you convince yourself that you are static, you have sentenced yourself to death and you should find a quiet plot of land with a porch and push your way in through the lattice along its side that a few enterprising rats chewed through and lay down to die.
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 near death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label near death. Show all posts
10/19/19
4/26/15
Facebook Birthdays, Selfishness, The Spacetime/Lovetime Continuum, and Death Stalking
Well, I do believe we will kick this off with birthdays and keep it in order. Maybe not entirely, but we'll give it a shot.
Birthdays are great most of the time. Essentially it's like having a second New Year celebration, unless your birthday falls on New Year's day. It's kind of cool that certain days be claimed. Certain should be claimed. There are so many of them you have to devote to being part of society it's cool that you can have your own and it's pretty interesting that there are days claimed of themselves where you, as a person, are forced to look up and away from everyone else and recognize that you are all just people and as such part of a single entity (country, nation, religion, belief, or just part of a grander scale of bodies in space rotating, dying off, being born, at a regular and calculable, to a mind demolishing degree, [God bless the collective scientific mind] interval).
When you are small, birthdays are celebrated. When you get older, birthdays are celebrated. Good grief I'm already trying to think of a macro I can program to type birthdays. Let's call them bdays. It's nearly as fatiguing to type as it is to read. Where were we, as you get older bdays are celebrated. Eventually, I think because of the enormous obstacle of longevity ... didn't the average age for death expand massively from like 35 to 65 in a stretch of helter skelter centuries? Or was it a handful of decades less than a century ... cannot remember the history lessons exactly, but the obstacle of longevity was overcome on a large scale like feeling the X-1 break the sound barrier over a soundtrack stretched out over a week with rumbling bass against the soles of your feet instead of over a fraction of a second. Are you seeing it? The soundtrack of the first sonic boom, to scale it perhaps better and with greater accuracy, over a few days instead of a fraction of a few seconds of silence and then THWOOM!
Suddenly people weren't dying when they were supposed to. The celebration of birthdays continued because you never knew. Someone, many someones, were still dying viciously early. If you made it beyond a certain age the birthday party would become a routine thing, but then you still didn't live that long and everyone else knew it even if you didn't so the birthday party would retain significance throughout much of your life because if you made it beyond the beginning the end was not that far away. The space/time continuum of your existence was a fairly small swatch of fabric in a quilt of human lives demanding not only close contact, close ties. The bday continued. The swatches grew larger.
To present day. I will not bore you with compartmentalized electro society and the kindness of strangers and asynchronous communication. We're all on the same page, on the same planet, at the same time. Birthdays are a lot less significant. The stretch of life between birth and death has become a sea of time and space instead of a droplet. Living to age five was awesome. Living to 10 was nearly a miracle. And on and on until you died at the ripe and tender age of 45 by incurable infection or bodily injury of one sort or another. Fast forward and communal life ends at 18. At the most. If you decide to or are pushed to it ends four years after that. Same cycle, larger scale.
If you make it to 13 everyone pretty much backs off and says "alright, this one should make it a good stretch." Birthday parties every year until 13. Then a few makes and misses. Things may come up in the schedule or life barring them. It's fine. It's no big deal Essentially you don't need to have another birthday party until you are about to die, but we've been having parties for so many years for so long before because you weren't out of the woods until you were 20 and then at 20 the parties tapered off until 40 when everyone knew you were probably going to drop dead soon and then they came back with a vengeance. So we still try to have parties through the teens until 20. We set an arbitrary mark at 20. Twenty is when you are officially your own problem. If you want to kill yourself afterwards, no one will blame you. If anything they'll blame themselves for somehow screwing up a gestation period of 20 years. Not that it's not impossible to screw up. I've seen it happen and those people should blame themselves. Moving on though: after 20.
After 20 the people throwing you parties are the people in that middle ground where it is so ingrained that every step must be a party because every step has been a bday party in the past back when the scale was all shrunk up. Those people are throwing you parties because people threw them parties and the people they learned to throw parties from had parties thrown for them all the way back to when that party was also a wedding ceremony because you only had a solid 20 ahead of you to try to get a family going before you were killed by a hoof to the face trying to the milk the cow that morning and forgot to warm up your hands first because the whooping cough all night really took you off your morning game. The parties are meaningless. They try to flavor them up with "hey, you can drink now" but you could drink before, it was just a little bit harder.
Fast forward to the mid twenties and the only people still celebrating birthdays as celebrations instead of acknowledgements are the people still looking back to when birthdays meant something and desiring to keep them alive as an active denial that the space/time fabric is growing and much faster than originally supposed or hinted at by the people who celebrated your birthdays as iconic moments in everyone you've ever known (it really was everyone you ever knew because your swatch of fabric was very small when you were small too) and sometimes everyone they knew too's lives. The fabric continues to stretch. The stretch grows beyond the realm of sight.
The only way you know there is anything out there is if there is a thread you are holding or if the person units and units away is managing to vibrate space and time on your plane and at your level of harmonic excitement. For all you know they are vibrating as hard as they can, however your lack of synchronized or harmonic phase or anything close to it to at least cause distortion to be investigated further and at most cause perfect reception is obliterating all abilities of detection. Your birthday strikes.
You jump up and down on your birthday signal and there is one, two, ten harmonies where there were few before. Not as many as you were young and not as many as when you will be close to death. You are excited on your enormous swatch of space and time and communicate back. Quickly though, you realize the distance is so great that nothing you say will bear any significance to the senders. By the time it arrives much has changed and will continue to change at a fair rate, but absolutely quickly enough that keeping up will be virtually impossible and an occupation unto it's own. The space/time is so bloated it is enough only to know that you exist in a sea of existence. The birthdays must be celebrated though! Every last one of them!
Though, nothing more. Wholeheartedly, every last birthday must be celebrated, but please do not be upset if you do not receive a facebook birthday message. It's nothing personal. It is not selfish. It is not "well I sent him one and he didn't send me one back so we're not friends anymore and if he sends me one I'm not going to send him one back" ... like no. Don't be that. That's trite.
The fabric of the Spacetime/Lovetime continuum is such: fractal in portions and quilt in others all flexed over a membrane of space/time. I remember you. You remember me. When was the last time we spoke? A lot has changed since then. We met each other during core formations. If we're friends, there's something we liked when we looked at each other then. Everything that's happened since then has been a branch or tree or fork or formation of adaptations and evolutions and events since then. If I liked you then I'll probably like you now, but I may need to trace back a little bit to understand the face I'm looking at now. Within you and myself. That affinity will still be there. Fractal. Some parts are still quilt. Have not changed at all, only grown larger and harder to see across. Accentuated, in some respects conflated, but all there as it was when it was 20 and believing death was around the corner because birthdays are a big effing deal, yeah!?
Some sections remain as quilt. All of relative directions are the same. My relationship is the same. My relationship to those directions remain the same as my portion of spacetime/lovetime expands. The way that I will engage is across signals and waves that no longer ripple the shores of what used to be square plots. Now they are jagged and hooked and crystaline. "Why did you not wish me a happy birthday? I leapt with all of my might to shake the webs and graphs. I burned out my transmitter dish and everyone answered. Why didn't you?" I am bleeding in, but that's alright. I will take in for a moment: my fractal development has not reached with the same fervor or life that others around me have grown. Their swatches have been broken apart with year to year modification, willing and driven, while mine, willing and driven as well have been outpaced by the shear stretch of space/time, around which spacetime/lovetime is beholden.
"Why did you not wish me a happy birthday on facebook or in real time?" Part of the reason is that you know, roughly, where I am, across the stretch. Is you vibrate hard enough, I will pick it up. If I vibrate as hard as I can, it will be picked up, maybe, and defuse. More than that, the additional complications of your growth will require a degree of decoding to whom you also vibrate and I hate being explained. Also, the time that I am existing in is the same time as the last time we saw each other and spent time together for a very heavy degree. The characteristics, for all the stationary portion of quilt knows, being referenced, lauded, and celebrated, have very little to do with the current you and in fact may be portions so far back in the space and time we both occupied that they may be abhorred by the current continued people synchronized and harmonizing with your spacetime/lovetime.
I really do hope it does not come across selfish. It's anything but that. Who wants a person several iterations behind the rest of their peers appearing on their timeline without any warning beyond the blind celebrations, appearing ne'er before nor after, popping their head in the door to yell at them to live their lives to the fullest or drop a witt or a jab and zip away. Or message them about a part of their life so incredibly irrelevant that .... well, you get the picture. If anything, whatever comes of announcing your birthday on facebook is enjoyable. I used to try to wish a happy birthday to every single person I actually met in person whose notification came up, but I realized I was just diluting the pool of communications they should be receiving and that's far more important than reciprocation. Reception is a lot more valuable from stationary (as time and space grows and complications continue to thrive [wives, husbands, children, careers, mobilization, freedoms] the unstoppable movement toward greater complication reduces drastically the stationary ability to receive). Projection, the opposite value shift. There is no selfishness. The relationship is appropriate and beneficial and also removes discomfort in bringing out the telescope that can pierce space/time to see a time capsule floating in square space and see from where the current coordinates came.
Since having the birthday though, I've been consumed with thoughts of aging. Once the party faded, I was struck, over a morning cup of tea, that from here on out, maybe for a few years more there will be time to improve upon my frame, from here on out the best I can do is ward against sudden physical catastrophic failure. The brain is it's own beast and will be susceptible to its own sudden failures, the much more important part of the aspects of being to protect the muscle and bones. That prospect is frightening.
I am very quickly approaching the tipping point of being able to self destruct on purpose will be more difficult than waiting for an accidental failure or fault in the normal operation. The idea that I will start to have to approach my body each day as an explosive device that requires constant disarming instead of as a device I must operate that is occasionally exceptionally demanding to pilot and often prone to conditions that lead to explosions or other massive exothermic failure is a tad frightening. It's difficult to frame or explain, I will attempt.
My expected life span is 60 to 70 years. I assume some of the rage inside of me will drive me another decade. Perhaps reflection will drive me another five. Desperation could drive me another five and hate could bring me across the finish line at angry, lucid, "where are my !@#$ing hover cars" 100 in the, of course, mind blowing year 2085, yelling at my robot nurse who simply amps my morphine and changes the channel to the meme network that just plays meme generator failures in fastforward with nature wide lens porn shots sprinkled in between and every now and then the base thumper strapped to the base of my skull goes off with a brief thud.
60 is the target with full apparatus to choice. If I ever lose the ability to choose whether I live or die, put me down. If I end up in solitary confinement I'll eventually find a way to kill myself. You're virtually dead. Just waiting for space to catch up with time as you've been, shall we say, fast forwarded. Part of why... okay, I'm getting ahead of myself. Collect. Rewind. Go.
Passing my 30th birthday I realized my body will likely begin, or begin the process of shut down, that will lead to death three to four to five decades from now. Time flies. As I sipped my morning die and blew the steam off the top of it and checked up on the news and weather and sports box scores it hit me that some piece of my body my fail at a moments notice in the coming years and perhaps less than that. It was tremendously frightening. I was afraid to go to work. I work alone and have preferred to work alone for many years now. Suddenly working alone comes with added risks that will compound as time progresses. If you fall off of a ladder or spear yourself with a section of pipe because that muscle group or nerve system or other simply failed to respond to your intent you will have little to know time to call for help or bring or drag your frame to safety or at least the possibility of survival. Suddenly your chances of surviving that car accident or freak mechanical accident symptomatic of daily engagement with machines (the more you fly the more likely it is there will be an air catastrophe, but you can't be struck by a bolt out of the blue if you're thirty feet below ground) go down dramatically as you become more frail and susceptible. That's 100% out of your control
is what I realized. You cannot suddenly begin hiding inside of a padded safe with provisions and a supply of oxygen. Everyone dies. You will more than likely or at least even odds buy the farm by no fault of your own as much as genetics or intent or negligence once you pass 30. Every day you leave your house with a little less ability is one day slightly more dangerous than the last. So you will work yourself ragged to try to keep that fraction at zero, even Stevens. Every morning it will slip a little bit and you have to do a little bit more to push the numerator back over the denominator. It'll work for a while. In some cases a good long while until the growth in the denominator comes too fast and too regularly pinging and updating. When your body let's go, you can still just brute force the math and bend your own time and space to whatever you want to imagine it to be. The only reason why it will flex is because other people are leaping up and down and the fabric itself has grown so thin it can be distorted through pure force of will from either end of the spectrum of passions love and hate. Until the stitches sewn when you were born finally snap and every one on facebook wishes you a farewell.
I did get wrapped up in the narrative for a bit, you see why bridging 30 and taking time to throw a few stones skipped on the river is important to me. I'm not upset. I'm in love and scared and aware and dreaming all at once and I never want to leave that bridge. I haven't forgotten you. For many, though, it is true, I can be spoken with or to, but I cannot speak to you. On my birthdays I am reminded.
Let's put some Christmas lights on that.
