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.
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 irrationality. Show all posts
Showing posts with label irrationality. Show all posts
12/19/15
10/16/15
Helmet, Armor, Time, Money, Love.
The kind of love that lasts forever.
The kind of love that outlasts explanation.
Yep, that kind.
The inexplicable kind. The kind that cannot be explained by an affinity for a God or the affinity for a person. The everlasting, gut punching kind.
The kind that makes you change your ways even though changing your ways has nothing to do with how you express it, kind of love. The sort that makes you wish you could be a different person. The kind of love that makes your heart break when there are no more words to say what it is you had to say when you had to say it. Hell, the mouth only has so much capability inside of it.
That kind of love.
The kind that changes how and what you do despite the fact that change now has no affect on your outcomes, and you do it anyway.
That kind of love.
The kind that tells you explicitly: SEX IS NOT GOING TO HELP OR HELP FIX THIS. and you do it anyway, because you enjoyed snuffling her private parts and she enjoyed yours, snuffling, just that much. It turns into a private secret box, permanent. Oh, please! Open it up to more! To more! Nope. That's all you will get to know. Forever.
Mind, body, and soul. You are cut off. Wander the waste lands. Find an amalgam. Find a new war to fight. A new fart to sniff. The embassy is closed.
Write songs about love and body parts and knowledge and loss and wars won. Write them to whomever. You'll find your way. Eventually. Eventually, having sex on our grave, I will think about you. And
how I came
to be here.
The kind of love that outlasts explanation.
Yep, that kind.
The inexplicable kind. The kind that cannot be explained by an affinity for a God or the affinity for a person. The everlasting, gut punching kind.
The kind that makes you change your ways even though changing your ways has nothing to do with how you express it, kind of love. The sort that makes you wish you could be a different person. The kind of love that makes your heart break when there are no more words to say what it is you had to say when you had to say it. Hell, the mouth only has so much capability inside of it.
That kind of love.
The kind that changes how and what you do despite the fact that change now has no affect on your outcomes, and you do it anyway.
That kind of love.
The kind that tells you explicitly: SEX IS NOT GOING TO HELP OR HELP FIX THIS. and you do it anyway, because you enjoyed snuffling her private parts and she enjoyed yours, snuffling, just that much. It turns into a private secret box, permanent. Oh, please! Open it up to more! To more! Nope. That's all you will get to know. Forever.
Mind, body, and soul. You are cut off. Wander the waste lands. Find an amalgam. Find a new war to fight. A new fart to sniff. The embassy is closed.
Write songs about love and body parts and knowledge and loss and wars won. Write them to whomever. You'll find your way. Eventually. Eventually, having sex on our grave, I will think about you. And
how I came
to be here.
5/7/13
Wrecks, Dreamland, and Reconstruction
I went back to the scene of my car accident tonight. Dreamland has been corrupted. I keep having a recurring dream about it. Cruising through dreamland last night I built a house of a little more than normal proportions. My friend Matt and his buddy Ernie called me up after I finished eating lunch (sardines and fried centipedes... it actually wasn't that bad... all the legs and fish ribs were super crunchy inside the perogies). Tom was there too. Finished up eating, and the phone rang so I got up from the indoor beach with the five foot wide tv perched over the far water and went to go let them in. Put on my fleece robe and tossed Tom the remote. Walked down to the freight elevator and closed the gate and punched the ground floor. The elevator went all the way down past the mech garage. I had my bright red candy shell finished R 29 with extra plate and F990 shoulder mount long barrel with aftermarket cooling fins parked right beside it and it was awesome watching the light glint off of it. Sometimes I spend days on the scaffold hand polishing it's entire body when I'm not joy riding it through the clear southwest desert night sky.
The elevator went all the way through to the floor and then ten feet below to the car garage and hillside entrance. It's a short walk to the door and I let Matt and Ernie in. Ernie asked me if I remembered going to his place the night before and showing up at three in the afternoon. I said no. I didn't. I wasn't lying. He asked me if someone hacked me, but I told him I wasn't online at all yesterday, but it's possible I might've caught something because I was online the day before pretty much the entire day looking for some rarer copies of an Ultraman graphic novel I used to have when I was a kid, but can't find in my library anymore. He laughed. That was probably what might've done it. Matt offered to hit me up with a few patches to make sure whatever it was that wiped my memory didn't get passed around while they were over. We took the lift back up and they asked Tom if I was a little off yesterday and he said "definitely."
