Musicality

I'm trying to find the music in common sense.  Not just that, but I'm trying to find the fun.  I believe one of my greatest fears is writing ending being an occupation.   Do what you love and everything else will come is largely a lie.  Taking bobby pins out of my hair.

I don't know what I want to be, but I know I can't be an astronaut or a race car driver or a stuntman.  Well maybe stuntman.  Childhood dreams still haunt me, but at least I know (my third pick) I can be a writer given the right circumstances.  I can be a bass junkie.  That works too.

I know we had a lot of conversations about this

so I will stop there.

All we ever wanted to be was loved.   That's a lie.  Trying to find a good way to coda this.  And I can't find one.  The scrap yard has been busy today.  Train noises.  Bright lights.  I feel I am aging inside beyond my years and I don't like it.  Precipitation begging the clouds, but sometimes you have to look up

My condition is getting worse.  Ghosts in the back room.  And all I have to look forward to is the worsening of my schizophrenia.   Fuck.  I don't know.  I don't know.  I don't know.  It hurts.  I just want others around me to be happy and to kill them at the same time.   I suppose in another life things worked out slightly differently because at this point it is a game of edges.  I cannot imagine how things would have worked out otherwise.  If I got the help I needed when I needed it instead of, no offense, Jesus.

the highs keep getting higher and the lows lower.  There's only so much equipment a frame can carry.  But all in all you just try to stay on the human side of things.

Double tracks pending.


///DJ? Acucrack - "In Yer Mind"  all the pills

Work and Workarounds

Cued: writing music and word inducing fluids to maybe produce some super fluidity. So lets get through this in one piece, because time is precious and hacks do two takes. I kid. But seriously, there's a lot less to worry about when you know your nose keeps bleeding because you've been snuffling coke. There's a lot more to worry about when your nose keeps bleeding and as far as you know you've kept it clean. So maybe it's just the winter crush I've been sucking into my lungs and things will balance up. Or maybe not. Maybe I'm just prone to nose bleeds. Maybe I've just been sniffing too much paint. Maybe I shouldn't keep sleeping at 48 degrees. Maybe I should stop worrying because at the end of the day, if I finish up with as many body parts and organs as I started with, things are pretty much as good as it gets.

Slugging my way through another work day I got to making conversation. There's only so many times you can walk by the people you don't want to talk to or have anything to do without having to say something. As I walked in the manager shook my hand. Both managers did. And I was immediately accosted by a union lifer suggesting I was buddy buddy with management. By itself laughable. Apparently the managers have never shaken hands with him first thing in the morning in all his 34 years. Which really makes me wonder: am I that much better than them? I've done nothing untoward to provoke a positive response from the high ups. I just do my shit and go home. Apparently having that much work ethic puts me at odds with my fellows and in the good graces of the up and ups. Which is hilarious. When you think about how inefficient things can be, how many times people can spin around in a circle to collect a paycheck instead of doing their jobs, it probably doesn't occur to you that having the ability to walk in a straight line could ever be that much of an asset. I laughed, shrugged, and went on doing my shit. I'm not concerned in the slightest. If anything, I know that if I show up I'm already ahead of most of the pack.

Which brings me to another conversation. I was talking to a guy who is apparently the heir apparent or at least the stop gap when managerial shifts are changing. The guy who's supposed to keep the ship righted, but everyone's been on the ship more than long enough to know what they're supposed to do and get it done without any supervision to speak of. He's "that guy" who's been around long enough to know what's up, but is absolutely incapable of leading effectively for any length of time, and so has been thrown a bone so he doesn't realize he is exactly the same for all of his time and would be better served doing something else entirely that pays better. Probably the reason they don't out right promote me (because I will immediately leverage that shit into a better position elsewhere), but anyway...

...I was talking about a coworker whose name I did not know and talked about him being the guy who makes the dirty jokes. To which, I will refer to him here as the fucking mook, the mook responded before I could finish my thought, "ah yes, you are talking about so and so. I'm the one who makes the good clean jokes." I literally had to stop what I was doing to close and rub my eyes out of frustration and disbelief. The jokes he makes are terrible. I mention off hand that time flies, he rejoins with a long diatribe about scientific principles and a crock of other fragments that essentially end two minutes later with the punch line "time can never actually fly." I had to pause to weigh punching his lights out and the satisfaction that would bring versus the satisfaction of having a job and getting a paycheck. Pros and cons floated around for a few silent moments and I shook my head and walked away.