///Kiln - "The Colorfreak" far enough away from aphex to call it's own
Birthdays are great most of the time. Essentially it's like having a second New Year celebration, unless your birthday falls on New Year's day. It's kind of cool that certain days be claimed. Certain should be claimed. There are so many of them you have to devote to being part of society it's cool that you can have your own and it's pretty interesting that there are days claimed of themselves where you, as a person, are forced to look up and away from everyone else and recognize that you are all just people and as such part of a single entity (country, nation, religion, belief, or just part of a grander scale of bodies in space rotating, dying off, being born, at a regular and calculable, to a mind demolishing degree, [God bless the collective scientific mind] interval).
When you are small, birthdays are celebrated. When you get older, birthdays are celebrated. Good grief I'm already trying to think of a macro I can program to type birthdays. Let's call them bdays. It's nearly as fatiguing to type as it is to read. Where were we, as you get older bdays are celebrated. Eventually, I think because of the enormous obstacle of longevity ... didn't the average age for death expand massively from like 35 to 65 in a stretch of helter skelter centuries? Or was it a handful of decades less than a century ... cannot remember the history lessons exactly, but the obstacle of longevity was overcome on a large scale like feeling the X-1 break the sound barrier over a soundtrack stretched out over a week with rumbling bass against the soles of your feet instead of over a fraction of a second. Are you seeing it? The soundtrack of the first sonic boom, to scale it perhaps better and with greater accuracy, over a few days instead of a fraction of a few seconds of silence and then THWOOM!
Suddenly people weren't dying when they were supposed to. The celebration of birthdays continued because you never knew. Someone, many someones, were still dying viciously early. If you made it beyond a certain age the birthday party would become a routine thing, but then you still didn't live that long and everyone else knew it even if you didn't so the birthday party would retain significance throughout much of your life because if you made it beyond the beginning the end was not that far away. The space/time continuum of your existence was a fairly small swatch of fabric in a quilt of human lives demanding not only close contact, close ties. The bday continued. The swatches grew larger.
To present day. I will not bore you with compartmentalized electro society and the kindness of strangers and asynchronous communication. We're all on the same page, on the same planet, at the same time. Birthdays are a lot less significant. The stretch of life between birth and death has become a sea of time and space instead of a droplet. Living to age five was awesome. Living to 10 was nearly a miracle. And on and on until you died at the ripe and tender age of 45 by incurable infection or bodily injury of one sort or another. Fast forward and communal life ends at 18. At the most. If you decide to or are pushed to it ends four years after that. Same cycle, larger scale.
If you make it to 13 everyone pretty much backs off and says "alright, this one should make it a good stretch." Birthday parties every year until 13. Then a few makes and misses. Things may come up in the schedule or life barring them. It's fine. It's no big deal Essentially you don't need to have another birthday party until you are about to die, but we've been having parties for so many years for so long before because you weren't out of the woods until you were 20 and then at 20 the parties tapered off until 40 when everyone knew you were probably going to drop dead soon and then they came back with a vengeance. So we still try to have parties through the teens until 20. We set an arbitrary mark at 20. Twenty is when you are officially your own problem. If you want to kill yourself afterwards, no one will blame you. If anything they'll blame themselves for somehow screwing up a gestation period of 20 years. Not that it's not impossible to screw up. I've seen it happen and those people should blame themselves. Moving on though: after 20.
After 20 the people throwing you parties are the people in that middle ground where it is so ingrained that every step must be a party because every step has been a bday party in the past back when the scale was all shrunk up. Those people are throwing you parties because people threw them parties and the people they learned to throw parties from had parties thrown for them all the way back to when that party was also a wedding ceremony because you only had a solid 20 ahead of you to try to get a family going before you were killed by a hoof to the face trying to the milk the cow that morning and forgot to warm up your hands first because the whooping cough all night really took you off your morning game. The parties are meaningless. They try to flavor them up with "hey, you can drink now" but you could drink before, it was just a little bit harder.
Fast forward to the mid twenties and the only people still celebrating birthdays as celebrations instead of acknowledgements are the people still looking back to when birthdays meant something and desiring to keep them alive as an active denial that the space/time fabric is growing and much faster than originally supposed or hinted at by the people who celebrated your birthdays as iconic moments in everyone you've ever known (it really was everyone you ever knew because your swatch of fabric was very small when you were small too) and sometimes everyone they knew too's lives. The fabric continues to stretch. The stretch grows beyond the realm of sight.
The only way you know there is anything out there is if there is a thread you are holding or if the person units and units away is managing to vibrate space and time on your plane and at your level of harmonic excitement. For all you know they are vibrating as hard as they can, however your lack of synchronized or harmonic phase or anything close to it to at least cause distortion to be investigated further and at most cause perfect reception is obliterating all abilities of detection. Your birthday strikes.
You jump up and down on your birthday signal and there is one, two, ten harmonies where there were few before. Not as many as you were young and not as many as when you will be close to death. You are excited on your enormous swatch of space and time and communicate back. Quickly though, you realize the distance is so great that nothing you say will bear any significance to the senders. By the time it arrives much has changed and will continue to change at a fair rate, but absolutely quickly enough that keeping up will be virtually impossible and an occupation unto it's own. The space/time is so bloated it is enough only to know that you exist in a sea of existence. The birthdays must be celebrated though! Every last one of them!
Though, nothing more. Wholeheartedly, every last birthday must be celebrated, but please do not be upset if you do not receive a facebook birthday message. It's nothing personal. It is not selfish. It is not "well I sent him one and he didn't send me one back so we're not friends anymore and if he sends me one I'm not going to send him one back" ... like no. Don't be that. That's trite.
The fabric of the Spacetime/Lovetime continuum is such: fractal in portions and quilt in others all flexed over a membrane of space/time. I remember you. You remember me. When was the last time we spoke? A lot has changed since then. We met each other during core formations. If we're friends, there's something we liked when we looked at each other then. Everything that's happened since then has been a branch or tree or fork or formation of adaptations and evolutions and events since then. If I liked you then I'll probably like you now, but I may need to trace back a little bit to understand the face I'm looking at now. Within you and myself. That affinity will still be there. Fractal. Some parts are still quilt. Have not changed at all, only grown larger and harder to see across. Accentuated, in some respects conflated, but all there as it was when it was 20 and believing death was around the corner because birthdays are a big effing deal, yeah!?
Some sections remain as quilt. All of relative directions are the same. My relationship is the same. My relationship to those directions remain the same as my portion of spacetime/lovetime expands. The way that I will engage is across signals and waves that no longer ripple the shores of what used to be square plots. Now they are jagged and hooked and crystaline. "Why did you not wish me a happy birthday? I leapt with all of my might to shake the webs and graphs. I burned out my transmitter dish and everyone answered. Why didn't you?" I am bleeding in, but that's alright. I will take in for a moment: my fractal development has not reached with the same fervor or life that others around me have grown. Their swatches have been broken apart with year to year modification, willing and driven, while mine, willing and driven as well have been outpaced by the shear stretch of space/time, around which spacetime/lovetime is beholden.
"Why did you not wish me a happy birthday on facebook or in real time?" Part of the reason is that you know, roughly, where I am, across the stretch. Is you vibrate hard enough, I will pick it up. If I vibrate as hard as I can, it will be picked up, maybe, and defuse. More than that, the additional complications of your growth will require a degree of decoding to whom you also vibrate and I hate being explained. Also, the time that I am existing in is the same time as the last time we saw each other and spent time together for a very heavy degree. The characteristics, for all the stationary portion of quilt knows, being referenced, lauded, and celebrated, have very little to do with the current you and in fact may be portions so far back in the space and time we both occupied that they may be abhorred by the current continued people synchronized and harmonizing with your spacetime/lovetime.
I really do hope it does not come across selfish. It's anything but that. Who wants a person several iterations behind the rest of their peers appearing on their timeline without any warning beyond the blind celebrations, appearing ne'er before nor after, popping their head in the door to yell at them to live their lives to the fullest or drop a witt or a jab and zip away. Or message them about a part of their life so incredibly irrelevant that .... well, you get the picture. If anything, whatever comes of announcing your birthday on facebook is enjoyable. I used to try to wish a happy birthday to every single person I actually met in person whose notification came up, but I realized I was just diluting the pool of communications they should be receiving and that's far more important than reciprocation. Reception is a lot more valuable from stationary (as time and space grows and complications continue to thrive [wives, husbands, children, careers, mobilization, freedoms] the unstoppable movement toward greater complication reduces drastically the stationary ability to receive). Projection, the opposite value shift. There is no selfishness. The relationship is appropriate and beneficial and also removes discomfort in bringing out the telescope that can pierce space/time to see a time capsule floating in square space and see from where the current coordinates came.
Since having the birthday though, I've been consumed with thoughts of aging. Once the party faded, I was struck, over a morning cup of tea, that from here on out, maybe for a few years more there will be time to improve upon my frame, from here on out the best I can do is ward against sudden physical catastrophic failure. The brain is it's own beast and will be susceptible to its own sudden failures, the much more important part of the aspects of being to protect the muscle and bones. That prospect is frightening.
I am very quickly approaching the tipping point of being able to self destruct on purpose will be more difficult than waiting for an accidental failure or fault in the normal operation. The idea that I will start to have to approach my body each day as an explosive device that requires constant disarming instead of as a device I must operate that is occasionally exceptionally demanding to pilot and often prone to conditions that lead to explosions or other massive exothermic failure is a tad frightening. It's difficult to frame or explain, I will attempt.
My expected life span is 60 to 70 years. I assume some of the rage inside of me will drive me another decade. Perhaps reflection will drive me another five. Desperation could drive me another five and hate could bring me across the finish line at angry, lucid, "where are my !@#$ing hover cars" 100 in the, of course, mind blowing year 2085, yelling at my robot nurse who simply amps my morphine and changes the channel to the meme network that just plays meme generator failures in fastforward with nature wide lens porn shots sprinkled in between and every now and then the base thumper strapped to the base of my skull goes off with a brief thud.
60 is the target with full apparatus to choice. If I ever lose the ability to choose whether I live or die, put me down. If I end up in solitary confinement I'll eventually find a way to kill myself. You're virtually dead. Just waiting for space to catch up with time as you've been, shall we say, fast forwarded. Part of why... okay, I'm getting ahead of myself. Collect. Rewind. Go.
Passing my 30th birthday I realized my body will likely begin, or begin the process of shut down, that will lead to death three to four to five decades from now. Time flies. As I sipped my morning die and blew the steam off the top of it and checked up on the news and weather and sports box scores it hit me that some piece of my body my fail at a moments notice in the coming years and perhaps less than that. It was tremendously frightening. I was afraid to go to work. I work alone and have preferred to work alone for many years now. Suddenly working alone comes with added risks that will compound as time progresses. If you fall off of a ladder or spear yourself with a section of pipe because that muscle group or nerve system or other simply failed to respond to your intent you will have little to know time to call for help or bring or drag your frame to safety or at least the possibility of survival. Suddenly your chances of surviving that car accident or freak mechanical accident symptomatic of daily engagement with machines (the more you fly the more likely it is there will be an air catastrophe, but you can't be struck by a bolt out of the blue if you're thirty feet below ground) go down dramatically as you become more frail and susceptible. That's 100% out of your control
is what I realized. You cannot suddenly begin hiding inside of a padded safe with provisions and a supply of oxygen. Everyone dies. You will more than likely or at least even odds buy the farm by no fault of your own as much as genetics or intent or negligence once you pass 30. Every day you leave your house with a little less ability is one day slightly more dangerous than the last. So you will work yourself ragged to try to keep that fraction at zero, even Stevens. Every morning it will slip a little bit and you have to do a little bit more to push the numerator back over the denominator. It'll work for a while. In some cases a good long while until the growth in the denominator comes too fast and too regularly pinging and updating. When your body let's go, you can still just brute force the math and bend your own time and space to whatever you want to imagine it to be. The only reason why it will flex is because other people are leaping up and down and the fabric itself has grown so thin it can be distorted through pure force of will from either end of the spectrum of passions love and hate. Until the stitches sewn when you were born finally snap and every one on facebook wishes you a farewell.
I did get wrapped up in the narrative for a bit, you see why bridging 30 and taking time to throw a few stones skipped on the river is important to me. I'm not upset. I'm in love and scared and aware and dreaming all at once and I never want to leave that bridge. I haven't forgotten you. For many, though, it is true, I can be spoken with or to, but I cannot speak to you. On my birthdays I am reminded.
Let's put some Christmas lights on that.
///Kiln - "The Colorfreak" far enough away from aphex to call it's own
11/4/14
Breaking the Horse
Sometimes it feels as though I can do no right. What happened in my past lives to be cursed so? I lost a cat yesterday. I gave him everything he wanted. I gave him everything he needed and then some. It makes no sense. I can still feel him. I can still see bits of him in my vision. I can still smell him. His ears smelled like french toast sometimes. He was only about two years old. I have to remind myself that I didn't kill him. I wonder if I did perhaps by accident. I flushed my fish down the toilet a while back, but that was because I shouldn't have had them to begin with.
I thought I did pretty good with him. He was my chief officer on board my ship. The other guy was my first mate. The first mate has been promoted. I'm sure he didn't want to get his promotion that way. He keeps meowing constantly to call up the deceased. He doesn't understand that our chief officer is gone for good. I kind of don't understand it either. As soon as I touched him I knew he wasn't just sleeping. He was my cooking buddy. I'd meet him in the mess hall to talk about our course and how to squeeze a little more oomf out of the engines. He was my napping buddy too. My sleep in pal. He'd lay on my phone so I wouldn't have to hear it.