I don't know why he didn't mention anything to me, but I guess that's what good friends do sometimes, and he's probably used to my oddness and figured it was the usual fare. Or at least, the Tom I constructed and built into the dream did. I told them we were out of sardines. Because we were and if we were going to hit up the bars later it would probably be good not to over do it. I don't know where the extra beach chairs came from but by the time we got back up to tv room they were already there. We all started talking about whether or not we would blaze on our way up to the Silver Tusk. I have a pretty sweet mech garage so there're plenty enough for each of us to blast out to the exosphere and dock at the Silver Tusk space station in geocentric orbit above our heads.
And then a giant tan sedan crashed through the wall behind the flat screen. It blew it apart and was going so fast it skipped across the water and bit into the beach. As soon as it touched down it started flipping and parts began whipping off of its underside like a pipe bomb built and stuffed with three foot long aluminum fence posts instead of nails. I was standing behind them and it rolled right over them and chewed them up into meat before my eyes before a door came zinging off while it spun and I woke up with that door heading straight for my neck.
Every other dream since it happened has been like that. No matter how I construct it or if I let it play and go along for the ride, they keep ending with cars careening through and killing everyone in one way or another. So I went back to the place tonight. It was weird walking up the off ramp. I tried to think about what that kid could have been thinking that morning walking between the off ramp walls. There's no where to go on either side. If you leap off the far side of the corner it's a good ten foot drop. Off of the inside corner there's some grass, but cars come much closer to the inside of the turn so your chances are much slimmer of even having time to react or think about jumping. I like to drive in wide and then turn in tight and let the car bleed off speed while it grips in. He was lucky for that. If I came inside he would have been through my windshield.
The mark on the far wall when I swerved to avoid him was nothing tremendous. It was mostly a tire scuff maybe a foot long at most. It didn't speak at all to the damage done to the car. There was no traffic tonight. I walked out to the middle to pick up a piece of my bumper that was still there. Just a shard. I don't wonder why he ran away. I would have too. Was he daydreaming? Did he want to die? Was he just high? Crouched there I started to remember when I was younger and I walked into traffic trying to get hit on Forbes avenue. I wasn't particularly upset or anything, but I was ready to let my life go. No one would hit me. I did it again a few nights later with my eyes closed and I distinctly remember a bus blowing by me so close it spun me around when it brushed my black hoodie. I wasn't upset, but I was impossibly trapped at the time and finished trying to figure out how to pick that particular lock.
I'm still putting my body back together. From the car accident and the fall down the two flights of stairs and the bike accident (which was my own fault, just pushed my bicycle too hard after having it laid up for most of winter and a too cold spring). Two hours a day of rehab work getting my back right. A lot of my power comes from my torso and I messed up my hip and tailbone pretty ugly. Nothing broken, but the deep bruising and muscle strains took their toll, but I'm getting back to a point where I can consider running again and hitting the weight room hard. The reconstruction, the process of it has become consuming. I was at a point where I could mess with whomever I wanted. Sure, I didn't win every scuff, but I had confidence in my bones and tissues that spoke to having a decent shot as long as I wasn't piss drunk. Not so now. There's hesitation now. There's memory tape now of the waking up in pain and not being able to sit up straight even in a well made chair. Not being able to breath because my sternum hurt so bad.
My body is gathering force though. Regaining moxy and it's difficult for me to have my limitations still in view. I keep having internal arguments with myself shouting "don't do that, you're not ready yet." And myself shouting back "or what?" But I know what. Humiliation, failure, more time lost in recovery. What the reconstruction has also done though, is forced a new view upon me. A new way of going about conflict. Handling passions I can't always contain effectively. War bringing peace, in a way.
More than anything, I want so badly to speak to that kid face to face now that I don't want to skin him alive anymore. I want to know, and I want to tell him I forgive him.
///Lo-Fidelity Allstars - "Smash and Grab World" looking to the stars on a fucked up night. Year end playlist is still in the works. Just five months late. No worries.
The elevator went all the way through to the floor and then ten feet below to the car garage and hillside entrance. It's a short walk to the door and I let Matt and Ernie in. Ernie asked me if I remembered going to his place the night before and showing up at three in the afternoon. I said no. I didn't. I wasn't lying. He asked me if someone hacked me, but I told him I wasn't online at all yesterday, but it's possible I might've caught something because I was online the day before pretty much the entire day looking for some rarer copies of an Ultraman graphic novel I used to have when I was a kid, but can't find in my library anymore. He laughed. That was probably what might've done it. Matt offered to hit me up with a few patches to make sure whatever it was that wiped my memory didn't get passed around while they were over. We took the lift back up and they asked Tom if I was a little off yesterday and he said "definitely."
