brick the computer so I can start over again. And wanting to start over again is sometimes hard to admit.
///Junkie XL - "War" sunrise on Titan. I got your pith. I raise you 400 horse power at the brakes. Eat me.
I hope people feel safe. Distance is its own thing. It's not a buffer though. As long as your legs work you can literally go anywhere to do anything. Been trying to figure out alibis. I could walk to New York or Virginia. The hard part is gonna be explaining my absence. That's also the easy part. I have a habit of disappearing. It happens. Sometimes you just have to tag up. If I disappeared for a week to walk to D.C. the only problem would be fueling myself along the way. Then it's mission accomplished, duck out back home, and problem solved. Still aggravating though. A bad kind of hassle.
Shrinking the maps, it gets easier. Shrinking the maps further, it's a day trip. Further still, it's a nighter. We don't do that anymore! Jexel. If you're going to accelerate, make it worth it. The hardest part about burning down a house is sealing the exits. Or at least making them difficult enough to dissuade navigation. Then again, you have to take into account the body types you are trying to ash. It's all math and I struggle with math a lot. I've always been more geometric. Visual spatial. One of the best days I ever had was guessing how many jelly beans were in a jar to the nearest ten.
Sure I could have estimated the volume of a jelly bean, the volume of the jar, and gotten fairly close with a little error mixed in for air space, but it was so much easier to hold in my head if I took a cube slice from one corner and moved it around in my head to form a disc and then raised the disc up to reach the lid. Same deal, I suppose, but different ways. Screw math. What have you done for me lately science?
I jerked off for twelve hours. Twelve god damn hours. Twelve gotdamn hours! I need a boyfriend pretty hard. Pretty sure I ran through half of my entire library between watching full length videos and skip tracking it to money shots. I'm not shamed or ashamed by the activity. At least I know my heart and my cock are still functional. I'm just head hung cuz I know I'll never get those hours back and I want them. The toughest thing about free time is figuring out where to spend it. I want those twelve hours back to draw and sketch and explore the things I can't put into words but I know I can put into pictures if I used that hand to do something besides stroke my pud. I'm pissed because it was supposed to be a fifteen minute quickie and I couldn't do it on my own that fast. And I'm pissed because I'm horny so often that it's become a problem that needs solved. Gotdamnit!
Melange. I think I may peirce my own nipples today. So much energy. Throwing off U two thirty something, or maybe fifty. Uranium all over the place. I don't know how to shut it off. Shoving carbon into the pile, but I can't undo Chernobyl no matter what I try. Part of the issue is dealing with getting my body back. I wanted it back so badly and now I have it and I can start building up from the foundation because I finally got back there, but the house that foundation wants only knows how to speak in terms of violence instead of the next step; love. That misunderstanding and shadow and grift breaks my heart and hurts. Does violence to me and I want to reverse it and I don't know how and if I could, a pure reversal, I do violence to everyone and everything within the radius. It's a lose lose.
You're breaking my heart, sweatness. Spill the bucket. We are weak ends. I need you. I need you to explain to me how rain comes about and tell me the little squirrels running at the corners of my eye are just shadows and not black lizards doing a slow hat dance.
I'm trying to brick the computer. I'm trying to reset it. If I can't reset it, I would be happy to silence it. Stop making noise you tire kicked fall out bumper bad doored dumb coded winkied rusted out piece of .... clawing at myself. I want that soft tissue out of me. I know a few ways to do it, but none of them are acceptable. Rip. Rip. Get out of me. Get out! I want them out. I want the caucus to end. I want the factory to shut down. I want there to be no more discussion. I want to be normal. I want to be you. I'm tired of tears strolling down my fucking face unprovoked. I want to love the idea of children. I want to be married. I want to be skilled. I want to be able to do math. I want to be able to be relied on. I want honey shots. I want more tree climbing. I want to hear less and nose more. I want shot for. I want dap. I want candy hahaahahahahahahahaha. I want ... I want a lot of things. I'm trying to brick the computer so I can start over again. And wanting to start over again is sometimes hard to admit.
///Junkie XL - "War" sunrise on Titan. I got your pith. I raise you 400 horse power at the brakes. Eat me.