No, no, no, sweetie. Come back to me. I need you! My first mate needs you too. We had a good crew. Was the music too loud? Was the bass too heavy? Did I not keep the temperature high enough? I couldn't turn it up any higher. It made my nose bleed too much. What did I screw up? Who's going to wake me up in the morning now?
I thought about burning his body for a very long time. Give him up to the air and the stars. I'm giving him back to the city instead. It's where he came from. If I gave him to the stars, he wouldn't know what to do with himself. I am from there. He is not. He'll be home. I am glad our paths crossed. I do not know how to explain it to my first mate. If I spoke cat, I might be able to. I'm not sad. I am angry. Why didn't you tell me? Did you? Did I kill you? Involuntary manslaughter? Agent 001 Jack: K.I.A., Mr. Morton codename "Lauren": K.I.A., Chief Officer Torus: K.I.A., First Mate Boots "Hatswitch" Mustachio: T.B.D.
I am happy though. One of the last things I remember doing with him is letting him climb up my jean leg and hook his claws into my hoodie all the way up my back so he could get a good perch on my shoulder and ride around up there while I walked through the ship and pointed out the things he liked to sit on from the view of his colossus. We were a fabulous team. I thought we'd have more time to enjoy our voyage. He loved to sit in my lap while I wrote in my notebooks. He'd rub his face on the corners of the pages and make little wet nose prints on the backs of my hands and the paper.
Each week, each month, each year, I am trying to break the horse. I am trying to break myself and exercise control better than I did the year, the month, the week, before. Sometimes with success. Sometimes with failure. Some of the voices scream "somebody has to pay!!!" It is unreasonable. It is irrational. I want to cut you open so badly. I want to hook my hand into your mouth and press my fingertips underneath your tongue until the break through the skin behind your chin and rip as hard as I can and hear the sucking pop of your jaw breaking away from the rest of your skull and listen to you drown bleeding into your own esophagus. Somebody has to pay. I am trying to break that horse. I am trying not to hurt myself to show you what we want from you.
Happiness is fleeting. Pain endures. Pain is infectious as is happiness. I am not broken. I am tired of dealing with death. The horseman that rides with me. Our ghost army behind us. Having to continually modify not by choice, but necessity.
I know I have to use my words more. Not just more, but with greater frequency. I have to use art more to break the locks and the seizing to escape the killing fields. I have to pay more respect to the blast radius and recognize that it is not a game and if I take it too lightly, if I lull myself into believing it will sort itself out without careful and constant monitoring I will wake up too late and infection will spread far and wide defeating the entire purpose of closing the cycle of violence began a generation before my birth. I am trying to break myself. I am trying to limit myself. Meta-jail is real and I have to do my part too. You are there for a reason. You can manufacture happiness. The children are always present, do not listen to them, no matter what they say. While you've been ignoring it, the factory floor has been busy and now coming to that basement and seeing the stockpiles of things you only imagined existed my heart falls. Where the hell were you when the furnace fired again? Where the hell were you when the new blueprints were spread out and the flywheels started turning again? I tried. Try harder! This is not a game!
It is good that some mobility has been lost. There are those you cannot reach and it is good. It is important. Remember why you laugh, jackal. The freedoms you have were hard won, do not give them up easily. Do not give them up lazily. Take time. We have been patient and we will not shed it. A crew of two instead of three may not be so bad a thing as you imagine. The first mate will adjust and embrace his promotion, regardless of how it came about. Know that, do not say it, know it. You did not skin him. You do not wear him. He will be remembered. Bury the tools and keep an eye on us. I will. Somebody has to pay, but not today.
I took a long walk around the city. A very long walk. Control rage. You were born. Get over it. I was born on the twenty second of April in nineteen eighty five. Remember what you are doing. I was born into conflict. I was born into violence. I was born into love too. I was born onto a battlefield not of my own making and that is okay. That is alright. We learned, we grew, we got stronger, we learned how to kill and how to eat, how to feed ourselves, how to breath, how to hide, how to fight, how to see in the dark, how to trap, how to sleep, we learned and we grew. We learned our genealogy was a lost cause and our history before our time will never be mapped. We figured out the tree was a hangman's and the damage was already done well before we opened our eyes for the first time on Staten Island. We understood hunger and the sound of an empty stomach and the shiver. Do not forget the mission. Lay a road map for those that are coming after you are gone. Do not forget what it is you must fulfill. Even though your heart is kind of small you were built for something more. Embrace it. Learn the truth and love your life because you only get one shot at it.
Your shipmates will help you. Your inmates. Your internees. They will help you along the expedition through space and time. They are part of the fold, jackal. Use the words, not the weapons. The child will come and go. Supernature is simply part of the spectrum you were born with. They are not demons or angels or phantoms and errors. They are not only that, please stop crying sweetheart. You will die and you will take all of them with you and they will be gone for good too. That's okay. I don't know if Torus saw them too. I don't know if he felt them. I kissed him before I let him go. I rubbed his fur into my nostrils and ate some of his whiskers before I put him back in the trash where he came from. I hope you're happy you disparaged him saying he came from a dumpster. Pluto used to be a planet. We want to name a constellation after him.
I dislike my bad wiring so much. I know I cannot increase my strength, my power. I cannot be allowed to break down the electrified fences and razor wire atop. I cannot let it go. I cannot be allowed to make more money, it will turn into more combustion chambers, more cylinders, more lead, more trigger mechanisms, sights, and chemicals. More wires, dead man switches, boxes of nails and washers, nitrogen, ammonia, and springs. More casings and pellets and carpet knives. Bang on the left ear so it all falls out of the right ear. With greater knowledge comes greater responsibility and I am not sure I am to the task. We absolutely are. For the love of God, get the hell away from me.
Who massages your shoulders? Who plucks your eyelashes? Who sets your makeup? One gold tooth. Break that horse. Change those shoes. Wash those gloves. I need more power. No, you don't. I do! NO YOU DO NOT! Imagine the kingdom we could have. No. Do not lie to me. I am not lying.
I definitely wanted to become a musician. A composer. A librarian. To get lost in the stacks and get paid for it because alphabetical order never lies. Growing up, so many have lied to me. Washing dishes and playing the bubbles like a battlefield always put a smile on my face until standing on a milk crate on Brighton Avenue I heard them screaming at each other and I tried to wiggle my ears to remind them that I was standing there and they started to say he's listening and they took it upstairs, but I could still hear them. My nose is running again. No blood though, that's good. I haven't pissed blood in a while and that's good too. I know how it ends, I do. I am halfway home. Remind ourselves not to do anything stupid. Remind ourselves the visions are just that, visions only.
Time will fly and before we know it we'll be polishing my skull and looking at the healed fractures and running our fingertips over them like welds on an engine block trying to reverse engineer the forces and machines and hands that made them. Do you have a torque wrench? A shoeing hammer? An arc welder will do in a pinch. A continuous retrofitting. We were built for a war, but the war is over. It is not. We were built in war time and repurposed. Built not to feel. Built to not need to see. I got out. I got out. The horse must be broken. Distance must be kept. Do not lose heart. Finish the deal.
Enjoy the view from the edge of the arm of the Milky Way and do not curse Sol or Terra. Aboard the ship we are secure and secured. Take care of the equipment and don't stay long. Coexist. Someday you too will shut down, but understand there are many paths to that end and much to be explored before the channels go dead. Do not forget where you came from, do not be consumed by where you're going. I am not broken.
///Chairlift - "Guilty As Charged" ...footprints on the carpet....go on and punish me...
///El-P & Killer Mike - "Early"
I thought I did pretty good with him. He was my chief officer on board my ship. The other guy was my first mate. The first mate has been promoted. I'm sure he didn't want to get his promotion that way. He keeps meowing constantly to call up the deceased. He doesn't understand that our chief officer is gone for good. I kind of don't understand it either. As soon as I touched him I knew he wasn't just sleeping. He was my cooking buddy. I'd meet him in the mess hall to talk about our course and how to squeeze a little more oomf out of the engines. He was my napping buddy too. My sleep in pal. He'd lay on my phone so I wouldn't have to hear it.
No, no, no, sweetie. Come back to me. I need you! My first mate needs you too. We had a good crew. Was the music too loud? Was the bass too heavy? Did I not keep the temperature high enough? I couldn't turn it up any higher. It made my nose bleed too much. What did I screw up? Who's going to wake me up in the morning now?
I thought about burning his body for a very long time. Give him up to the air and the stars. I'm giving him back to the city instead. It's where he came from. If I gave him to the stars, he wouldn't know what to do with himself. I am from there. He is not. He'll be home. I am glad our paths crossed. I do not know how to explain it to my first mate. If I spoke cat, I might be able to. I'm not sad. I am angry. Why didn't you tell me? Did you? Did I kill you? Involuntary manslaughter? Agent 001 Jack: K.I.A., Mr. Morton codename "Lauren": K.I.A., Chief Officer Torus: K.I.A., First Mate Boots "Hatswitch" Mustachio: T.B.D.
I am happy though. One of the last things I remember doing with him is letting him climb up my jean leg and hook his claws into my hoodie all the way up my back so he could get a good perch on my shoulder and ride around up there while I walked through the ship and pointed out the things he liked to sit on from the view of his colossus. We were a fabulous team. I thought we'd have more time to enjoy our voyage. He loved to sit in my lap while I wrote in my notebooks. He'd rub his face on the corners of the pages and make little wet nose prints on the backs of my hands and the paper.
Each week, each month, each year, I am trying to break the horse. I am trying to break myself and exercise control better than I did the year, the month, the week, before. Sometimes with success. Sometimes with failure. Some of the voices scream "somebody has to pay!!!" It is unreasonable. It is irrational. I want to cut you open so badly. I want to hook my hand into your mouth and press my fingertips underneath your tongue until the break through the skin behind your chin and rip as hard as I can and hear the sucking pop of your jaw breaking away from the rest of your skull and listen to you drown bleeding into your own esophagus. Somebody has to pay. I am trying to break that horse. I am trying not to hurt myself to show you what we want from you.
Happiness is fleeting. Pain endures. Pain is infectious as is happiness. I am not broken. I am tired of dealing with death. The horseman that rides with me. Our ghost army behind us. Having to continually modify not by choice, but necessity.
I know I have to use my words more. Not just more, but with greater frequency. I have to use art more to break the locks and the seizing to escape the killing fields. I have to pay more respect to the blast radius and recognize that it is not a game and if I take it too lightly, if I lull myself into believing it will sort itself out without careful and constant monitoring I will wake up too late and infection will spread far and wide defeating the entire purpose of closing the cycle of violence began a generation before my birth. I am trying to break myself. I am trying to limit myself. Meta-jail is real and I have to do my part too. You are there for a reason. You can manufacture happiness. The children are always present, do not listen to them, no matter what they say. While you've been ignoring it, the factory floor has been busy and now coming to that basement and seeing the stockpiles of things you only imagined existed my heart falls. Where the hell were you when the furnace fired again? Where the hell were you when the new blueprints were spread out and the flywheels started turning again? I tried. Try harder! This is not a game!
It is good that some mobility has been lost. There are those you cannot reach and it is good. It is important. Remember why you laugh, jackal. The freedoms you have were hard won, do not give them up easily. Do not give them up lazily. Take time. We have been patient and we will not shed it. A crew of two instead of three may not be so bad a thing as you imagine. The first mate will adjust and embrace his promotion, regardless of how it came about. Know that, do not say it, know it. You did not skin him. You do not wear him. He will be remembered. Bury the tools and keep an eye on us. I will. Somebody has to pay, but not today.
I took a long walk around the city. A very long walk. Control rage. You were born. Get over it. I was born on the twenty second of April in nineteen eighty five. Remember what you are doing. I was born into conflict. I was born into violence. I was born into love too. I was born onto a battlefield not of my own making and that is okay. That is alright. We learned, we grew, we got stronger, we learned how to kill and how to eat, how to feed ourselves, how to breath, how to hide, how to fight, how to see in the dark, how to trap, how to sleep, we learned and we grew. We learned our genealogy was a lost cause and our history before our time will never be mapped. We figured out the tree was a hangman's and the damage was already done well before we opened our eyes for the first time on Staten Island. We understood hunger and the sound of an empty stomach and the shiver. Do not forget the mission. Lay a road map for those that are coming after you are gone. Do not forget what it is you must fulfill. Even though your heart is kind of small you were built for something more. Embrace it. Learn the truth and love your life because you only get one shot at it.
Your shipmates will help you. Your inmates. Your internees. They will help you along the expedition through space and time. They are part of the fold, jackal. Use the words, not the weapons. The child will come and go. Supernature is simply part of the spectrum you were born with. They are not demons or angels or phantoms and errors. They are not only that, please stop crying sweetheart. You will die and you will take all of them with you and they will be gone for good too. That's okay. I don't know if Torus saw them too. I don't know if he felt them. I kissed him before I let him go. I rubbed his fur into my nostrils and ate some of his whiskers before I put him back in the trash where he came from. I hope you're happy you disparaged him saying he came from a dumpster. Pluto used to be a planet. We want to name a constellation after him.