First of all, the fact that he would not understand that his sense of humor is absolutely terrible and steeped in enough dungeons and dragons dice rolling logic to make me want to hang myself on the hour every hour we occupy the same space is tough to deal with, but I do. Can't get paid if I'm dead. Second of all, the mook didn't even let me finish my thought. I paused for maybe five seconds to move some boxes while he stood around whining about how hard work is, citing examples of exertion fractions of what I did on the regular at my other job (holding my tongue so he could feel good about himself, because I like people to feel good around me), and he chimes in about being more valuable to me because he is the "good joke teller." My thought finished with "and the sex jokes are totally hilarious." They are. That's the thing about associating with older people. They've got smut, slut, muck in the rut down right filthy jokes you've never heard before and hearing these jokes in the family oriented brightly lit grocery store instead of a dark dive bar makes them all the more side splitting. Thirdly, few things pet me the wrong way harder than people that think they're funny. If you've got some albums recorded and played comedy central or some night clubs with success, then maybe you can say that. It's one of those things. How are you going to tell me that you are funny to me? That laugh coming out of my mouth is not directed to what you said, it's directed to what everyone else around me said about what you said. Sometimes it's in line, if you are actually funny to us. But if you are not funny at all, there's a real good chance I'm laughing at their heckling more than anything else.

It just makes me laugh most of all though that this mook tries to posture like he knows whats up. I've been on the new job for a week and already they all know I get shit done faster, more efficiently, and with higher fidelity than anyone there right now who is not also a manager. He asks me to do things and I do them, because I could care less who is actually in charge. I just do my eight and go home. The people I respect are the people that do it as well or better than me. He's not one of them. I'm not trying to start anything. We're breaking down pallets of products to carts and everything is being separated out to the finest scale, wasting huge amounts of time. Things are being left on pallets because "they're too heavy" to move. And I'm laughing the whole way. It takes this dude the entire day to shuffle five pallets. I was doing that in 1 and 2/3 hours where I was working before. People are hunching to catch their breath and rest their limbs and I am dumbfound by how weak they are. Dude is taller and heavier than me, but apparently he just wears his clothes well because he's all dough and his helper is made out of lightly whipped fluff. Tell me this isn't the average fitness level of 22 year olds these days. Seriously, if I got into a fight with someone in the backroom, the entire daytime crew couldn't stop me from killing him if they all fought against me together. I'm not saying I'm super human. I'm saying they're about as functional as cardboard cutouts with souls duct taped to them.

Then he keeps asking me if I need a hand with X and Y and I said yes at first because I thought he wanted to be helpful, until I realized he was using me to dodge doing anything actual. Because I work at a relatively high octane he was basically sucking around in my wake to put in face time. So the next time he asked and said "I would offer to give you a hand but the space you're working in is pretty small" (I intentionally walled myself into the pallets a good foot taller than me with no elbow room so I could get shit done without having to deal with bullshitting this idiot with small talk) I said "you don't need to offer me a hand ever, and yes, there's enough space for me and my thoughts and nothing else." Not trying to be rude, but I get blunt when I'm trying to get things done. Nevertheless, the mook follows me out into the aisles and starts touching the stuff I loaded up and I just walk away. If he wants to work my shit that badly then fine. Have at it. One thing I can't tolerate is people nipping at my work and then claiming it was all them when it's time to hand out kudos. Sure I could step up and say "hey he didn't do shit", but I'm much more the sort of person who prefers to let work speak for itself and hope the people up top can make that distinction on their own: "hey so and so doesnt get a damn thing done when person X isn't here too. Maybe it's all person X?"

Does that actually ever happen? I don't know if they ever do, but I guess I'm just soft spoken. Let the work speak. Like if I get an 85 on my final paper DONT FUCKING FAIL ME BECAUSE I MISSED CLASS TOO MANY TIMES YOU FUCKKKK!@#@##%!!@%!@#. Yeah, that TA phd student who wore the skinny jeans and faux hawk in my media studies class back in 2008 is still on the list of people who are going to be strangled to death with my hands if civilization and law and order give out. Maybe not. Maybe just when I have nothing else to do besides dodge the law and balance the karmic checkbook that is still pretty far out of whack. But thats years off (if I win the lottery, dodging the law is expensive) or decades. Depends on how much I actually get done. Let the work speak for itself.

I realized today that my internal conversations were seeping out when I heard someone say "you unconscionable fat bastard" in my voice while I was walking behind someone. Definitely need to restore some volume control there. People shouldn't have to feel awful just for being coincident with me in space and time. That's just not fair to chance and circumstance. Plus it's not like they made me late for something. Not like the woman driving in front of me on a one lane one way road with cars parked on both sides who cruised at seven miles per hour. I was about ready to ride my bike over her back bumper, right over the roof, and down the hood of her car while flipping her double barreled fuck yous. I was about twenty minutes in to a conversation with myself when I reached the conclusion that I had to go take a dump. What I didn't realize was that I said that out loud, in mumbling tones no less, but someone caught enough of it and absolutely shot me the meanest 60 year old sour face ever. I laughed. At how lemon juiced her face looked. She flipped her cart around and strut away. Point taken, though. Need to guard my gates a little tighter. I can't always control what goes on in the compound, but I can at least try to control who and what goes in and out. Work around it, na mean?