1/11/11
The Locusts Only Took What They Could Carry
I'm here now on the other side of an ongoing experiment that yielded mixed results. I thought for some time about a fun way to combine the word success with the word failure before moving on to more important things. Well, not necessarily important in the sense of urgency as much as important in the sense of size because clearly there is nothing more urgent than finding a way to successfully combine those two words in their most appealing and natural formation and then be the first one to say the new word. The point is this: things have changed.
Life at a higher resolution has had its benefits and its heels. The bridge has dissolved, but has been replaced with something... something else that is difficult to describe. Do you remember televisions with knobs? You might own one now. Well life has become like a television with knobs and there is a hand, no not even a force that centered, but the grooves in the switch that produce the clicking sound and the firm resistance to the turning of the switch are, no not even worn down, they're simply not there. I tune in and every channel, each channel, isn't seated on the face of the tube and its frustrating. But even that isn't really a close enough descriptor. Instead of conversations there are conversations and monitors and levels and time sequencers and gauges and trackers and feedback switches and time code and frame rates and the picture isn't sitting and no ones shutting up and on top of that there are people coming and going at will and moving things and leaving things and at times I can't remember how to walk and I end up spending twenty minutes of a forty minute walk trying to redevelop a comfortable gait and I can't remember how I forgot in the first place.
The ceiling was full of mouths a few days ago. It was disgusting. They weren't people mouths though. Actually they were kind of like meaty valves or something. They kept popping open and closed with these little clicks and it made my skin itch all morning. And then the next night someone ducked their head into my slightly ajar bedroom door and I thought they would leave, but then he saw me and sidled up to my closet against the wall like i wouldn't know he was there. Luckily my phone went off and the light burned him away, but it still left me slightly shaken. There are a pair of women where I work and a man. They're also bad company. The good news is what?
I moved.
Free. Finally free from continuing abuse and shitty fucking family and it is lovely. Pittsburgh is my home now and probably the only place I know of that will have me outright with little or no reservations at all. Well, not entirely true. There is of course the body of people that I want to be connected with who don't feel the same way for whatever reasons, but that's okay because here I actually have friends who actually want to see me along with a context that actually allows that to happen on a regular basis. I have my own place and a bed too. Not much else, but I don't really mind it all that much. I do still need my soul mate computer, but that reunion will have to wait a little while longer. It does mean that my music and drawing will be extremely limited for a while (amongst other things).
I guess I'm still pretty scattered. I saw pictures today of my old friend. I was supposed to send her family a gift, but that was also right around the time I was cold starting my new life so I never had many consecutive hours to dedicate my brain to it. I'm still going to do it. If there's one thing I do every year I would like that to be it. At least until I know they don't really give a shit. Apparently she was here. In this very city only days ago. I wonder sometimes if I'm excluded because I can't be included. It's upsetting. Not in a broken heart kind of way, but in a "what the fuck I thought we were friends" kind of way. Broken heartedness you can get used to, but the former will always cut me fresh and a little deeper with repetition.
I have no idea where to meet people now. I have zero interest in vaginas. Which is also somewhat new. There was some lingering interest even a couple months ago. But I guess I am just gay. Isn't that funny? Well it made me chuckle a little. It's definitely something I never really thought I would say. I still sometimes think back and ask myself "what happened to me?" But maybe it's one of those things like Meyer's Brigs preferences. Just changes over time. Who knows. I'm not really sure where I'm going with that, or most of this.
I suppose I feel like I've escaped from certain destruction in New York and Maryland by cutting off the things the circumstances were latched onto. They've basically fucked me out of 20 years of my life plus however many years it'll take me to reach the earning potential of someone who reached their masters degree and worked in their field for ten years. They've set me back 96k in debt and a five year relationship. I feel like I'm harping, so I'll get to the point.
The point is they smashed and grabbed and smashed and grabbed, but in the end there's only so much they could fit in their clutches and I'm gone away from them for good. Out of reach. Sure my student loans defaulted, but I have nothing that can be taken by the government or a judge. And what I will eventually have will be so small it won't even matter. Sure, they swear they'll cut me off, but I've already been cutoff for the better part of a decade. I didn't escape on my own either. Some friends helped make it happen in a pretty huge way and I owe them each a huge debt of gratitude and dollar bills, but collectively it is quite easy to say they basically saved my life.
I still think about killing myself every other day, but the new potential is so great and unexplored that I can't in good conscience do so and it's been so long since I felt that way. I'm broke, but I'm happy. Life at a higher resolution has its downside and its confusion and its hates and pains and I may need to reaffix filters at some point, but for now I am aware of every passing hour and that awareness is palatable. As a direct result creativity and sanity are suffering, but day to day functionality simply is. I'm proud of myself. A little bit.