I dislike my bad wiring so much. I know I cannot increase my strength, my power. I cannot be allowed to break down the electrified fences and razor wire atop. I cannot let it go. I cannot be allowed to make more money, it will turn into more combustion chambers, more cylinders, more lead, more trigger mechanisms, sights, and chemicals. More wires, dead man switches, boxes of nails and washers, nitrogen, ammonia, and springs. More casings and pellets and carpet knives. Bang on the left ear so it all falls out of the right ear. With greater knowledge comes greater responsibility and I am not sure I am to the task. We absolutely are. For the love of God, get the hell away from me.
Who massages your shoulders? Who plucks your eyelashes? Who sets your makeup? One gold tooth. Break that horse. Change those shoes. Wash those gloves. I need more power. No, you don't. I do! NO YOU DO NOT! Imagine the kingdom we could have. No. Do not lie to me. I am not lying.
I definitely wanted to become a musician. A composer. A librarian. To get lost in the stacks and get paid for it because alphabetical order never lies. Growing up, so many have lied to me. Washing dishes and playing the bubbles like a battlefield always put a smile on my face until standing on a milk crate on Brighton Avenue I heard them screaming at each other and I tried to wiggle my ears to remind them that I was standing there and they started to say he's listening and they took it upstairs, but I could still hear them. My nose is running again. No blood though, that's good. I haven't pissed blood in a while and that's good too. I know how it ends, I do. I am halfway home. Remind ourselves not to do anything stupid. Remind ourselves the visions are just that, visions only.
Time will fly and before we know it we'll be polishing my skull and looking at the healed fractures and running our fingertips over them like welds on an engine block trying to reverse engineer the forces and machines and hands that made them. Do you have a torque wrench? A shoeing hammer? An arc welder will do in a pinch. A continuous retrofitting. We were built for a war, but the war is over. It is not. We were built in war time and repurposed. Built not to feel. Built to not need to see. I got out. I got out. The horse must be broken. Distance must be kept. Do not lose heart. Finish the deal.
Enjoy the view from the edge of the arm of the Milky Way and do not curse Sol or Terra. Aboard the ship we are secure and secured. Take care of the equipment and don't stay long. Coexist. Someday you too will shut down, but understand there are many paths to that end and much to be explored before the channels go dead. Do not forget where you came from, do not be consumed by where you're going. I am not broken.
///Chairlift - "Guilty As Charged" ...footprints on the carpet....go on and punish me...
///El-P & Killer Mike - "Early"
11/23/11
Why I Hate Coldplay and then Compliments Addressed, the Silence, Birthdays, Ant Eaters
So today is exactly my 43rd birthday in the 26th iteration of my life. Not much bang, but there's not much buck, and, to be honest, how many knife fights with prostitutes is too much? The answer is one. One knife fight with anyone is probably too many. So I'm taking it on a lower key. Partially because I've had enough near death scrapes to make a fine scrap book of uniform crime reports and scars and partially because it sneaked up on me like a cat to a laser pointer's beam. I already had a midlife crisis. I'm still bouncing back from that. And to top it off, my latest scrape with my old friend was less of a scrape and more of a Houdini "how-the-hell-am-I-not-at-least-crippled-from-the-waist-down" kind of event and I'm not clapping my hands for an immediate encore.
43 feels the same as 42. The same as 41. Once you get over the major obstacle of realizing it's half over for all you have to offer, the rest is gravy. Things have been pleasantly silent. But I've been doing a lot of work to make it happen. Soused? Sometimes. The best thing about it is not the damage. Is not even the shortened life span, because I know I will pay for palatable living eventually, be it a massive med crash or the nick and chip of the slower knives offered by off the shelf substances, because all in all the final tally will sort itself out such that you cut years off the suffering (albeit by dying). The best thing about it is the silence. The knowing that you and only you are all present and mostly accounted for. That when people ask what you want to do, only one hand goes up in your head. When you ask yourself what to do next you hear one maybe two voices instead of ten.
I am still an anteater (fuck you). What I've also realized in the words of the illustrious coach Mike Tomlin is that the standard is the standard. I've been imagining Mike Tomlin covering my exploits in a post game/post week/post month press conference. He would probably say something like "an anteater is an anteater is an anteater. If we are anteaters it will show up on film and that film is our resume. Our resume speaks for itself. You either are an anteater or you aren't. There is no middle ground and when we can be anteaters it will show up in the work that we do." But I don't get press conference coverage. Or have coaches like Mike Tomlin, so I basically just tell myself when I don't get the outcome of my action 'dude, you're an anteater, what the hell did you think would happen?"
The silence has been nice though. I've been hanging the back end out there for almost too long though. Too many g's against tires whose grip I can never trust and part of me is waiting for the rubber to dissolve into the cloud of white smoke trumpeting from the rims for the naked rim to bite the asphalt like a starved dragon and flip my whole contraption so many times I'll be reduced to chunky tomato paste by the time it comes to halt on it's crumpled roof atop a sea of pelletized glass and unkempt infield next to the red and white rumble strips marking the path to the apex I should have targeted along the optimal path I could have taken had I the wiring and the vision and the opportunity to do so. So I enjoy the silence and try not to burn the envelope already torn to shreds back in high school when I realized my contents were not the sort of things that the postal service accepted as mail-able, transferable, items without special postage and allowances.
I did, however, receive a complement the other day from an older woman. It wasn't at all creepy. Not like the time I was walking back from the south side because the buses stopped running and I stopped at a bus stop just to read the schedule and make doubly sure and an old man who looked like Morgan Freeman after a bad Vegas weekend bender told me I was cute. That was creepy as hell. Plus I didn't know I was gay at the time so it was creepy and offensive and if I wasn't in a rush to rescue a friend from the clutches of a bad decision, but probably playing into her demand for a declaration of dedicated-ness by crossing town to get her, I probably would have stopped longer and been like "well, what the fuck is that supposed to mean, asshole?"
But anyway, I got a complement from an older lady the other day. She said I had a great smile. Now I have a prominent scar on my face that gashes from my eyebrow, down my cheek, and ends where my beard starts. I have a badly chipped front tooth from taking a dive onto cement. I have another scar from years ago where I took a similar dive, but broke my fall with my orbital bone instead of my mouth. And I have another set of scars from various head butts and several attempts to jump through a hallway's drywall ceiling. To have her see through that to that genuine grin she yanked out of me with her humor and honesty was touching. Because I mean she's got to be pushing 70, so she's seen her share of great smiles over the decades.
What was really touching about it is everyone says you're one in a million. That kind of phrasology, that kind of thought process, basically fires across the deck and no one blinks an eye. No one changes course. No one stands up and says "dear god, you are absolutely right! I must be wholly unique to this planet!" At least no one with half an ounce of sense. To believe that if you were able to gather together one million people, not a single one would have 99% of your interests, foibles, ticks, obsessions, addictions, and deficiencies in common is to be utterly blind to the simple fact that there are only so many configurations of expressibles. What differentiates then is the physical. That's what really makes you unique. So to have her say, whether true or not, off hand or not, that my smile sticks out in her nearly 7 decade long memory was totally awesome. It had me glowing while we made small talk. By the time she sauntered off I wondered if we would have gotten along just as well had she been 26 too, or if I'm the kind of person lovable only over fantastic spans of time and space.
Which is why I hate Coldplay. Not directly why. I hate Coldplay for the handful of fantastically cogent songs they've made. The songs that express the things people feel with uncanny accuracy, levity, and genius song writing. I hate Coldplay because I love their album with the figure of the guy with his head blown off on the cover, but I can't listen to it because of one song called The Scientist because the memories it brings back are still so raw and it describes those memories, the end of the formation of new memories just as good, with an intensity that is horrifically accurate it's like trying to sit down to a Rescue 911 marathon without a vomit bag for the blood, guts, bones, tears, and anguish you are about to see. It's not meant as a slight to them. it's good for them. Good for them for crafting something so intense. Good for them for wading through their own noise to get to the deep water. I guess I'm still doing that in many ways across several subjects. Assuming I don't drown first, but I'll keep kicking.
///Coldplay - "The Scientist" its not melodramatic. you have to put aside some of the common elements of regret to digest it, but those elements are, thankfully, few. but it speaks stories of information where so much pop is a glorified fragment blown out of proportion, chopped, and hashed with tons of loops and over production to fill the passage of time. ...going back to the start...
43 feels the same as 42. The same as 41. Once you get over the major obstacle of realizing it's half over for all you have to offer, the rest is gravy. Things have been pleasantly silent. But I've been doing a lot of work to make it happen. Soused? Sometimes. The best thing about it is not the damage. Is not even the shortened life span, because I know I will pay for palatable living eventually, be it a massive med crash or the nick and chip of the slower knives offered by off the shelf substances, because all in all the final tally will sort itself out such that you cut years off the suffering (albeit by dying). The best thing about it is the silence. The knowing that you and only you are all present and mostly accounted for. That when people ask what you want to do, only one hand goes up in your head. When you ask yourself what to do next you hear one maybe two voices instead of ten.
I am still an anteater (fuck you). What I've also realized in the words of the illustrious coach Mike Tomlin is that the standard is the standard. I've been imagining Mike Tomlin covering my exploits in a post game/post week/post month press conference. He would probably say something like "an anteater is an anteater is an anteater. If we are anteaters it will show up on film and that film is our resume. Our resume speaks for itself. You either are an anteater or you aren't. There is no middle ground and when we can be anteaters it will show up in the work that we do." But I don't get press conference coverage. Or have coaches like Mike Tomlin, so I basically just tell myself when I don't get the outcome of my action 'dude, you're an anteater, what the hell did you think would happen?"
The silence has been nice though. I've been hanging the back end out there for almost too long though. Too many g's against tires whose grip I can never trust and part of me is waiting for the rubber to dissolve into the cloud of white smoke trumpeting from the rims for the naked rim to bite the asphalt like a starved dragon and flip my whole contraption so many times I'll be reduced to chunky tomato paste by the time it comes to halt on it's crumpled roof atop a sea of pelletized glass and unkempt infield next to the red and white rumble strips marking the path to the apex I should have targeted along the optimal path I could have taken had I the wiring and the vision and the opportunity to do so. So I enjoy the silence and try not to burn the envelope already torn to shreds back in high school when I realized my contents were not the sort of things that the postal service accepted as mail-able, transferable, items without special postage and allowances.
I did, however, receive a complement the other day from an older woman. It wasn't at all creepy. Not like the time I was walking back from the south side because the buses stopped running and I stopped at a bus stop just to read the schedule and make doubly sure and an old man who looked like Morgan Freeman after a bad Vegas weekend bender told me I was cute. That was creepy as hell. Plus I didn't know I was gay at the time so it was creepy and offensive and if I wasn't in a rush to rescue a friend from the clutches of a bad decision, but probably playing into her demand for a declaration of dedicated-ness by crossing town to get her, I probably would have stopped longer and been like "well, what the fuck is that supposed to mean, asshole?"
But anyway, I got a complement from an older lady the other day. She said I had a great smile. Now I have a prominent scar on my face that gashes from my eyebrow, down my cheek, and ends where my beard starts. I have a badly chipped front tooth from taking a dive onto cement. I have another scar from years ago where I took a similar dive, but broke my fall with my orbital bone instead of my mouth. And I have another set of scars from various head butts and several attempts to jump through a hallway's drywall ceiling. To have her see through that to that genuine grin she yanked out of me with her humor and honesty was touching. Because I mean she's got to be pushing 70, so she's seen her share of great smiles over the decades.
What was really touching about it is everyone says you're one in a million. That kind of phrasology, that kind of thought process, basically fires across the deck and no one blinks an eye. No one changes course. No one stands up and says "dear god, you are absolutely right! I must be wholly unique to this planet!" At least no one with half an ounce of sense. To believe that if you were able to gather together one million people, not a single one would have 99% of your interests, foibles, ticks, obsessions, addictions, and deficiencies in common is to be utterly blind to the simple fact that there are only so many configurations of expressibles. What differentiates then is the physical. That's what really makes you unique. So to have her say, whether true or not, off hand or not, that my smile sticks out in her nearly 7 decade long memory was totally awesome. It had me glowing while we made small talk. By the time she sauntered off I wondered if we would have gotten along just as well had she been 26 too, or if I'm the kind of person lovable only over fantastic spans of time and space.
Which is why I hate Coldplay. Not directly why. I hate Coldplay for the handful of fantastically cogent songs they've made. The songs that express the things people feel with uncanny accuracy, levity, and genius song writing. I hate Coldplay because I love their album with the figure of the guy with his head blown off on the cover, but I can't listen to it because of one song called The Scientist because the memories it brings back are still so raw and it describes those memories, the end of the formation of new memories just as good, with an intensity that is horrifically accurate it's like trying to sit down to a Rescue 911 marathon without a vomit bag for the blood, guts, bones, tears, and anguish you are about to see. It's not meant as a slight to them. it's good for them. Good for them for crafting something so intense. Good for them for wading through their own noise to get to the deep water. I guess I'm still doing that in many ways across several subjects. Assuming I don't drown first, but I'll keep kicking.