I don't know why he didn't mention anything to me, but I guess that's what good friends do sometimes, and he's probably used to my oddness and figured it was the usual fare. Or at least, the Tom I constructed and built into the dream did. I told them we were out of sardines. Because we were and if we were going to hit up the bars later it would probably be good not to over do it. I don't know where the extra beach chairs came from but by the time we got back up to tv room they were already there. We all started talking about whether or not we would blaze on our way up to the Silver Tusk. I have a pretty sweet mech garage so there're plenty enough for each of us to blast out to the exosphere and dock at the Silver Tusk space station in geocentric orbit above our heads.
And then a giant tan sedan crashed through the wall behind the flat screen. It blew it apart and was going so fast it skipped across the water and bit into the beach. As soon as it touched down it started flipping and parts began whipping off of its underside like a pipe bomb built and stuffed with three foot long aluminum fence posts instead of nails. I was standing behind them and it rolled right over them and chewed them up into meat before my eyes before a door came zinging off while it spun and I woke up with that door heading straight for my neck.
Every other dream since it happened has been like that. No matter how I construct it or if I let it play and go along for the ride, they keep ending with cars careening through and killing everyone in one way or another. So I went back to the place tonight. It was weird walking up the off ramp. I tried to think about what that kid could have been thinking that morning walking between the off ramp walls. There's no where to go on either side. If you leap off the far side of the corner it's a good ten foot drop. Off of the inside corner there's some grass, but cars come much closer to the inside of the turn so your chances are much slimmer of even having time to react or think about jumping. I like to drive in wide and then turn in tight and let the car bleed off speed while it grips in. He was lucky for that. If I came inside he would have been through my windshield.
The mark on the far wall when I swerved to avoid him was nothing tremendous. It was mostly a tire scuff maybe a foot long at most. It didn't speak at all to the damage done to the car. There was no traffic tonight. I walked out to the middle to pick up a piece of my bumper that was still there. Just a shard. I don't wonder why he ran away. I would have too. Was he daydreaming? Did he want to die? Was he just high? Crouched there I started to remember when I was younger and I walked into traffic trying to get hit on Forbes avenue. I wasn't particularly upset or anything, but I was ready to let my life go. No one would hit me. I did it again a few nights later with my eyes closed and I distinctly remember a bus blowing by me so close it spun me around when it brushed my black hoodie. I wasn't upset, but I was impossibly trapped at the time and finished trying to figure out how to pick that particular lock.
I'm still putting my body back together. From the car accident and the fall down the two flights of stairs and the bike accident (which was my own fault, just pushed my bicycle too hard after having it laid up for most of winter and a too cold spring). Two hours a day of rehab work getting my back right. A lot of my power comes from my torso and I messed up my hip and tailbone pretty ugly. Nothing broken, but the deep bruising and muscle strains took their toll, but I'm getting back to a point where I can consider running again and hitting the weight room hard. The reconstruction, the process of it has become consuming. I was at a point where I could mess with whomever I wanted. Sure, I didn't win every scuff, but I had confidence in my bones and tissues that spoke to having a decent shot as long as I wasn't piss drunk. Not so now. There's hesitation now. There's memory tape now of the waking up in pain and not being able to sit up straight even in a well made chair. Not being able to breath because my sternum hurt so bad.
My body is gathering force though. Regaining moxy and it's difficult for me to have my limitations still in view. I keep having internal arguments with myself shouting "don't do that, you're not ready yet." And myself shouting back "or what?" But I know what. Humiliation, failure, more time lost in recovery. What the reconstruction has also done though, is forced a new view upon me. A new way of going about conflict. Handling passions I can't always contain effectively. War bringing peace, in a way.
More than anything, I want so badly to speak to that kid face to face now that I don't want to skin him alive anymore. I want to know, and I want to tell him I forgive him.
///Lo-Fidelity Allstars - "Smash and Grab World" looking to the stars on a fucked up night. Year end playlist is still in the works. Just five months late. No worries.
9/9/11
What Is It All About?
Dreamed I cheated my way to the top of the financial food chain and bought an awesome house in the hills of Nassau county and went on the inspirational speech touring circuit with Roger Staubach.
Then one fateful day while at home alone and drawing up notes for a lecture series at nyu titled "only your successes are successful" and for some trying to cook rice, some of it fell on the floor. No big deal I thought. Went to pick it up and I pull my hand away with a fist sized rat burying it's teeth into my palm.
Naturally I whip it against the wall except it doesn't die. Two more rats climb out of the seams of my red sofa, pause a minute to sniff around in the afternoon, and then they tear the gimp rat apart and then come after me.
Dump the boiling hot rice on them, problem solved. Except Tapirs start climbing out of my trash cans and their heads are just bleeding holes atop their necks, sucking at air like a baby's mouth thats had all of it's undescended teeth ripped out of it's gumbs. Tapirs a lot bigger in person.