I owe you a year end playlist, don't I?
///David Bowie & Philip Glass - "Heroes (Aphex Twin Remix)" We could be. So we were.
Life at a higher resolution has had its benefits and its heels. The bridge has dissolved, but has been replaced with something... something else that is difficult to describe. Do you remember televisions with knobs? You might own one now. Well life has become like a television with knobs and there is a hand, no not even a force that centered, but the grooves in the switch that produce the clicking sound and the firm resistance to the turning of the switch are, no not even worn down, they're simply not there. I tune in and every channel, each channel, isn't seated on the face of the tube and its frustrating. But even that isn't really a close enough descriptor. Instead of conversations there are conversations and monitors and levels and time sequencers and gauges and trackers and feedback switches and time code and frame rates and the picture isn't sitting and no ones shutting up and on top of that there are people coming and going at will and moving things and leaving things and at times I can't remember how to walk and I end up spending twenty minutes of a forty minute walk trying to redevelop a comfortable gait and I can't remember how I forgot in the first place.
The ceiling was full of mouths a few days ago. It was disgusting. They weren't people mouths though. Actually they were kind of like meaty valves or something. They kept popping open and closed with these little clicks and it made my skin itch all morning. And then the next night someone ducked their head into my slightly ajar bedroom door and I thought they would leave, but then he saw me and sidled up to my closet against the wall like i wouldn't know he was there. Luckily my phone went off and the light burned him away, but it still left me slightly shaken. There are a pair of women where I work and a man. They're also bad company. The good news is what?
I moved.
Free. Finally free from continuing abuse and shitty fucking family and it is lovely. Pittsburgh is my home now and probably the only place I know of that will have me outright with little or no reservations at all. Well, not entirely true. There is of course the body of people that I want to be connected with who don't feel the same way for whatever reasons, but that's okay because here I actually have friends who actually want to see me along with a context that actually allows that to happen on a regular basis. I have my own place and a bed too. Not much else, but I don't really mind it all that much. I do still need my soul mate computer, but that reunion will have to wait a little while longer. It does mean that my music and drawing will be extremely limited for a while (amongst other things).
I guess I'm still pretty scattered. I saw pictures today of my old friend. I was supposed to send her family a gift, but that was also right around the time I was cold starting my new life so I never had many consecutive hours to dedicate my brain to it. I'm still going to do it. If there's one thing I do every year I would like that to be it. At least until I know they don't really give a shit. Apparently she was here. In this very city only days ago. I wonder sometimes if I'm excluded because I can't be included. It's upsetting. Not in a broken heart kind of way, but in a "what the fuck I thought we were friends" kind of way. Broken heartedness you can get used to, but the former will always cut me fresh and a little deeper with repetition.
I have no idea where to meet people now. I have zero interest in vaginas. Which is also somewhat new. There was some lingering interest even a couple months ago. But I guess I am just gay. Isn't that funny? Well it made me chuckle a little. It's definitely something I never really thought I would say. I still sometimes think back and ask myself "what happened to me?" But maybe it's one of those things like Meyer's Brigs preferences. Just changes over time. Who knows. I'm not really sure where I'm going with that, or most of this.
I suppose I feel like I've escaped from certain destruction in New York and Maryland by cutting off the things the circumstances were latched onto. They've basically fucked me out of 20 years of my life plus however many years it'll take me to reach the earning potential of someone who reached their masters degree and worked in their field for ten years. They've set me back 96k in debt and a five year relationship. I feel like I'm harping, so I'll get to the point.
The point is they smashed and grabbed and smashed and grabbed, but in the end there's only so much they could fit in their clutches and I'm gone away from them for good. Out of reach. Sure my student loans defaulted, but I have nothing that can be taken by the government or a judge. And what I will eventually have will be so small it won't even matter. Sure, they swear they'll cut me off, but I've already been cutoff for the better part of a decade. I didn't escape on my own either. Some friends helped make it happen in a pretty huge way and I owe them each a huge debt of gratitude and dollar bills, but collectively it is quite easy to say they basically saved my life.