///Coldplay - "The Scientist" its not melodramatic. you have to put aside some of the common elements of regret to digest it, but those elements are, thankfully, few. but it speaks stories of information where so much pop is a glorified fragment blown out of proportion, chopped, and hashed with tons of loops and over production to fill the passage of time. ...going back to the start...
4/19/11
Under Consideration and Lesser Titles for Greater Things
Having experienced various points of system shock through various psychological breaking points over the last five days there are so many facets of existence to consider. I guess first and foremost is the relationship between- brake fail. Entry point. New thread. Same thread. If I want to enter into steady state society, contiguous existence, beyond the high speed passes, lower the charge without damaging consciousness- skip break. how far can you go. how far are you willing to go to make sure you don't die alone. Found it.
The hole. If the break cannot be controlled and it has been demonstrated that the entry points are getting. Growing in number beyond traceability to a point of trustlessness and protection to enter to ask. We already know we can't ask without. The offer is real isn't it? Standing for the claimant. The ability. To reject the known for the unknown again. To start it over. We did it for her once. For both her and us and now we face ourselves and potentially the division from. And entry into not just the hole, but what lives inside.
I'd forgotten what great company was. For some time. I thought I understood to an extent. And the reality apart from the extent of understanding was more incredible. More fantastic than I could have hoped. I've heard that heaven's gonna burn your eyes, but I didn't believe it. The noises were amazing. Would we still feel it inside. Could we know it if we did.
I'm trying to reconstruct the memories. They are without sensations. The ones from that earlier time and rocky trial of prescriptions. Disconcerting eveness. All things advance. Could it really be any different from the functional calls to operations and sectional being. Yes. It would have to be. Out of the reason that the responses are all. Why not have access to. that's part of the issue. The access is cut apart. But how badly do you not want to die alone. And there's the fear that comes without description. Because there is no description for what exists apart from the ability to describe. But released from what can be described and known though invisible artifacts of the corrupted and tuned highly tuned circuit. Facing a way. A way in. A way out. A way in. To become less and a part of.
So we'll walk into it. And find what has been seen. And see it again. Charting space and spaces. We'll see what happens through this week. Thursday and straight on till morning. Not goodbye. An extended hello. To further modification. Answers. A heaven that will burn your eyes. A start of beginnings. That are loops and waves. On our insides drawing together divisions. Of necessity and being. It will throw our ways. I'll catch you yet. And maybe there really is nothing inside of that hole anymore. Or maybe the only way to deal with it is entry into. We'll find what lies and lower the charge and enter into the gravity of society. Space is just too cold. So I've learned. And it's taken loss to unravel that concept. I'll catch you if you'll wait for me. I don't like to promise much, but just don't leave too soon. I'm gonna drive it straight into the atmosphere. The flames will be gorgeous, but by the time my wheels touch the ground the tiles and plates and cooling vents will be easy on the eyes and ears and to the touch. The runway's not as long as it used to be. I didn't pack a chute when I left.
///Thievery Corporation - "Heaven's Gonna Burn Your Eyes" ...you can't be afraid forever... so I'm going to try a different way to be brave and maybe there will be a hero's welcome yet. Don't wish us luck. Save it for the day I shake your hand. That's when I'll need it. And we'll sit down with some coffee and I can tell you all about where the fuck I've really been and maybe there'll still be something left behind my eyes familiar to you and we both.
The hole. If the break cannot be controlled and it has been demonstrated that the entry points are getting. Growing in number beyond traceability to a point of trustlessness and protection to enter to ask. We already know we can't ask without. The offer is real isn't it? Standing for the claimant. The ability. To reject the known for the unknown again. To start it over. We did it for her once. For both her and us and now we face ourselves and potentially the division from. And entry into not just the hole, but what lives inside.
I'd forgotten what great company was. For some time. I thought I understood to an extent. And the reality apart from the extent of understanding was more incredible. More fantastic than I could have hoped. I've heard that heaven's gonna burn your eyes, but I didn't believe it. The noises were amazing. Would we still feel it inside. Could we know it if we did.
I'm trying to reconstruct the memories. They are without sensations. The ones from that earlier time and rocky trial of prescriptions. Disconcerting eveness. All things advance. Could it really be any different from the functional calls to operations and sectional being. Yes. It would have to be. Out of the reason that the responses are all. Why not have access to. that's part of the issue. The access is cut apart. But how badly do you not want to die alone. And there's the fear that comes without description. Because there is no description for what exists apart from the ability to describe. But released from what can be described and known though invisible artifacts of the corrupted and tuned highly tuned circuit. Facing a way. A way in. A way out. A way in. To become less and a part of.
So we'll walk into it. And find what has been seen. And see it again. Charting space and spaces. We'll see what happens through this week. Thursday and straight on till morning. Not goodbye. An extended hello. To further modification. Answers. A heaven that will burn your eyes. A start of beginnings. That are loops and waves. On our insides drawing together divisions. Of necessity and being. It will throw our ways. I'll catch you yet. And maybe there really is nothing inside of that hole anymore. Or maybe the only way to deal with it is entry into. We'll find what lies and lower the charge and enter into the gravity of society. Space is just too cold. So I've learned. And it's taken loss to unravel that concept. I'll catch you if you'll wait for me. I don't like to promise much, but just don't leave too soon. I'm gonna drive it straight into the atmosphere. The flames will be gorgeous, but by the time my wheels touch the ground the tiles and plates and cooling vents will be easy on the eyes and ears and to the touch. The runway's not as long as it used to be. I didn't pack a chute when I left.
///Thievery Corporation - "Heaven's Gonna Burn Your Eyes" ...you can't be afraid forever... so I'm going to try a different way to be brave and maybe there will be a hero's welcome yet. Don't wish us luck. Save it for the day I shake your hand. That's when I'll need it. And we'll sit down with some coffee and I can tell you all about where the fuck I've really been and maybe there'll still be something left behind my eyes familiar to you and we both.
3/30/11
Trying Hard
I'm sorry, I meant to meet up with you sooner, but there have been obstacles. Tough ones. Familiar ones. Unfamiliar ones. It's been very difficult to relate to other human beings on the simplest terms of things that should be universally understood except that when I make the calls to those things there is nothing more than empty drawers and dead lines. The ringing is back. I must have spent a solid twenty minutes looking for a telephone in my bedroom before it occurred to me that I keep my phone on silent. Then I went out into the hallway. As soon as I touched the door knob it stopped. As soon as I went back inside it started again so I went to bed. Then I woke up to the sound of my phone ringing with it's single beep (the beep it makes when it's set to silent). Fourteen times today and not once was it actually going off. And then the name calling started and stopped and started again. No one in my building knows my name. I know their voices though and no one in my building has a single one of those voices.
I've been trying to eat, but it's horrible. Ridiculous stomach clenching anxiety. And then the sounds my body makes while it's digesting. And then feeling like any second it's all going to come straight back up. It's hard to deal with. It felt like it was all control. All I had to do was keep my fingers on my head functions and the rest was easy and now even with that awareness the rest rips away like a table cloth in the hands of a retarded magician and sends it all to pieces on the floor. It was a nice sunny day. I tried to go outside. I really did. I got so far as putting on a sweater before I had to take it all off and start over again. I didn't do it right. And then it was dark outside, but the bus stops were all full of people and I can't go out like that. Not with them there.
What is there to be afraid of? What is there to be afraid of? I don't know, but it's fucking there. I've been trying to fight sleep, but it's the only place I know and feel secure in. When I'm sleeping I don't have to eat anything. I don't have to go outside like here. I don't have to hear my voice talk. I don't have to hear their voices talk. I don't have to hear at all. I don't have to rely on my stupid eyes. Just hearing the neighbors talking through the walls, apart from the untrue voices, made my head feel like it was busting like glass in a poorly packed cardboard box. Everything is people. I'm so fucking nerve wrecked at work because I have to keep checking to make sure I'm not being watched. I don't have anything to hide, but I'll be damned if they think they can hunt me like some oblivious dog. They think I don't know, but I do.
There were keys in my door locks earlier today. I thought my chest was going to cave in on itself listening to the locks open and the door swing, but I got up anyway to face it. There was nothing there. Not at my door or the neighbor's door. Still scared the living shit out of me. I don't understand where it's all coming from. I just want to go to bed and not have to be awake anymore. Whatever it is I want it to come kill me already. How long is this chase supposed to go before it's over?
A friend of mine passed away recently. Maybe that's what's eating up my control. I hate myself for a lot of reasons, but mostly for not being more accessible. I don't know how to fix that. I can't make people want to spend time with me in the same way I want to spend time with them. Who want's to hang out with a fucking retarded person who can't talk straight and who, when he can put words together out of his mouth, can't relate complete ideas the few times there are complete ideas to relate? I wouldn't. It's not about being normal or not. It's just massively frustrating. I would ask what is wrong with me, but I already know what's fucking wrong with me. And I feel selfish for even wishing he'd gone farther out of his way to hang out. That's simply ridiculous. I am the seldom seen fucked up individual with the bad history and the not so great outlook and why the fuck am I licking my own perpetual gashes...I don't know. I want the spit to make me better, and it doesn't. I don't miss him so much as I miss the him that everyone else got to know and that fills me with so much fucking rage.
And I can't even grieve properly because trying to focus in on the meaning of his absence is like trying to fire a gun from the rocking deck of a vessel burning and sinking at a target so far distant I can barely see it clearly. I'm sorry. I just can't put it together. I'm slapping the god damn pieces back on and more fall off and the whole thing is functioning if only just. The closest thing to a functioning family and I'm so far out of the loop out of necessity. I'm just trying hard. I'm trying hard not to lose all grip, but it makes me so fucking tired. I still have so much left to do. I just have to gut it out. And if that means screaming into a balled up sweater for minutes or hours till the shit turns off then fine. If that means locking myself away safe for days or diving into the safety of unconsciousness for 13 hours then fine. Not fine. It's not okay. I'm sick of telling people it's fine. But, I have to wear that. I've already learned once that it's unreasonable to share this with people. I guess that's why I've been dodging you for so long. It takes a lot to get up everyday and it's completely unfair, just wrong, to spread the dysfunction. He should still be here. I guess, more than anything else, my life is committed to ending it's proliferation. I should not be here. And the means to that end is also this blueprint to understanding why that has to be so.
///Morcheeba - "Diggin' a Watery Grave" ...not all at once
I've been trying to eat, but it's horrible. Ridiculous stomach clenching anxiety. And then the sounds my body makes while it's digesting. And then feeling like any second it's all going to come straight back up. It's hard to deal with. It felt like it was all control. All I had to do was keep my fingers on my head functions and the rest was easy and now even with that awareness the rest rips away like a table cloth in the hands of a retarded magician and sends it all to pieces on the floor. It was a nice sunny day. I tried to go outside. I really did. I got so far as putting on a sweater before I had to take it all off and start over again. I didn't do it right. And then it was dark outside, but the bus stops were all full of people and I can't go out like that. Not with them there.
What is there to be afraid of? What is there to be afraid of? I don't know, but it's fucking there. I've been trying to fight sleep, but it's the only place I know and feel secure in. When I'm sleeping I don't have to eat anything. I don't have to go outside like here. I don't have to hear my voice talk. I don't have to hear their voices talk. I don't have to hear at all. I don't have to rely on my stupid eyes. Just hearing the neighbors talking through the walls, apart from the untrue voices, made my head feel like it was busting like glass in a poorly packed cardboard box. Everything is people. I'm so fucking nerve wrecked at work because I have to keep checking to make sure I'm not being watched. I don't have anything to hide, but I'll be damned if they think they can hunt me like some oblivious dog. They think I don't know, but I do.
There were keys in my door locks earlier today. I thought my chest was going to cave in on itself listening to the locks open and the door swing, but I got up anyway to face it. There was nothing there. Not at my door or the neighbor's door. Still scared the living shit out of me. I don't understand where it's all coming from. I just want to go to bed and not have to be awake anymore. Whatever it is I want it to come kill me already. How long is this chase supposed to go before it's over?
A friend of mine passed away recently. Maybe that's what's eating up my control. I hate myself for a lot of reasons, but mostly for not being more accessible. I don't know how to fix that. I can't make people want to spend time with me in the same way I want to spend time with them. Who want's to hang out with a fucking retarded person who can't talk straight and who, when he can put words together out of his mouth, can't relate complete ideas the few times there are complete ideas to relate? I wouldn't. It's not about being normal or not. It's just massively frustrating. I would ask what is wrong with me, but I already know what's fucking wrong with me. And I feel selfish for even wishing he'd gone farther out of his way to hang out. That's simply ridiculous. I am the seldom seen fucked up individual with the bad history and the not so great outlook and why the fuck am I licking my own perpetual gashes...I don't know. I want the spit to make me better, and it doesn't. I don't miss him so much as I miss the him that everyone else got to know and that fills me with so much fucking rage.