Thats when porcupines with no eyes in their sockets start rolling out from under the couch and eating all of my notes scattered everywhere, and I try to smash them with books but every time I swing I get nothing but quills in the backs of my hands and arms and the quills fill with blood and drip it onto my carpet and the stains well up and bubble into more rats.
So I fight my way out of there and I'm in a hotel lobby with late 70s limousines parked everywhere and roger staubach gets out of one and walks past me with nine security guards, and I'm thinking it's a bit excessive when I hear over the radio through one ofthe drivers open windows that Staubach has been implicated in the murder of more than thirty members of a local human trafficking organization operating in the Gulf coast, but only to force them out so his own drug smuggling operation could operate smoother.
The driver I'm standing near just starts laughing his ass off and then, as he's laughing and I'm trying to get my head around the last thirty minutes two of the limousines explode and my life flashes before my eyes, but instead of my whole life it's high school algebra on aday we had class outside.
The teacher is drawing on her board and it's all unreadable text. Bent lines and short half moons and dashes and shes reading and pointing to the symbols and saying numbers and operations and everyone in class is lying in the grass on white mats, all cloud watching and sweating.
I roll over on my back my toes are touching some girls calf and someones knees are at my hip and everything feels taut and slick and sunny and the professor continues to drone on not caring that no one is paying attention.
A breeze blows and I crane my neck all the way back to let the air dry me off and I open my eyes and find I am staring up between a classmates spread legs and skirt and shes got a full on chubby from lying in the grass on her stomach, rolling her hips.
I let myself fall back and go back to cloud watching and the buzzing and someone puts their hand up my shirt on my stomach and all I think is how you can't get in trouble for touching if it isn't sex. And I yawned and stretched, heady and tired with all the sun and math, and let one of my hands rest there over my head against their wet skin.
Then the flash ended and I woke up. Safe and sound, horny, and with a new found respect for tapirs (dangerous beasts), cleaning up after myself when I cook, karma, and roger staubach.
But other than that I have no clue what last night was all about.
3/9/11
A Sense of Urgency (or The Real Reason Black Men Don't "Get Ahead")
So I'm at work and I basically kill it every night. Sure I'm a little hyper. Sure they probably think I fire a couple lines into my brain before my shift. Whatever, I don't care all that much. One thing that happens in the disincentivized environment is that the only reward for a days work is the satisfaction you personally derive from putting in a solid days work becomes its own reward. That and the paycheck.
Where was I? Oh yeah... I'm trying to keep this tight... so I basically go in to work with the perspective: I am going to destroy my work load today. I see everything that management does as a direct challenge to my capabilities and every single work day is staked with taking their expectations and ramming them down their throats. "So you think I'm going to struggle with X or Y, well check this shit out: I'm gonna set X on fire with how pro I am and Y is gonna get put in its place like a redheaded step child and go tell its friends about how badly I kicked its ass and its friends will rue the day I show up to work 'cause its gonna be on from the second I walk through that front door."
Which brings me to why black men, aged 18 to 40 will, by and large, never get ahead. They're way too busy trying to convince everyone that they're unruffled. It's beyond "too cool for school" or "too cool for pants that fit" or even "too cool for rules." It's this projection of well in hand that, more than anything else, fires flares of stupidity in all directions. Well, not even that. It's not about being on time, or late, or clothing, or rules, or education. More than anything else it's this projection of such super lensed self consciousness that is so tightly clamped around their throats that you just want to shake them and scream "will you wake the hell up!?"
Maybe it's a symptom of the layers upon layers of stereotypes that are, essentially, the new slavery. Growing up beneath that burden and governance can turn the most capable human being into a club footed clown. I feel bad for them. Well alright, I'm getting loose again and dropping a lot of "wells". Let's refocus. I'm training this kid and the equipment I'm trying to explain to him is located in a lot of different areas and we have to keep criss-crossing to see the things that I'm trying to teach him about and so much time can be killed walking too and fro so I'm walking at a little better than my usual clip. I walk like I need to get somewhere unless I'm just getting lost for the sake of forgetting the world. Time is short already, without adding in the burden of having to stop and explain everything I'm doing, so I'm making tracks and this guy is just lagging.
I have no idea why. There's no one else in the area except him and me. There is no one to judge him or make fun of him for walking fast. There's no one to make fun of his pants if he tightens them up so he can actually use his gotdamn legs for ambulating. Is he worried that he might get made fun of later or that I'm made fun of for moving so quickly and speaking fast and sure? I have no idea what his problem was. I get where I'm going and the whole time I'm thinking, well hell if he would make an attempt to keep up I could explain more shit to him en route instead of having to do it all onsite. So I get there and I have to wait for him to come moseying along.