///Four Tet - "A Joy" consciousness is noisy

Time Rides Again

My 18th birthday is tomorrow.

I am two months and 28 days into my 26th iteration.

At maximum effort it will take approximately six more months to save $1000.

Eight days off of chemical mediation.

It has been 12 days since I felt genuine happiness.

20 hours since I last fantasized about cutting someone's face off and eating it.

Twelve hours since I last put something in my mouth that was food.

Two days since I had a dream about flying.

Five hours since I heard crying and could not find the source.

Twenty six hours since I crossed the bridge last.

Ten hours and forty minutes since I felt adrenaline course through me, knifing through traffic.

Sixteen hours since I discovered my downstairs neighbors are the only white people in my building.

Thirty hours and sixteen minutes since the upstairs neighbors were evicted into a thunderstorm.

One year and nine months since I last had sex.

Six months and twenty days since I declared I would not be denied a full time job.

110 days and 14 hours since I started a still undelivered gift for a friend.

24 hours since I found out temp labor is essentially a scam for those over 21.

16 days since I dislocated my knee and broke a tooth.

Fifty three days since I found and did not hang card paper to spray paint.

98 minutes since I opened a book and read for fun.

14 minutes since I bruised my knuckles.

4 minutes since I smiled last.

20 seconds since I entertained my dream of life minus all the fucking bullshit that tears time away from us like sickles to sheep bellies and scatters it confetti and demands you collect it all up again before taking another step forward, or die.

5 seconds since I wished I could go back to sleep and wake with no memory of a single thing from my past again.

Too long since I've been back here. It's a broken watch. In the sense that the watch keeper does so in a broken way. Hello world, the computer says. You won't betray me too, I ask. I would never, the computer says. I am only an epitaph in your pen and thus true well beyond the worm food of you. Awww, come here, I say. Hug. Drop lights. And scene.


///The Future Sound of London - "Dirty Shadows" Sometimes the shadows on the walls crawl on your skin and claw their way in and trace the bends and levies to your stem and throttle you cold to the land of neversleep.

New Album, but Not The One Slated

I have had this idea for a new album budding alongside the one currently gestating. And it's going to be easier to do, so I thought I would bang it out before the space invaders get by on me. Pull the trigger.

We're all familiar with feeling moments and feeling THE moment so instead of going to sleep and crossing the bridge to fulfill tasks that cannot be accounted for in the realm of the commonly accessed, I am going to dry and bang out nine tracks in this album. I want it to be an lp. But we'll see how the gods of chemistry and passion fight it out. I haven't eaten today. I figure I'll reward myself with some MM...Food if I trot this out the whole gang way. Tag along maybe?


///Rush - "Tom Sawyer" this song makes me think about video games, because I am a huge Futurama fan. However, it also just makes me feel like doing a ton of thankless wonderful things that make me smile and to hell with everyone else's standards of things that should or should not elicit a little lip and tooth action because, gotdamnit, if I don't do some button mashing, no one will. Should I link to the exact episode? Probably. Will I? Probably not. Where's the joy in non-discovery.

Think of the Capacitance, Reconnection, and No More Funny (for now)

I am way too neurotic to be funny. At least for now. Rage is too close to my funny bone, or maybe I just need to drink more and relax. It would be terrific if I was compartmentalized and organized enough to be funny on a whim, but unlike athletes and super brains my insides are all mashed up. It would be a lot like a professional football player who couldn't divide on the field violence and competitiveness from his private life. And then again, that's not really a good example because that happens all the time.

More like a race car driver who, sitting at a lunch table, grabs his plate of food, dumps all the food on the floor, and proceeds to use the plate like a steering wheel as he pilots his five hundred horse power table to victory lane while making car noises and leaning aggressively into the g forces of every nonexistent turn to keep his eye line level with the candy striped rumble strips. So in trying to be funny I stray hard into anger and then can't really get back out of it until I talk about it directly. So let's give it a rest for a little while till I can find the kid again and day dream in the grass and look at the stars without feeling loss.

I do want them dead and to watch them picked over by sand flies, but I've got decades to wait for that release and until then attempting escape by any means is setting myself up for thousands of crest falls. I spent a lot of time, hours, whilst pissing the nights away at a job that is barely wondering what I could do, how long it will take, before I can fully move on from them and the fallout of their actions and I think the answer is never, but once they're gone it'll at least be an exercise in dividing the distance to balance in half until it is, for practical purposes and functions, zero. I can live with that. I just have to not explode into embers of rageous delirium before then.