And I can't even grieve properly because trying to focus in on the meaning of his absence is like trying to fire a gun from the rocking deck of a vessel burning and sinking at a target so far distant I can barely see it clearly. I'm sorry. I just can't put it together. I'm slapping the god damn pieces back on and more fall off and the whole thing is functioning if only just. The closest thing to a functioning family and I'm so far out of the loop out of necessity. I'm just trying hard. I'm trying hard not to lose all grip, but it makes me so fucking tired. I still have so much left to do. I just have to gut it out. And if that means screaming into a balled up sweater for minutes or hours till the shit turns off then fine. If that means locking myself away safe for days or diving into the safety of unconsciousness for 13 hours then fine. Not fine. It's not okay. I'm sick of telling people it's fine. But, I have to wear that. I've already learned once that it's unreasonable to share this with people. I guess that's why I've been dodging you for so long. It takes a lot to get up everyday and it's completely unfair, just wrong, to spread the dysfunction. He should still be here. I guess, more than anything else, my life is committed to ending it's proliferation. I should not be here. And the means to that end is also this blueprint to understanding why that has to be so.
///Morcheeba - "Diggin' a Watery Grave" ...not all at once
11/9/10
Higher Resolutions
I've started this on four separate occasions and every time I've tried to get this down it has come apart in my fingers like tissue paper in a squall.
In an effort to raise the resolution of my waking life I'm cutting some things out that were essential to a life with clear boundaries. Higher resolution will mean the destruction of the bridge as much as I've loved it.
And now everything that I was going to write about why I came to the conclusion that my waking life was too far out of resolution is being called into question because there really was nothing wrong with it beyond health concerns? I guess. I don't think my extremities have been holding heat all that well. Probably a circulation thing. Random shoulder pain like pinched nerves. And pain whenever I breathed. So I guess that's pretty much it. Otherwise it's been perfect. A perfect separation of faith and solid state. Two land masses and a definite bridge I can cross at will. What more could a person want?
Not much, I don't think. So the thing is, I guess, I have to choose between a slow-ish death with a flux capacitor or the unpredictability of an unmediated existence. Which do I hate more? Hard to say. There were several days when I felt like my liver was climbing up through my throat and tearing my kidneys out with it and that pain was real and describable and diagnosable. There were several days before that, however, when the only logical solutions to the anxiety and rage and hallucinations involved jamming a pen knife up my nose until it cut through my frontal lobes and bricked my brain entirely. One costs money. Not as much as pills, but money none the less. The other is free.
So I'm going the free route. Partially because I have to, but also because my body hurts and I'll just have to suck up the turbulence associated with - lost it again.
It's like a light switch turning off. Clarity. Sanity. I don't want higher resolution. Things make less and less sense the clearer they become and I don't know if I can take it. I'm afraid of it. I'm terrified of it. I don't want to be conscious of time. I don't want to know the seconds and the minutes. If I let up on the gas and stop tearing through these wilderness roads without a map or a dog I'll start to see and feel the things between the trees that would snap my femur in their jaws like a finger in a car door and I already know what's there and I don't need to find out. People talk about stopping to smell roses and things and I don't need to. Maybe they do, but there aren't things out there trying to kill them.
I've liked the balance. Sure it's come at a cost, but that cost is unavoidable whether I'm paying out of life span or paying out of wallet. I don't want to hear the whispers in the trees. I want it to fade. I don't want to manage the caucus and round up the bits and pieces and make sure everything's working together and with the usury I didn't even have to think about it. It's all clawing back and it's like ... I don't want this. That's all. I don't want this, but in this world this is the ground state. Low resolution let's me look straight through it and even forget where and when I'm standing altogether. It's not a pain killer as much as it is a liberator or an oxygen mask in an ocean of shifting and violent shapes. So much maintenance. Higher resolution means going back to a life geared toward maintenance instead of geared toward being. I don't want that.
I guess I envy the people can simply wake up and be and never have to think about. Do other people have to deal with this stuff? Maybe that'll be me. I know it won't, but it's fun to say. No, it's not even fun to say. Some people dream about being rich or famous. These days I just dream about normalcy. I'm not different. I'm not special. There's nothing magical or glossy. I'm just damaged, and it takes so much work to get back to zero everyday only to wake up in the red in so many ways every day thereafter. Yes it can be spun and bright spots found, but to hang onto those requires so steep a reduction in resolution as to make life beyond stupid bliss unmanageable.
I want out. Maybe out will mean nothing, but how long is long enough? 25 years. 26 years. 40 years. How long do I have to search for a solution to this thing. How long do I have to spend looking for a way to understand how to interact with this world in a way that can make sense from one set of hours to the next or looking for ways to explain the decoupling of emotion, and action, and laughter, and violence, from reason or explain the terrors of things people call imaginary and hallucinations, but are sometimes real as sunlight in my eyes. I just want out, but I'm forced instead into higher resolutions.
Sorry for the ramble. Maybe it'll make sense years from now. Minutes from now. What's the difference really?
///Mum - "They Made Frogs Smoke 'Til They Exploded"
In an effort to raise the resolution of my waking life I'm cutting some things out that were essential to a life with clear boundaries. Higher resolution will mean the destruction of the bridge as much as I've loved it.
And now everything that I was going to write about why I came to the conclusion that my waking life was too far out of resolution is being called into question because there really was nothing wrong with it beyond health concerns? I guess. I don't think my extremities have been holding heat all that well. Probably a circulation thing. Random shoulder pain like pinched nerves. And pain whenever I breathed. So I guess that's pretty much it. Otherwise it's been perfect. A perfect separation of faith and solid state. Two land masses and a definite bridge I can cross at will. What more could a person want?
Not much, I don't think. So the thing is, I guess, I have to choose between a slow-ish death with a flux capacitor or the unpredictability of an unmediated existence. Which do I hate more? Hard to say. There were several days when I felt like my liver was climbing up through my throat and tearing my kidneys out with it and that pain was real and describable and diagnosable. There were several days before that, however, when the only logical solutions to the anxiety and rage and hallucinations involved jamming a pen knife up my nose until it cut through my frontal lobes and bricked my brain entirely. One costs money. Not as much as pills, but money none the less. The other is free.
So I'm going the free route. Partially because I have to, but also because my body hurts and I'll just have to suck up the turbulence associated with - lost it again.
It's like a light switch turning off. Clarity. Sanity. I don't want higher resolution. Things make less and less sense the clearer they become and I don't know if I can take it. I'm afraid of it. I'm terrified of it. I don't want to be conscious of time. I don't want to know the seconds and the minutes. If I let up on the gas and stop tearing through these wilderness roads without a map or a dog I'll start to see and feel the things between the trees that would snap my femur in their jaws like a finger in a car door and I already know what's there and I don't need to find out. People talk about stopping to smell roses and things and I don't need to. Maybe they do, but there aren't things out there trying to kill them.
I've liked the balance. Sure it's come at a cost, but that cost is unavoidable whether I'm paying out of life span or paying out of wallet. I don't want to hear the whispers in the trees. I want it to fade. I don't want to manage the caucus and round up the bits and pieces and make sure everything's working together and with the usury I didn't even have to think about it. It's all clawing back and it's like ... I don't want this. That's all. I don't want this, but in this world this is the ground state. Low resolution let's me look straight through it and even forget where and when I'm standing altogether. It's not a pain killer as much as it is a liberator or an oxygen mask in an ocean of shifting and violent shapes. So much maintenance. Higher resolution means going back to a life geared toward maintenance instead of geared toward being. I don't want that.
I guess I envy the people can simply wake up and be and never have to think about. Do other people have to deal with this stuff? Maybe that'll be me. I know it won't, but it's fun to say. No, it's not even fun to say. Some people dream about being rich or famous. These days I just dream about normalcy. I'm not different. I'm not special. There's nothing magical or glossy. I'm just damaged, and it takes so much work to get back to zero everyday only to wake up in the red in so many ways every day thereafter. Yes it can be spun and bright spots found, but to hang onto those requires so steep a reduction in resolution as to make life beyond stupid bliss unmanageable.
I want out. Maybe out will mean nothing, but how long is long enough? 25 years. 26 years. 40 years. How long do I have to search for a solution to this thing. How long do I have to spend looking for a way to understand how to interact with this world in a way that can make sense from one set of hours to the next or looking for ways to explain the decoupling of emotion, and action, and laughter, and violence, from reason or explain the terrors of things people call imaginary and hallucinations, but are sometimes real as sunlight in my eyes. I just want out, but I'm forced instead into higher resolutions.
Sorry for the ramble. Maybe it'll make sense years from now. Minutes from now. What's the difference really?
///Mum - "They Made Frogs Smoke 'Til They Exploded"
9/7/10
Sad Bunny Can't Cum
Welcome to the retrospective (cue Jerry Lewis telethon music). It's a sort of sad time for me. I lost my computer this past Friday. Several outages and a lack of grounded outlets, thanks to antiquated design and moronic neighbors who don't understand that computers are more than idle curiosities and are actually essential to the younger sets way of life, lead to it turning off without warning. Since I- I promise you this will be a "too much information" packed retrospective- since I usually do most of my writing in the dark, with a short order of bourbon, and nothing else on (electronic or otherwise), I was immediately plunged into darkness. Dismantled the entire thing and went on a debugging, forensic, junior mortician's foray that lead me to the soul shaking realization that the mother board burned. And now I'm slightly sad (devastated) because my computer was my best of best friends. Now I'm stuck with my functionally challenged laptop that was dropped on its head too many times as a kid.
My writing is now inaccessible (fuck) on sata hard drives, my resume is inaccessible (fuuuck), my porn is sitting idle (fuuuuuuuck), and my music collection is essentially in a vault (FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-) till I get a new motherboard or other PC tower to- okay who gives a shit. I do, but that's boring. Me talking about this is like listening to someone talk about their dead cousin who you never met and they never really talked about before and trying to pretend like they have your undivided attention when it's fourth and inches in a preseason Steelers game and the gaurd they drafted is about to be put to his first real test and show you whether or not the season is going to be worth pinning playoff hopes to. Long, long, long sigh while trying to pay attention to what really matters without looking like a complete dick. Suffice to say, combining a tempermental laptop with a 860 bits per second internet connection and the fact that I have to write in notepad and can throw making after the fact edits squarely out the window has made me a fucking sad bunny.
Maybe I should have talked about that last. Life has turned into a very long jerk session. Like "just blew a rail at the bar and the chick I got into the cab with hopped out midway to my place so I blew another rail and tried to watch a movie to console myself, but couldn't get into it so I tried to rub one out and I'm three hours in and nodding off knowing I won't sleep well at all unless I at least get the small victory of cumming and all signs are pointing to a four a.m. photo finish with passing out sitting at my desk with empty cans of Natty cheering me on from the gallery." But, yeah, you know it's dragging. Been working hard, but obstacles must have eachother on speed dial the way things have continued to stack and you know it's no good when doing the thing you love to do becomes difficult and all you really want to do is sleep. Good news is I've pounded enough coffee to start a coca leaf grow operation in my stomach. Suck on that contra. I'm not sure how the two are related, but hopefully it's close enough to let you fill in the hilarious gaps. Personally, I didn't laugh. Didn't even smirk on that one, but fuck it, it's out there and doing its thing.
So into it (longest intro ever). Five years in bullets:
-started blog because I was pissed at my boss and had no one to tell about it.
-stopped talking about my boss because it was whiny as all hell.
-planned to start a career as a kept man.
-decided my beard deserved my face like modern pop and R&B singers deserve euthanisation.
-spewed hate toward beard haters.
-realized 99% of myspace writers were hacks.
-left myspace because I hated being connected to people.
-left facebook
-went back to facebook and myspace when my communication anxiety faded.
... God this is boring. Worst retrospective ever.
I think there's supposed to be a memoir like tone to the narrative that I am completely whiffing on. I wanted to be a fighter pilot for the longest time.
I guess I'll just skip to what's new. I'm realizing more and more that the shit surrounding my island is so ridiculously deep that it is fairly realistic to say there is zero chance of any kind of college sweetheart reunion. Think of it this way: what she has in common with her peers now is like two humans talking to eachother. What she has in common with me is like a person at a zoo talking to animals. While one may be more interesting, it's not what you'd want to spend your life doing. What else. I guess I'm bi. Are there rules for that. I guess I didn't just start one day. If I look back it's pretty obvious. Most people don't really give a shit now anyway which has been a massive relief, because what I feared the most was being hated. Some people look at me differently, maybe, I'm not sure and I don't care all that much to ask them. I'm still the same person with the same anger management issues and the same scars. Someone asked me why I would choose to be something that "will make my life more difficult", but to be perfectly honest it's made my life so much easier to live now that I can understand myself that much better. Even saying what I am feels strange, as though there are brands of people. But, anyway, sex with guys is fun. Sex with girls is fun. Different reasons for both. Girl cum and guy cum are pretty close in taste to me. That's probably the only thing the two have in common for the most part. Guys and girls are attractive for different reasons too. I guess the oddest thing is most gay men are incredibly obnoxious and unattractive. On second thought, not really that odd because most women are also unnattractive. Or maybe, okay further revision: most gay men and women I don't scare away with my being myself are unattractive. That's the qualifier I was tasting on the tip of my tongue. Fuck em. I just wish I was willing to let myself see it sooner and embrace it, but I was so caught up in performing to the rigid framework I grew up in I suppressed and ignored it and raged inwardly and outwardly and not allowing myself to be. I missed out on the whole "rules and standards committee" meetings in college so now I'm still learning about it, but better late than a repression fueled suicide. One of the hardest things to get over was feeling like I've somehow failed as a man. That's actually been the single toughest thing in accepting my sexual self. So much of socialization is the assumption of roles and rejecting the hetero role that framed and formed and malformed so much of my behavior like fucking foot binding was and continues to be difficult, but it's a difficulty that's building toward true normalcy for me and in so being it is worth every ounce of growing pain.