I'm all for taking time where time is available, but for the love of God when you're on the clock will you pull up your fucking socks for once and act like something more than whatever the hell you fucks are into is worth showing up for? No, I don't always want to be at work. No, I am not always buzzing at 100 miles per hour. No, I am not best friends with management, but fuck my life if someone is paying you to do something then do it right and do it on time and fuck image. At some point you have to just say to yourself "I do not care what the rest of my peers think of what I'm doing because THEY DO NOT WRITE THE CHECKS THAT BUY ME FOOD OR (insert whatever thing it is that sustains your well being).
I don't know. I guess I'm venting. I'm sure there are exceptions because I know some of them. But until we get over this weirding thing we're socialized and typed into we are going to have a black history month that says to the rest of the world "hey, we do stuff sometimes too."
Idiots. Give me two of this guy I'm training and I'll have half the output I need. Disappointing. I'm sure he's a great kid too. But personality by itself does not get shit done.
///Goldfrapp - "Deer Stop" pick them off, one by one. There is no urgency among them.
P.S. it really is just sad how self... self... what's the term... self reciprocating? I sware it's like an entire segment of the population is involved in this recursive loop. I'm no social climber, but how is it that the things I view as standard are viewed among them as exceptional, strange, and ridiculous. So mad. Retards. When the world ends, they're all going to die like lemmings. Worse than lemmings. Like deer before intelligence. Why is intelligence so eschewed???? I need to relax. No I don't. Obviously it's not just them, but I feel among them this weirding thing is most rampant, rooted, and disgustingly viral.
Where was I? Oh yeah... I'm trying to keep this tight... so I basically go in to work with the perspective: I am going to destroy my work load today. I see everything that management does as a direct challenge to my capabilities and every single work day is staked with taking their expectations and ramming them down their throats. "So you think I'm going to struggle with X or Y, well check this shit out: I'm gonna set X on fire with how pro I am and Y is gonna get put in its place like a redheaded step child and go tell its friends about how badly I kicked its ass and its friends will rue the day I show up to work 'cause its gonna be on from the second I walk through that front door."
Which brings me to why black men, aged 18 to 40 will, by and large, never get ahead. They're way too busy trying to convince everyone that they're unruffled. It's beyond "too cool for school" or "too cool for pants that fit" or even "too cool for rules." It's this projection of well in hand that, more than anything else, fires flares of stupidity in all directions. Well, not even that. It's not about being on time, or late, or clothing, or rules, or education. More than anything else it's this projection of such super lensed self consciousness that is so tightly clamped around their throats that you just want to shake them and scream "will you wake the hell up!?"
Maybe it's a symptom of the layers upon layers of stereotypes that are, essentially, the new slavery. Growing up beneath that burden and governance can turn the most capable human being into a club footed clown. I feel bad for them. Well alright, I'm getting loose again and dropping a lot of "wells". Let's refocus. I'm training this kid and the equipment I'm trying to explain to him is located in a lot of different areas and we have to keep criss-crossing to see the things that I'm trying to teach him about and so much time can be killed walking too and fro so I'm walking at a little better than my usual clip. I walk like I need to get somewhere unless I'm just getting lost for the sake of forgetting the world. Time is short already, without adding in the burden of having to stop and explain everything I'm doing, so I'm making tracks and this guy is just lagging.
I have no idea why. There's no one else in the area except him and me. There is no one to judge him or make fun of him for walking fast. There's no one to make fun of his pants if he tightens them up so he can actually use his gotdamn legs for ambulating. Is he worried that he might get made fun of later or that I'm made fun of for moving so quickly and speaking fast and sure? I have no idea what his problem was. I get where I'm going and the whole time I'm thinking, well hell if he would make an attempt to keep up I could explain more shit to him en route instead of having to do it all onsite. So I get there and I have to wait for him to come moseying along.
I'm all for taking time where time is available, but for the love of God when you're on the clock will you pull up your fucking socks for once and act like something more than whatever the hell you fucks are into is worth showing up for? No, I don't always want to be at work. No, I am not always buzzing at 100 miles per hour. No, I am not best friends with management, but fuck my life if someone is paying you to do something then do it right and do it on time and fuck image. At some point you have to just say to yourself "I do not care what the rest of my peers think of what I'm doing because THEY DO NOT WRITE THE CHECKS THAT BUY ME FOOD OR (insert whatever thing it is that sustains your well being).
I don't know. I guess I'm venting. I'm sure there are exceptions because I know some of them. But until we get over this weirding thing we're socialized and typed into we are going to have a black history month that says to the rest of the world "hey, we do stuff sometimes too."
Idiots. Give me two of this guy I'm training and I'll have half the output I need. Disappointing. I'm sure he's a great kid too. But personality by itself does not get shit done.