There's been some safe connection. With people again. Which has been pleasant. A first contact on hailing frequencies. It wasn't easy. I'm still, more or less, in the same orbit and unable to land yet, but am prepared to do so at the earliest convenience. Things just haven't been particularly funny of late. Or maybe they have. When I think about my job I think of how I have to talk myself up to it, talk myself into it, and talk myself safely out of it when my shift is over. It struck me as what some people porn probably have to do before the big scene involving a series of serial and parallel acts degrading enough to make them unconscionable to most human beings if they themselves had to be on the set to see the uncropped and unflattering angles or participate in any capacity. "Come on, you can do this. Just two more hours and it's over."

The connection itself has been fantastic. To be spoken to as a person. A fantastic experience. Addressed as not a liability or wildcard or moron or ass or subordinate or fractured or toxified, but just as another person. It's a good feeling. To be treated without strings. Granted it takes a lot of effort to rejoin that sort of treatment, to flow back the channel and engage on the common field line. It's hard. People take that for granted. Of course there are ten paths and channels extending and entering throughput throughout the exchange, but to choose to engage is worth the effort. So if I ever break out into sweats while I'm talking to you, you now know why. Practice makes more practice.

The poetry has been slacking, but like I said before, I'm only two hands, one pair of eyes, and one mouth to handle my production cue and my hands have been busy at Bits for Flames recently trying to make sense of old rough drafts and fix continuities and cut into the cores of what was trying to be said and expressed and constructed. If I had to call my writing style anything I would call it some kind of impressionism and, while tickling my brain's predilection for flights of romantic picturesque fancy and curly serifed constructions, it doesn't readily lend itself to conflation and linearity. Editing. Frustrating. I spent two hours trying to press reason out of thematic cross signaling before shoving it out there anyway because sometimes I have to shove off of something for a while before I can come back and look at it and see what's not connecting. Maybe that's why I shove off of myself sometimes, but always come back to try and fix me later. I'm 9 today.

I think I'm going to plot out my birthdays through the year to my projected death at 70 in a freak race car driving accident.

I went to a job fair where a woman was telling me that I could be published without having read a single word I'd written or even glancing at my "child born in the heart of blighted Africa" thin resume. She made the comment after I told her I loved writing when she told me that the seminary she represented recently added a one unit course on publishing. I'm pretty sure she was mainly looking to add to her auto mailer sign up sheet. I didn't sign up. She kept telling me how great my personality was. I kept wanting to tell her I was mostly just happy to be in a place where people were happy to see me just because I was there, but I didn't. It was a fun conversation nonetheless. Beats out talking to myself in my kitchen about what the smell coming out of the kitchen sink u trap might have been.

I'm tired and hungry. Resisting the solid state. Meals have slipped again. I had them nice and spread out over 16 hours at reasonable intervals a month ago. They're now back to a huddled mass of desperate consumption over four hours. Whatever I thought I did to fix that has unfixed itself. The unfucked has refucked and I have to power up and use my guts and grit to push it apart again and once more become awesome, because let's face it, only you can make you awesome.

I've accomplished no further work on the paper robot, but it is still on my table alongside my drawing pad that has NOT gathered dust... ...yet and my notebook. I have pages and pages and pages of notes to go through. It's frustrating. My hobby is my work, but my work doesn't let me eat so I have to do fake work to get food tokens so I don't die and then when I come home to do my real work I am too exhausted to engage it fully. It's this odd lockup. Hobbies are supposed to leave you rejuvenated and expanded and more whole as a person and my hobby is awesomely fulfilling and makes me so post coitus contented that I don't want to do anything else, but it is also massively exhausting and time and energy consuming that I can't do it and then run off to fake work to get my damn food and rent tokens, which is why I need to outright buy property. At least that way the amount of money I would be required to earn to stay alive would be drastically reduced. Probably my number one reason to get back into school some day, but buying property will probably be cheaper in the long run. Which is why it is reason number one after the two hundred reasons why it will probably and in all honesty, with the kind of person wired the way that I am, should not happen. Stupid genes.

So here I am. Pinging you and pinging me. Still alive and happily so. The value of life is not the journey. I hope everyone who says things like that gets stabbed in the eye socket. I don't understand how anyone can go through life without creating something and then pursuing further creation. More than anything else that is who I am. Generator. Taking in raw material and constructing. There was something else on the tip of the ax pick of my brain. But I can't remember it. I'm going to go through some old notes and share them if they're interesting. I'm going to get my hands back into my dream housing and tear more words and motions and highs and visions from the fabric and sew them together for me and for you. I miss that. I've missed you in this urgent proofing against premature self destruction. We should hang out sometime.



///Elastica - "Connection" This concludes our broadcast day.