What else. I'm bad at keeping secrets. I've realized that so much of my life has been informed by half truths that propogating them is so extremely distasteful that I just can't do it with believable conviction. A good thing and a bad thing, but mostly a good thing I think. A change for the better. There's still a little voice in my head that talks about dreams of wealth, but there's a louder voice that screams to me to write and ultimately having a nine to five and writing will mean more to me than continuing a foreign quest for status and titles and degrees. I think that's what helps keep me sane. I'm still looking for that elusive community of writers. That still hasn't changed. I came close to finding one. Hopefully that'll turn into something. I think I'm wandering again. I love you. Don't be sad. Life won't drag on forever and that's something we can look forward to, right? Death is going to be the best orgasm ever. I'll still be enthusiastic about it when it rolls around. In the meantime you just have to make the most of the little humps and enjoy the moments you get to spend cumming as much as possible. Also, don't say that to people in casual settings. They'll think you're weird. Also don't tell people you're too depressed to cum. Even as a metaphor, but especially not literally, unless they're the kind of crazy sexy person who would take it as a standing challenge. Even then. You know what, you probably should not be taking advice from me about this.
How's this for some summation of 200 posts: I was born, I lived for a while not knowing there was a world outside the controlled universe of my home until college, I discovered there was a world, I dated a fantastic girl for a long time, I loved my beard, I planned to get in tight with a cougar before I dated, I revised my life mission once I realized none of that was actually going to work, I realized the only thing really important to me was writing, I accepted my creative self, I accepted my sexual self, I loved, I hated life, I had sex, I learned that I'm a violent person, along the way I learned I had real (actual) mental defficiencies that require maintenance, I learned that the best thing I could do was fight it by living with it constructively, and I realized that I'm not the greatest thing to happen to the world, but maybe a good thing to happen to a handful of people. So that's it. Peace.
///Dntel - "Casuals" Walking down an overcast lane and the air is so cool on your face that you can't help looking to the sky to watch the bits of an almost storm chase eachother over the building tops and forget the shit that turned your eyes red that afternoon and feel the slippage of time and understand that you're still you and that's perfectly alright.
My writing is now inaccessible (fuck) on sata hard drives, my resume is inaccessible (fuuuck), my porn is sitting idle (fuuuuuuuck), and my music collection is essentially in a vault (FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-) till I get a new motherboard or other PC tower to- okay who gives a shit. I do, but that's boring. Me talking about this is like listening to someone talk about their dead cousin who you never met and they never really talked about before and trying to pretend like they have your undivided attention when it's fourth and inches in a preseason Steelers game and the gaurd they drafted is about to be put to his first real test and show you whether or not the season is going to be worth pinning playoff hopes to. Long, long, long sigh while trying to pay attention to what really matters without looking like a complete dick. Suffice to say, combining a tempermental laptop with a 860 bits per second internet connection and the fact that I have to write in notepad and can throw making after the fact edits squarely out the window has made me a fucking sad bunny.
Maybe I should have talked about that last. Life has turned into a very long jerk session. Like "just blew a rail at the bar and the chick I got into the cab with hopped out midway to my place so I blew another rail and tried to watch a movie to console myself, but couldn't get into it so I tried to rub one out and I'm three hours in and nodding off knowing I won't sleep well at all unless I at least get the small victory of cumming and all signs are pointing to a four a.m. photo finish with passing out sitting at my desk with empty cans of Natty cheering me on from the gallery." But, yeah, you know it's dragging. Been working hard, but obstacles must have eachother on speed dial the way things have continued to stack and you know it's no good when doing the thing you love to do becomes difficult and all you really want to do is sleep. Good news is I've pounded enough coffee to start a coca leaf grow operation in my stomach. Suck on that contra. I'm not sure how the two are related, but hopefully it's close enough to let you fill in the hilarious gaps. Personally, I didn't laugh. Didn't even smirk on that one, but fuck it, it's out there and doing its thing.
So into it (longest intro ever). Five years in bullets:
-started blog because I was pissed at my boss and had no one to tell about it.
-stopped talking about my boss because it was whiny as all hell.
-planned to start a career as a kept man.
-decided my beard deserved my face like modern pop and R&B singers deserve euthanisation.
-spewed hate toward beard haters.
-realized 99% of myspace writers were hacks.
-left myspace because I hated being connected to people.
-left facebook
-went back to facebook and myspace when my communication anxiety faded.
... God this is boring. Worst retrospective ever.
I think there's supposed to be a memoir like tone to the narrative that I am completely whiffing on. I wanted to be a fighter pilot for the longest time.
I guess I'll just skip to what's new. I'm realizing more and more that the shit surrounding my island is so ridiculously deep that it is fairly realistic to say there is zero chance of any kind of college sweetheart reunion. Think of it this way: what she has in common with her peers now is like two humans talking to eachother. What she has in common with me is like a person at a zoo talking to animals. While one may be more interesting, it's not what you'd want to spend your life doing. What else. I guess I'm bi. Are there rules for that. I guess I didn't just start one day. If I look back it's pretty obvious. Most people don't really give a shit now anyway which has been a massive relief, because what I feared the most was being hated. Some people look at me differently, maybe, I'm not sure and I don't care all that much to ask them. I'm still the same person with the same anger management issues and the same scars. Someone asked me why I would choose to be something that "will make my life more difficult", but to be perfectly honest it's made my life so much easier to live now that I can understand myself that much better. Even saying what I am feels strange, as though there are brands of people. But, anyway, sex with guys is fun. Sex with girls is fun. Different reasons for both. Girl cum and guy cum are pretty close in taste to me. That's probably the only thing the two have in common for the most part. Guys and girls are attractive for different reasons too. I guess the oddest thing is most gay men are incredibly obnoxious and unattractive. On second thought, not really that odd because most women are also unnattractive. Or maybe, okay further revision: most gay men and women I don't scare away with my being myself are unattractive. That's the qualifier I was tasting on the tip of my tongue. Fuck em. I just wish I was willing to let myself see it sooner and embrace it, but I was so caught up in performing to the rigid framework I grew up in I suppressed and ignored it and raged inwardly and outwardly and not allowing myself to be. I missed out on the whole "rules and standards committee" meetings in college so now I'm still learning about it, but better late than a repression fueled suicide. One of the hardest things to get over was feeling like I've somehow failed as a man. That's actually been the single toughest thing in accepting my sexual self. So much of socialization is the assumption of roles and rejecting the hetero role that framed and formed and malformed so much of my behavior like fucking foot binding was and continues to be difficult, but it's a difficulty that's building toward true normalcy for me and in so being it is worth every ounce of growing pain.
What else. I'm bad at keeping secrets. I've realized that so much of my life has been informed by half truths that propogating them is so extremely distasteful that I just can't do it with believable conviction. A good thing and a bad thing, but mostly a good thing I think. A change for the better. There's still a little voice in my head that talks about dreams of wealth, but there's a louder voice that screams to me to write and ultimately having a nine to five and writing will mean more to me than continuing a foreign quest for status and titles and degrees. I think that's what helps keep me sane. I'm still looking for that elusive community of writers. That still hasn't changed. I came close to finding one. Hopefully that'll turn into something. I think I'm wandering again. I love you. Don't be sad. Life won't drag on forever and that's something we can look forward to, right? Death is going to be the best orgasm ever. I'll still be enthusiastic about it when it rolls around. In the meantime you just have to make the most of the little humps and enjoy the moments you get to spend cumming as much as possible. Also, don't say that to people in casual settings. They'll think you're weird. Also don't tell people you're too depressed to cum. Even as a metaphor, but especially not literally, unless they're the kind of crazy sexy person who would take it as a standing challenge. Even then. You know what, you probably should not be taking advice from me about this.
How's this for some summation of 200 posts: I was born, I lived for a while not knowing there was a world outside the controlled universe of my home until college, I discovered there was a world, I dated a fantastic girl for a long time, I loved my beard, I planned to get in tight with a cougar before I dated, I revised my life mission once I realized none of that was actually going to work, I realized the only thing really important to me was writing, I accepted my creative self, I accepted my sexual self, I loved, I hated life, I had sex, I learned that I'm a violent person, along the way I learned I had real (actual) mental defficiencies that require maintenance, I learned that the best thing I could do was fight it by living with it constructively, and I realized that I'm not the greatest thing to happen to the world, but maybe a good thing to happen to a handful of people. So that's it. Peace.
///Dntel - "Casuals" Walking down an overcast lane and the air is so cool on your face that you can't help looking to the sky to watch the bits of an almost storm chase eachother over the building tops and forget the shit that turned your eyes red that afternoon and feel the slippage of time and understand that you're still you and that's perfectly alright.
6/6/10
stray cats and dogs
as any stray will tell you "sometimes you eat the city and sometimes the city eats you". orrr well they could also say "sometimes you eat cat and sometimes you eat dog, but the important thing is to ... to uhm... eat ... something?" no that doesnt sound right. okay, starting over.
as any stray will tell you "sometimes you eat cat and sometimes you eat dog and sometimes animal control comes when you least expect it." the thing to remember though is to not use the word though too much cuz it links too many thoughts together into schemes that demand a certain countervailing quality of each other that is not always expressly present and can add a lot of processing time to otherwise simple conjunctions. the thing to really remember is that animal control's existence implies that animals cant control themselves. the challenge is to exert that control. the premise is that being a stray who is more often caged than free to roam can that control be reliably exerted. the conclusion is that it would make an interesting movie. the hook is what happens when the stray is permanently freed from the cage and are the cage wardens aware of what will happen.
well lets not go so far as to say will. every day of roaming is learning to control. where and where not to go. who and who not to talk to. what and what not to talk about. when to arrive and when to leave. and that learning cant happen from inside a room with one window, a floor cot, a bent desk, and more free weights than physical places to take my body with the strength they build. buuut i dunno im getting all muddy... am i really sure what will happen? not totally. but one thing i do know is we cant live if we're too afraid to die.
so i guess fire at will and from all sides. hunt the wounded, slay the dieing, and long live the god of all strays who lives neither by law nor moral. where did that come from? i dont know. in the pantheon of apparitions and visions im pretty sure ive seen him. maybe. philosophy has never been a strong point for me. probably a ticklish point. it smells here. sometimes your free to go, but to where?
how about enjoying the moment for once. there are times when i forget that moments are connected because i fight day and night for freedom from that chain and when i succeed everything turns into a beautiful and savory instant. the hard part is turning off the part of your brain that forces you into remembrance. i thought about crying the other day, but then i couldnt so i didnt. oh well. maybe this week is the week we finally get to meet each other for real?
///unkle - "safe in mind" not to start you off with another unkle track but if you listen to the end there is an excellent quote from the film "fallen" with denzel and john goodman (great movie in my opinion. dont let the budget fool you)
"I like the night. The street. The smells. The sense.. Of another world. Sometimes you come face to face with yourself" i wish i could show you through my eyes that the other world is.
but i still havent really explained where ive been. ive been gone, exploring, tracking, learning in other states. still no new home yet. im sorry i didnt tell you but a lot of bad things happened before i could get a chance to say a proper goodbye. but im back now sooo next time i go out to space ill let you know first.
well what the hell heres another one:
///dj danger mouse - "what more can i say" jayz's lyrics, beatles bricks, and danger's architecture. "we'll see what happens when i no longer exist."
as any stray will tell you "sometimes you eat cat and sometimes you eat dog and sometimes animal control comes when you least expect it." the thing to remember though is to not use the word though too much cuz it links too many thoughts together into schemes that demand a certain countervailing quality of each other that is not always expressly present and can add a lot of processing time to otherwise simple conjunctions. the thing to really remember is that animal control's existence implies that animals cant control themselves. the challenge is to exert that control. the premise is that being a stray who is more often caged than free to roam can that control be reliably exerted. the conclusion is that it would make an interesting movie. the hook is what happens when the stray is permanently freed from the cage and are the cage wardens aware of what will happen.
well lets not go so far as to say will. every day of roaming is learning to control. where and where not to go. who and who not to talk to. what and what not to talk about. when to arrive and when to leave. and that learning cant happen from inside a room with one window, a floor cot, a bent desk, and more free weights than physical places to take my body with the strength they build. buuut i dunno im getting all muddy... am i really sure what will happen? not totally. but one thing i do know is we cant live if we're too afraid to die.
so i guess fire at will and from all sides. hunt the wounded, slay the dieing, and long live the god of all strays who lives neither by law nor moral. where did that come from? i dont know. in the pantheon of apparitions and visions im pretty sure ive seen him. maybe. philosophy has never been a strong point for me. probably a ticklish point. it smells here. sometimes your free to go, but to where?
how about enjoying the moment for once. there are times when i forget that moments are connected because i fight day and night for freedom from that chain and when i succeed everything turns into a beautiful and savory instant. the hard part is turning off the part of your brain that forces you into remembrance. i thought about crying the other day, but then i couldnt so i didnt. oh well. maybe this week is the week we finally get to meet each other for real?