///Goldfrapp - "Deer Stop" pick them off, one by one. There is no urgency among them.
P.S. it really is just sad how self... self... what's the term... self reciprocating? I sware it's like an entire segment of the population is involved in this recursive loop. I'm no social climber, but how is it that the things I view as standard are viewed among them as exceptional, strange, and ridiculous. So mad. Retards. When the world ends, they're all going to die like lemmings. Worse than lemmings. Like deer before intelligence. Why is intelligence so eschewed???? I need to relax. No I don't. Obviously it's not just them, but I feel among them this weirding thing is most rampant, rooted, and disgustingly viral.
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.
8/25/10
One of Those "Say Anything" Days
I don't know what the hell to tell you. Scratch that, I do. First off, I'm sorry I was gone for so long. It's not like me to stay away, and truth be told, I wasn't staying away as much as I've been held apart by circumstances beyond my control. Actually I kind of felt like the bearded guy with wings from Flash Gordon just then. At least my voice boomed in my head as I proclaimed the truth. It's not actually that dramatic, but I wish it were.
I guess, I really don't know what to expect from life anymore. Between the images pumped in through music and the massive filtering of said music to just the things that I don't mind slam dancing in my brain tissue and the images sucked in from television and the entire glut of information that comes unfiltered and unfilterable, my image of New York was unrealistic. "How realistic did I want it to be" is probably a more important question to ask. It's not a wasteland. It's not a shooting gallery. It's no more a hotbed of imagination and talent than any other city with a downtown and an uptown (that little detail is what makes or breaks a city for reasons locked into the evolutionary genome of bullshit socio whatevers).
I'm not making sense am I? I guess I'm just pissed off. Right now I'm that 105 year old man who sits in a high backed chair with his back to his bay windows, dressed in his three piece suit he wore to his last day of work before he retired, who cannot for the life of him remember the conversation between his ears that told him he should make the drastic change from the life he knew to the life he didn't know he would come to loathe.
We are after all in the first few hours of the first few months of the first few years of this, our new year under the banner of industry for the sake of perpetuating a life whose value lies in the work it has yet to complete. So I should be aiming for ... what? I don't fucking know.
Nope. Not true again. I do fucking know. My goal hasn't really changed. Only the operating conditions have changed. All I have to do is put food in my face, keep a simple computer, and not be homeless. If I can land a gig to make that happen I'll be good as a bar of gold. Or something. Something is getting lost in the wires again and I am blowing fuses faster than I'm replacing them and I think that's why I like talking to you. It doesn't really show me what needs to be replaced, but it does...
Okay cannot finish that thought. I think what I'm wanting to say is that I suppose if no one loves you, I'll be willing to. No pictures or links for a little while. My arrangements aren't allowing me to do the things I love doing for you. But we'll catch up later when I can think again and I stop feeling weird shit touching me. Total Promisaurus. And not like Inception promise either [I'm still gunna do it... i sware]. And my grammar will be better too. And punctuation. And that's it. Only because I told you I would fix it and I meant it. Because a man without his word is a laughing hollow eyed handshake that will eat you up from inside your dreams, like any other big city you knew.
///The Cranberries - "Dreams" who hasn't sung these lyrics to themselves? Raise your hands. To your throats and gently throttle yourselves for being too cool for school and then go youtube as soon as you feel you've punished yourself enough. Best song ever. Sure I can't listen to it 8 times in a row anymore, but that just comes with growing up. Right?
I guess, I really don't know what to expect from life anymore. Between the images pumped in through music and the massive filtering of said music to just the things that I don't mind slam dancing in my brain tissue and the images sucked in from television and the entire glut of information that comes unfiltered and unfilterable, my image of New York was unrealistic. "How realistic did I want it to be" is probably a more important question to ask. It's not a wasteland. It's not a shooting gallery. It's no more a hotbed of imagination and talent than any other city with a downtown and an uptown (that little detail is what makes or breaks a city for reasons locked into the evolutionary genome of bullshit socio whatevers).
I'm not making sense am I? I guess I'm just pissed off. Right now I'm that 105 year old man who sits in a high backed chair with his back to his bay windows, dressed in his three piece suit he wore to his last day of work before he retired, who cannot for the life of him remember the conversation between his ears that told him he should make the drastic change from the life he knew to the life he didn't know he would come to loathe.
We are after all in the first few hours of the first few months of the first few years of this, our new year under the banner of industry for the sake of perpetuating a life whose value lies in the work it has yet to complete. So I should be aiming for ... what? I don't fucking know.