I still think about killing myself every other day, but the new potential is so great and unexplored that I can't in good conscience do so and it's been so long since I felt that way. I'm broke, but I'm happy. Life at a higher resolution has its downside and its confusion and its hates and pains and I may need to reaffix filters at some point, but for now I am aware of every passing hour and that awareness is palatable. As a direct result creativity and sanity are suffering, but day to day functionality simply is. I'm proud of myself. A little bit.
I owe you a year end playlist, don't I?
///David Bowie & Philip Glass - "Heroes (Aphex Twin Remix)" We could be. So we were.
10/6/10
Worst Song Ever, Part 3:
Worst song ever # GHQQPXC1333298K6 Moby - Whispering Wind:
I suppose I probably shouldn't go as hard on people as I do when it comes to creative production mainly because I am so familiar with the inherent problems in content generation, especially when the requirement of said generation is that there be a certain amount of freshness. In fact I almost feel bad even including this because I know that every artist has a certain thematic vein that runs through their careers and even the widely disparate U.N.K.L.E albums do have a certain genealogy to them that is absolutely traceable from one offering to the next even though the actual sounds appear on their surface to be absolutely different. This song by Moby is almost able to fit itself into that thematic category. Where does it fall short? Everywhere. I even don't even feel the urge to describe so bland a thing here. In fact, even talking about it here has made this entry extremely bland. And now I hate myself for allowing myself to be distracted by so bland a blanding. I've been blanded. God damn it. I have to undo this. Immediately. But how??? Shuffle button. Clicking. Searching.
I once talked to a friend of mine about the symbolism of the search and shuffle buttons in music players and their usage. He basically told me I was complicating what amounts to a human impulse that is no more or less than the urge to stuff our faces when we're hungry and drink when we're thirsty. There's no subtext. It's simply the satisfaction of a basic impulse to feed our brains with variety. I'm inclined to believe him. I took some convincing back then, but I came on board. I still think he's probably correct.
I suppose the main thing is I'm standing at the edge of the abyssal plain again and trying to distract myself from another night of searching, but I know I have to go down there and look for my missing part whether I like it or not. He's still out there. He hasn't come back yet. I feel ridiculous going through the motions as though things are okay when they're not. I don't want to go. I'm lolly gagging. Just come back! I wish I could say that and make it happen, but I have to go and look. What's the plan then? Where do we industrialize? Bits. That's where. Maybe not. That might be shooting too high. I am so fucking angry right now. If I didn't need my face I would cut it up like a ham. Smash my keyboard into it till the keys stuck in my skin. Thinking about carving up my stomach again. It's getting hard to convince myself not to. Not hard as much as its becoming more unreasonable not to. I don't get it. What's inside of there. I want to turn out my pockets so bad.
///The Future Sound of London - "Vit Drowning / Through Your Gills I Breathe"
I suppose I probably shouldn't go as hard on people as I do when it comes to creative production mainly because I am so familiar with the inherent problems in content generation, especially when the requirement of said generation is that there be a certain amount of freshness. In fact I almost feel bad even including this because I know that every artist has a certain thematic vein that runs through their careers and even the widely disparate U.N.K.L.E albums do have a certain genealogy to them that is absolutely traceable from one offering to the next even though the actual sounds appear on their surface to be absolutely different. This song by Moby is almost able to fit itself into that thematic category. Where does it fall short? Everywhere. I even don't even feel the urge to describe so bland a thing here. In fact, even talking about it here has made this entry extremely bland. And now I hate myself for allowing myself to be distracted by so bland a blanding. I've been blanded. God damn it. I have to undo this. Immediately. But how??? Shuffle button. Clicking. Searching.
I once talked to a friend of mine about the symbolism of the search and shuffle buttons in music players and their usage. He basically told me I was complicating what amounts to a human impulse that is no more or less than the urge to stuff our faces when we're hungry and drink when we're thirsty. There's no subtext. It's simply the satisfaction of a basic impulse to feed our brains with variety. I'm inclined to believe him. I took some convincing back then, but I came on board. I still think he's probably correct.
I suppose the main thing is I'm standing at the edge of the abyssal plain again and trying to distract myself from another night of searching, but I know I have to go down there and look for my missing part whether I like it or not. He's still out there. He hasn't come back yet. I feel ridiculous going through the motions as though things are okay when they're not. I don't want to go. I'm lolly gagging. Just come back! I wish I could say that and make it happen, but I have to go and look. What's the plan then? Where do we industrialize? Bits. That's where. Maybe not. That might be shooting too high. I am so fucking angry right now. If I didn't need my face I would cut it up like a ham. Smash my keyboard into it till the keys stuck in my skin. Thinking about carving up my stomach again. It's getting hard to convince myself not to. Not hard as much as its becoming more unreasonable not to. I don't get it. What's inside of there. I want to turn out my pockets so bad.