///unkle - "safe in mind" not to start you off with another unkle track but if you listen to the end there is an excellent quote from the film "fallen" with denzel and john goodman (great movie in my opinion. dont let the budget fool you)
"I like the night. The street. The smells. The sense.. Of another world. Sometimes you come face to face with yourself" i wish i could show you through my eyes that the other world is.
but i still havent really explained where ive been. ive been gone, exploring, tracking, learning in other states. still no new home yet. im sorry i didnt tell you but a lot of bad things happened before i could get a chance to say a proper goodbye. but im back now sooo next time i go out to space ill let you know first.
well what the hell heres another one:
///dj danger mouse - "what more can i say" jayz's lyrics, beatles bricks, and danger's architecture. "we'll see what happens when i no longer exist."
7/25/07
change the channel 07/25/07
Subject : change the channel
Posted Date: : Jun 25, 2007 7:53 PM
alright so im basically complaining again, but its legitimate this time. i swear. on my eventual grave.
america is raising a bunch of pussy ass punk bitch kids. and the most pussy punk ass bitchiest of the bunch are the ones that are gonna run things. just think about it. all those emo mother fuckers who sware ... or is it swear... whatever... who sware they cant deal with life for a single additional day or that everyday is the worst day mankind has witnessed to date are likely not so weak willed because they cant change but probably because all the shit they listen to tells them to be miserable. its like high fidelity... except there is no ambiguity. music is making people miserable, fearful, shallow, and worthless.
kids are afraid to speak up for themselves. kids are afraid to be different from what industry tells them to be. theyre fearful of so many things that have no bearing on real life. theyre distraught over emotions that dont matter. and theyre hateful over differences that are purely cosmetic. they have goals that are pipe dreams and engineered stories designed to sell unsustainable lifestyles. and they see themselves as warriors in fights that dont exist. its more than a manipulation of emotion for effects that can be enjoyable or inspirational or cathartic or whatever the hell you wanna call it. its basically creating ideology for children. yaaaay. childeology. copyright. true story.
its not all music either... duh... its just that the people with half a brain to change the channel instead of being brain washed by recycled beats and redundant guitar riffs have better things to do than try to reform a music market for the masses who are so geared into their own worthlessness to accept that things could be different.
your music is offensive and your brain is under utilized. please see vh1, cmt, bet, and mtv top "music" countdowns for further examples. then burn your tv. then buy a new black and white tv and keep it tuned to public access. jerks.
dont eat ice cream all day. itll make you fat and a waste of space. however much it contributes to the GNP.
///del the funky homosapien - "3030" quality 7 minute anthem. listen to it. rebuild something. more and better and different music to come. for serious.
Posted Date: : Jun 25, 2007 7:53 PM
alright so im basically complaining again, but its legitimate this time. i swear. on my eventual grave.
america is raising a bunch of pussy ass punk bitch kids. and the most pussy punk ass bitchiest of the bunch are the ones that are gonna run things. just think about it. all those emo mother fuckers who sware ... or is it swear... whatever... who sware they cant deal with life for a single additional day or that everyday is the worst day mankind has witnessed to date are likely not so weak willed because they cant change but probably because all the shit they listen to tells them to be miserable. its like high fidelity... except there is no ambiguity. music is making people miserable, fearful, shallow, and worthless.
kids are afraid to speak up for themselves. kids are afraid to be different from what industry tells them to be. theyre fearful of so many things that have no bearing on real life. theyre distraught over emotions that dont matter. and theyre hateful over differences that are purely cosmetic. they have goals that are pipe dreams and engineered stories designed to sell unsustainable lifestyles. and they see themselves as warriors in fights that dont exist. its more than a manipulation of emotion for effects that can be enjoyable or inspirational or cathartic or whatever the hell you wanna call it. its basically creating ideology for children. yaaaay. childeology. copyright. true story.
its not all music either... duh... its just that the people with half a brain to change the channel instead of being brain washed by recycled beats and redundant guitar riffs have better things to do than try to reform a music market for the masses who are so geared into their own worthlessness to accept that things could be different.
your music is offensive and your brain is under utilized. please see vh1, cmt, bet, and mtv top "music" countdowns for further examples. then burn your tv. then buy a new black and white tv and keep it tuned to public access. jerks.
dont eat ice cream all day. itll make you fat and a waste of space. however much it contributes to the GNP.
///del the funky homosapien - "3030" quality 7 minute anthem. listen to it. rebuild something. more and better and different music to come. for serious.
4/5/07
make good 04/05/07
Subject : make good ::: destroyer goodness
Posted Date: : Apr 5, 2007 6:59 PM
i cant really fault anyone for not being able to trust me. i spend a lot of time thinking to myself about things external to me before acting in ways that i myself have trouble predicting. im bipolar with shades of schizophrenia and a control freak streak a few hectares wide. i have anger management problems and i digest personal loss as easily as i shit bricks. i like to make people happy to my own detriment, and entertain quiet thoughts of bdsm when no ones looking. the one thing people seem to be able to catch on to is that i make good.
your damn fucking right i make good. LOLERZ. but seriously... when i put my mind to something i will try to carry it out till the treads fall off, and yes its my upbringing. i dont enjoy being this way sometimes. sometimes it sucks. sometimes it makes it impossible for people to trust my authenticity and sometimes the people that are close to me can see there's something else behind my eyes i dont want to talk about. sometimes it makes life unmanageable, unenjoyable, and downright sickening. i've tried to change. i still do try to change. soemtimes i succeed. sometimes i dont. sometimes i dance. seriously.
this is the last time ill talk about love this month. promise. love is where trust is important, obviously. my ability to committ to a course should not be confused with, interchanged with, or held above my ability to love without condition. i just want that in writing. so there. im gonna be 22 soon... past the one third mark... so i dont have time to fuck around when it comes to love. fucking around is done with, was done with, has been done with for almost five years, and will continue to be done with. one of my hobbies is not seeing how many people i can fuck before i wake up in a coffee shop, having dozed off in the afternoon after a weekend bender, having missed slept throught the morning, to find im 39-still hitting the clubs for 19 year olds-unable to remember the name of the second to last person i banged-and feeling sorry for myself.
i love. i make good.
the road is winding onward... friends are getting jobs... degrees... cars... lives... world travel... etc. i am not. but if there's one thing i remember (aside from repeating the that phrase as much as possible) its that you cant let the parade outside your window ruin your perfectly good day and your perfectly good can of beer and your perfectly good creative mind and your perfectly good herb. watch the world go by? hah! i've got better things to do (which may or may not be true, but what the hell do you care). i am a reasonable person. i dont destroy yer goodness (at least not actively i hope) so dont feel bad if you think youre treading on mine. if that makes sense. in retrospect i dont think it does. but im not going to explain it. i dont have to.
the phrase is good enough on its own.
///the pillows! - "hybrid rainbow" probably the best song to listen to when the rain is just starting to let up and the last drops are catching the sunlight and firing it off in orange and amber and sorbet rays of milk and you look to the sky to see a rainbow and there's nothing there but towers and towers of clouds that look like you could climb them if you only had a rope long enough to lasso the filaments of rain still falling and dreams big enough to believe in yourself.
yes, its a very hopeful outlook. yes, i manufactured it. yes, i believe in it. yes, i will refuse to acknowledge your criticism of my opinion in this matter.
Posted Date: : Apr 5, 2007 6:59 PM
i cant really fault anyone for not being able to trust me. i spend a lot of time thinking to myself about things external to me before acting in ways that i myself have trouble predicting. im bipolar with shades of schizophrenia and a control freak streak a few hectares wide. i have anger management problems and i digest personal loss as easily as i shit bricks. i like to make people happy to my own detriment, and entertain quiet thoughts of bdsm when no ones looking. the one thing people seem to be able to catch on to is that i make good.
your damn fucking right i make good. LOLERZ. but seriously... when i put my mind to something i will try to carry it out till the treads fall off, and yes its my upbringing. i dont enjoy being this way sometimes. sometimes it sucks. sometimes it makes it impossible for people to trust my authenticity and sometimes the people that are close to me can see there's something else behind my eyes i dont want to talk about. sometimes it makes life unmanageable, unenjoyable, and downright sickening. i've tried to change. i still do try to change. soemtimes i succeed. sometimes i dont. sometimes i dance. seriously.
this is the last time ill talk about love this month. promise. love is where trust is important, obviously. my ability to committ to a course should not be confused with, interchanged with, or held above my ability to love without condition. i just want that in writing. so there. im gonna be 22 soon... past the one third mark... so i dont have time to fuck around when it comes to love. fucking around is done with, was done with, has been done with for almost five years, and will continue to be done with. one of my hobbies is not seeing how many people i can fuck before i wake up in a coffee shop, having dozed off in the afternoon after a weekend bender, having missed slept throught the morning, to find im 39-still hitting the clubs for 19 year olds-unable to remember the name of the second to last person i banged-and feeling sorry for myself.
i love. i make good.
the road is winding onward... friends are getting jobs... degrees... cars... lives... world travel... etc. i am not. but if there's one thing i remember (aside from repeating the that phrase as much as possible) its that you cant let the parade outside your window ruin your perfectly good day and your perfectly good can of beer and your perfectly good creative mind and your perfectly good herb. watch the world go by? hah! i've got better things to do (which may or may not be true, but what the hell do you care). i am a reasonable person. i dont destroy yer goodness (at least not actively i hope) so dont feel bad if you think youre treading on mine. if that makes sense. in retrospect i dont think it does. but im not going to explain it. i dont have to.
the phrase is good enough on its own.
///the pillows! - "hybrid rainbow" probably the best song to listen to when the rain is just starting to let up and the last drops are catching the sunlight and firing it off in orange and amber and sorbet rays of milk and you look to the sky to see a rainbow and there's nothing there but towers and towers of clouds that look like you could climb them if you only had a rope long enough to lasso the filaments of rain still falling and dreams big enough to believe in yourself.
yes, its a very hopeful outlook. yes, i manufactured it. yes, i believe in it. yes, i will refuse to acknowledge your criticism of my opinion in this matter.
2/21/06
peak hours for strip clubs 02/21/06
Subject : peak hours for strip clubs
Posted Date: : Feb 21, 2006 8:02 PM
The question of the night: "are you going to stop?" Apparently not. My girlfriend and I were both passengers in a car with her roomate when my girlfriend notices a little ol' red light perched above the street at an intersection. Not only was the red light ignored, but her roomate slammed on the brakes bringing us to a complete stop directly in the middle of the intersection. If there were a prize for going 40 to zero and stopping your car on a bulls eye she would have won it hands down, no questions asked.
The worst thing about that night was not that we were all pretty fucking lucky there was no traffic in the crossing lanes. The worst thing was not that we were stopped dead in no mans land. The worst thing was not even that the sudden stop left all of us a little shaken up after packing our stomachs with F grade beef at taco bell. The worst thing about the whole incident was that I'd spent the seconds preceding the near death experience discussing why the stripper club we passed had no cars parked in front of it in the middle of the night when the dregs of society are supposed to be hustlin' and bustlin' and "gettin' they party on".
The logic I managed to come up with moments before peeing my pants was that sunday isn't the busiest day of the week so most people that would be there are probably regulars that walk there instead of people from out of town looking for a good time late at night. not that these people wouldnt go looking for a good time at taco bell like we did; just that these people with cars to be parked probably had jobs to go to early in the morning to pay for their cars.
The worst thing about the whole incident is that my last thought, had their been oncoming vehicles, would not have been of love or world peace or anything worth while... my last thought would have been dedicated to an analysis of peak hours for strip clubs.
Posted Date: : Feb 21, 2006 8:02 PM
The question of the night: "are you going to stop?" Apparently not. My girlfriend and I were both passengers in a car with her roomate when my girlfriend notices a little ol' red light perched above the street at an intersection. Not only was the red light ignored, but her roomate slammed on the brakes bringing us to a complete stop directly in the middle of the intersection. If there were a prize for going 40 to zero and stopping your car on a bulls eye she would have won it hands down, no questions asked.
The worst thing about that night was not that we were all pretty fucking lucky there was no traffic in the crossing lanes. The worst thing was not that we were stopped dead in no mans land. The worst thing was not even that the sudden stop left all of us a little shaken up after packing our stomachs with F grade beef at taco bell. The worst thing about the whole incident was that I'd spent the seconds preceding the near death experience discussing why the stripper club we passed had no cars parked in front of it in the middle of the night when the dregs of society are supposed to be hustlin' and bustlin' and "gettin' they party on".
The logic I managed to come up with moments before peeing my pants was that sunday isn't the busiest day of the week so most people that would be there are probably regulars that walk there instead of people from out of town looking for a good time late at night. not that these people wouldnt go looking for a good time at taco bell like we did; just that these people with cars to be parked probably had jobs to go to early in the morning to pay for their cars.
The worst thing about the whole incident is that my last thought, had their been oncoming vehicles, would not have been of love or world peace or anything worth while... my last thought would have been dedicated to an analysis of peak hours for strip clubs.
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