Nope. Not true again. I do fucking know. My goal hasn't really changed. Only the operating conditions have changed. All I have to do is put food in my face, keep a simple computer, and not be homeless. If I can land a gig to make that happen I'll be good as a bar of gold. Or something. Something is getting lost in the wires again and I am blowing fuses faster than I'm replacing them and I think that's why I like talking to you. It doesn't really show me what needs to be replaced, but it does...
Okay cannot finish that thought. I think what I'm wanting to say is that I suppose if no one loves you, I'll be willing to. No pictures or links for a little while. My arrangements aren't allowing me to do the things I love doing for you. But we'll catch up later when I can think again and I stop feeling weird shit touching me. Total Promisaurus. And not like Inception promise either [I'm still gunna do it... i sware]. And my grammar will be better too. And punctuation. And that's it. Only because I told you I would fix it and I meant it. Because a man without his word is a laughing hollow eyed handshake that will eat you up from inside your dreams, like any other big city you knew.
///The Cranberries - "Dreams" who hasn't sung these lyrics to themselves? Raise your hands. To your throats and gently throttle yourselves for being too cool for school and then go youtube as soon as you feel you've punished yourself enough. Best song ever. Sure I can't listen to it 8 times in a row anymore, but that just comes with growing up. Right?
6/24/10
lookin good
finally finished the principal of the thing in the benegon project. feels good to be done with fitting pixel A to pixel B. it looks good though. hopefully moving forward will allow me more time for writing and loving and wandering the other side of consciousness. you know, the side where the wild things grow and come and lick and poke at the membrane around where we live.
i can kind of see how the next 5 years is going to play out. spoiler alert: more losses. did i ever tell you district 9 really touched me. like way deep down? yeah. i almost shed a tear at the end. i wrote an email once to all of my old professors asking for any aid they could possibly offer. one responded out of ten or twelve people. one. and that person's main talking point was: sorry.
researching technical schools ive found they are not cheap and id need a car to get to most of them. im in a camp. i am walled in and held apart from my peers. i dont fucking know why. if i did i would fix it. what are they afraid of? why are people so easily upset? i mean im sure my situation probably makes other people uncomfortable because so little cash would make such a massive difference. but the sum is just large enough to be too much to give away. people probably spend more on cigarettes in a year than i spend on everything combined because im just that broke. well still... theres some hand wringing over that im sure. i avoid talking about it most of the time because its so out there i guess. outside the realm of knowing. im so far away from my socioeconomic peers i stand out like a burnt out house in a neighborhood of gated homes. its not that im too lazy to fix my god damn windows, its that the only thing i can afford is a slab of plywood. you try not to let it color your experiences and temper your relationships but it does. its like having a broken pen in your laundry. no amount of balling up the fabric will prevent it from staining. the viciousness of life does not cease to amaze me. the foulness of our fellow man did a long time ago.
whats the fix. whats the fix. whats the fix. how am i supposed to fix this? do i stay? do i leave? to where? my head hurts. i dont want to lose friends, but sometimes i wonder if friends want to lose me. loss and dealing with loss is something that i dont do well. who does? its crushing to live in such a small box and unreasonable to think others should think of you when you yourself are never around. its like im shouting from the bottom of this well and asking what happened in the news today. eventually the people around me get tired of me asking and they wander away. i guess all i can really do is keep talking so i dont forget what my thoughts sound like.
enough of that depressing shit. in other news... now that i have some design time free for a little while im going to redo the poetry page layout over at the auralport.blogspot.com and have it play off of and into this and itll be one big sexy party of thoughts and words and colors and strikes.... and when youre knee deep in rainbow colored vaginas and unicorns and giant robots and mushroom clouds youll weep tears of solid gold and ill say pretty please while a sky diving t rex plays the greatest guitar solo ever heard.
maybe not that awesome. but hopefully itll be close. god damn it while i was drawing that i inevitably came back around to the black hole in the middle of my life. this is what ive realized: normal people dont like hanging out in hospitals. even on star trek no one hung out at sick bay (unless they were simply bat shit crazy or had no friends) sooo i cant really expect people to want to hang out with someone who is constantly on the verge of ... ah fuck it. im too sleepy to get into this shit. when is it alright to ask someone if you'll ever get back together when you already know the answer? it just goes round and round and round and one of these days im just going to smash it into my desk with a claw hammer and shovel the guts out the window. but till then
///the seatbelts - "forever broke" sunset on 8mm film sounds like this.
i can kind of see how the next 5 years is going to play out. spoiler alert: more losses. did i ever tell you district 9 really touched me. like way deep down? yeah. i almost shed a tear at the end. i wrote an email once to all of my old professors asking for any aid they could possibly offer. one responded out of ten or twelve people. one. and that person's main talking point was: sorry.