///The Future Sound of London - "Vit Drowning / Through Your Gills I Breathe"
9/23/10
The (Implied) Conceited Sumbitch in us All and True Love
I had more to say ten minutes ago, but I lost it because I bled out my consciousness into a poem. I laughed out loud to that because it's true. For me, sometimes writing is like a keg that I fill every day and sometimes the keg explodes and the contents are disgusting to even me and sometimes it simply pours and fills glasses so neat and tidy and sometimes it pours one glass and sometimes it pours ten glasses. Consistency is a huge deal to most artists for one reason or another. Some people feel that consistency is next to Godliness or something like that. Some people feel that consistency is simply the mark of some kind of neurosis that does not permit full development of the creative orgasm. I know it's all unverified. Doesn't it grate you when you hear other people talk about what "some people" have said and think and do. It grates me. It grates me a helluva lot. I guess I was just trying to chap you as bad as I'm feeling chapped. I guess I'm just some kind of jaded. I grinned for a while. Jaded is such a lovely and fulsome word. I love that fucking word. There's something about that's a little sexy and rivered and disgusting as vice to a religious heart. I'm jaded. Not because of you though.
I guess I'm just wondering how far I'll have to go to find love. How dorky is that? Pretty God damn dorky I know. Would I go to hell if I knew I was "fuck everything else" loved on this Earth? Fuck yeah, man. I'll go to hell twice. Is it supposed to mean that much to anyone? I guess not. How can I put this to grow understanding instead of revulsion? I think the one thing that I've been since day one, more than anything else, is a romantic. That simply has not ever changed no matter what else has actually changed within me. I'm still looking for the right words. How about a picture instead?
I love you, did I mention that? I don't say it as a grasping for an intangible and thus perfect love. I know you suck. I know you suck because I suck. I know you're terrible and a shitty friend sometimes because I am. I know you steal more than 25$ in office supplies from your jobs every year because I do. But, I guess the point is only the douche bags are keeping score. When you really really put the rubber to the road the only reason to hate the religious right and the religious left and the religious center is because they offer resistance to what you want to do and what you are now with no regard for the nowness of who and what you are. Does that make sense? How about this: love fragments time.
I think we can both agree on that.
Or can't we. Well how about this, I will agree not to fight about that premise. Fair enough? Well fuck you, I think it's fair so I'm leaving it there. Hearts and kisses. Seriously. Maybe I'll draw a penis. Am I allowed to do that? Now I feel like flying off on an analysis of full frontal nudity in cinema, but I won't because I love you and know that you don't have all day to read this and I don't have all night to write it ( I do but God damn it [I use that a lot] I'm keeping to fucking schedule).
How about this. Next time I write I'll be twice as hammered and half as love sick. I think we can both smile about that. No? Yes? There was a time when I never questioned myself. There was a time when I didn't watch my hands type like two figure skaters on a board of ice composed of laminated squares of frictionless steel. There were times when the world didn't sing me to sleep through layer after layer of drywall and pink insulation packed to the gills with muffled screams and there were times when the creaking flooring was the sound of angels walking and not the burden of yearly abuses of the tactile senses. Remember when love was a flower? I want to say I don't but even that smacks of a romance I once knew that is somehow more romantic and honey sweet than the romance to come and I feel like I'm working this God damned keyboard harder than Ray Charles and Blues Traveler on a tour of the Gulf and the rest of the formerly slave supporting sates and I'm dreaming of lines of coke in hotels and two hour stands.
I suppose the end game is that I'm fantastically horny and too tired to proofread anything that involves anything besides penises and vaginas and bare skin and I'm thinking about the hours I've spent on subways trying not to imagine vaginas and floating disembodied breasts and penises surrounding me where bodies should be and the horrendous difficulty in squelching the beads of sweat on my brow and knowing that though my face doesnt sweat my testicles are weeping salty tears into underwear too loose to stop itself from tearing as I walk to another job interview and now I'm still fucking unemployed because some bitches vagina parked itself 6 inches from my god damn face... how the fuck could she be so cruel...
///Master and Commander - "La Musica Noctturna Delle Strade di Madrid No.6 Op.30" If I should die, both feet on the ground, upon foreign soil by the fruits of my own designs I shall have died happier than the richest domestic entrepreneur and more loved than the loveliest architect of words and emotions who ever saw the coast. And balked.
P.S. I wasn't too tired to proofread a smidge. Suck it Hillary Masters, you cock gobbling excuse for a tenured professor's dick.
P.P.S. Yes I know it's straw man slander. I don't care. I hate the man that much.
P.P.P.S. "Master and Commander was a phenomenal film. Please take the time to see it if you haven't. You won't regret it. Plus Russel Crowe is ridiculously hot and also ridiculously awesome. Watch it. While I finish this fifth.
I guess I'm just wondering how far I'll have to go to find love. How dorky is that? Pretty God damn dorky I know. Would I go to hell if I knew I was "fuck everything else" loved on this Earth? Fuck yeah, man. I'll go to hell twice. Is it supposed to mean that much to anyone? I guess not. How can I put this to grow understanding instead of revulsion? I think the one thing that I've been since day one, more than anything else, is a romantic. That simply has not ever changed no matter what else has actually changed within me. I'm still looking for the right words. How about a picture instead?
I love you, did I mention that? I don't say it as a grasping for an intangible and thus perfect love. I know you suck. I know you suck because I suck. I know you're terrible and a shitty friend sometimes because I am. I know you steal more than 25$ in office supplies from your jobs every year because I do. But, I guess the point is only the douche bags are keeping score. When you really really put the rubber to the road the only reason to hate the religious right and the religious left and the religious center is because they offer resistance to what you want to do and what you are now with no regard for the nowness of who and what you are. Does that make sense? How about this: love fragments time.
I think we can both agree on that.
Or can't we. Well how about this, I will agree not to fight about that premise. Fair enough? Well fuck you, I think it's fair so I'm leaving it there. Hearts and kisses. Seriously. Maybe I'll draw a penis. Am I allowed to do that? Now I feel like flying off on an analysis of full frontal nudity in cinema, but I won't because I love you and know that you don't have all day to read this and I don't have all night to write it ( I do but God damn it [I use that a lot] I'm keeping to fucking schedule).
How about this. Next time I write I'll be twice as hammered and half as love sick. I think we can both smile about that. No? Yes? There was a time when I never questioned myself. There was a time when I didn't watch my hands type like two figure skaters on a board of ice composed of laminated squares of frictionless steel. There were times when the world didn't sing me to sleep through layer after layer of drywall and pink insulation packed to the gills with muffled screams and there were times when the creaking flooring was the sound of angels walking and not the burden of yearly abuses of the tactile senses. Remember when love was a flower? I want to say I don't but even that smacks of a romance I once knew that is somehow more romantic and honey sweet than the romance to come and I feel like I'm working this God damned keyboard harder than Ray Charles and Blues Traveler on a tour of the Gulf and the rest of the formerly slave supporting sates and I'm dreaming of lines of coke in hotels and two hour stands.
I suppose the end game is that I'm fantastically horny and too tired to proofread anything that involves anything besides penises and vaginas and bare skin and I'm thinking about the hours I've spent on subways trying not to imagine vaginas and floating disembodied breasts and penises surrounding me where bodies should be and the horrendous difficulty in squelching the beads of sweat on my brow and knowing that though my face doesnt sweat my testicles are weeping salty tears into underwear too loose to stop itself from tearing as I walk to another job interview and now I'm still fucking unemployed because some bitches vagina parked itself 6 inches from my god damn face... how the fuck could she be so cruel...
///Master and Commander - "La Musica Noctturna Delle Strade di Madrid No.6 Op.30" If I should die, both feet on the ground, upon foreign soil by the fruits of my own designs I shall have died happier than the richest domestic entrepreneur and more loved than the loveliest architect of words and emotions who ever saw the coast. And balked.
P.S. I wasn't too tired to proofread a smidge. Suck it Hillary Masters, you cock gobbling excuse for a tenured professor's dick.
P.P.S. Yes I know it's straw man slander. I don't care. I hate the man that much.
P.P.P.S. "Master and Commander was a phenomenal film. Please take the time to see it if you haven't. You won't regret it. Plus Russel Crowe is ridiculously hot and also ridiculously awesome. Watch it. While I finish this fifth.
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