researching technical schools ive found they are not cheap and id need a car to get to most of them. im in a camp. i am walled in and held apart from my peers. i dont fucking know why. if i did i would fix it. what are they afraid of? why are people so easily upset? i mean im sure my situation probably makes other people uncomfortable because so little cash would make such a massive difference. but the sum is just large enough to be too much to give away. people probably spend more on cigarettes in a year than i spend on everything combined because im just that broke. well still... theres some hand wringing over that im sure. i avoid talking about it most of the time because its so out there i guess. outside the realm of knowing. im so far away from my socioeconomic peers i stand out like a burnt out house in a neighborhood of gated homes. its not that im too lazy to fix my god damn windows, its that the only thing i can afford is a slab of plywood. you try not to let it color your experiences and temper your relationships but it does. its like having a broken pen in your laundry. no amount of balling up the fabric will prevent it from staining. the viciousness of life does not cease to amaze me. the foulness of our fellow man did a long time ago.
whats the fix. whats the fix. whats the fix. how am i supposed to fix this? do i stay? do i leave? to where? my head hurts. i dont want to lose friends, but sometimes i wonder if friends want to lose me. loss and dealing with loss is something that i dont do well. who does? its crushing to live in such a small box and unreasonable to think others should think of you when you yourself are never around. its like im shouting from the bottom of this well and asking what happened in the news today. eventually the people around me get tired of me asking and they wander away. i guess all i can really do is keep talking so i dont forget what my thoughts sound like.
enough of that depressing shit. in other news... now that i have some design time free for a little while im going to redo the poetry page layout over at the auralport.blogspot.com and have it play off of and into this and itll be one big sexy party of thoughts and words and colors and strikes.... and when youre knee deep in rainbow colored vaginas and unicorns and giant robots and mushroom clouds youll weep tears of solid gold and ill say pretty please while a sky diving t rex plays the greatest guitar solo ever heard.
maybe not that awesome. but hopefully itll be close. god damn it while i was drawing that i inevitably came back around to the black hole in the middle of my life. this is what ive realized: normal people dont like hanging out in hospitals. even on star trek no one hung out at sick bay (unless they were simply bat shit crazy or had no friends) sooo i cant really expect people to want to hang out with someone who is constantly on the verge of ... ah fuck it. im too sleepy to get into this shit. when is it alright to ask someone if you'll ever get back together when you already know the answer? it just goes round and round and round and one of these days im just going to smash it into my desk with a claw hammer and shovel the guts out the window. but till then
///the seatbelts - "forever broke" sunset on 8mm film sounds like this.
2/3/06
out of the loopC----> * 02/03/06
Subject : out of the loop C ----> *
Posted Date: : Feb 3, 2006 3:39 PM
Having successfully roused from sleep I proceed to play some tunes to get the ol energy thing going and I instantly realized I hadnt touched a new album or artist in the past YEAR. It was then that I immediately deduced that I was not only listening to the same things again and again, but that I was now incapable of obtaining new music. Not for lack of desire, but for lack of the ability to identify any new music or new artist at work today, right this minute. I'm out of the loop. Way, way waaaaay out of the loop. I don't even know where to start looking for new music anymore, and I don't want to become one of those amazon groupies who looks for music guides put together by other people. That's it then. That's what's so scary about being in this situation. I've lost my musical identity and in my vulnerable state it's too easy to simply adopt someone elses. Identity.
Maybe this fear runs deeper than music. Maybe I've always been afraid of losing my individuality and thus have always pushed others away who had strong personalities of thier own until I could fully establish my own personality. Maybe on some level everyone is afraid of losing their identity and act to protect it with behavior that appears irrationally fearful of something not directly connected to their original fear.
Posted Date: : Feb 3, 2006 3:39 PM
Having successfully roused from sleep I proceed to play some tunes to get the ol energy thing going and I instantly realized I hadnt touched a new album or artist in the past YEAR. It was then that I immediately deduced that I was not only listening to the same things again and again, but that I was now incapable of obtaining new music. Not for lack of desire, but for lack of the ability to identify any new music or new artist at work today, right this minute. I'm out of the loop. Way, way waaaaay out of the loop. I don't even know where to start looking for new music anymore, and I don't want to become one of those amazon groupies who looks for music guides put together by other people. That's it then. That's what's so scary about being in this situation. I've lost my musical identity and in my vulnerable state it's too easy to simply adopt someone elses. Identity.
Maybe this fear runs deeper than music. Maybe I've always been afraid of losing my individuality and thus have always pushed others away who had strong personalities of thier own until I could fully establish my own personality. Maybe on some level everyone is afraid of losing their identity and act to protect it with behavior that appears irrationally fearful of something not directly connected to their original fear.
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