You look terrible. What, have you been up all night drinking? No, you self righteous, snide, whisker faced, monkey pawed, salad dicked, piece of shit. I'm going to tie your legs to opposite rungs of a ladder with surgical tubing, slice open your taint, and plunger fuck you 'til your guts blow out and all you can see are after images of fantasia from when your uncle came to visit, got you drunk, and touched you, you absolute @#$##!%@%#$%%$*%^*%%@#%$#@%!%*(*((^&$^%$$!@# dumpster fire fucker. I can't sleep. I'm not a wreck, I just can't sleep. It's a problem. I feel like I'm awake all the time. Is that a problem? Yes, that's a problem. Calm down, baby. It's always a little scarier at night. I stopped going out with my knife, that's a step in the right direction, right? Yes. Okay, bad start. Let's do this again.
I'm losing my shit. I don't understand everything. In fact, I don't understand a lot of things. In fact, I understand very few things and some of what I do is pure emulation. Some of it is learned. The things that I do when I'm not alone. When I'm trying to communicate and rub elbows and socialize and allow myself to be socialized. From a pure experiential stand point, I am always still catching up. Especially when it comes to purely adult things like paying bills and writing checks and progressively more complex responsibilities that come with age. Learning on the fly. Is part of why I am perpetually referring to near and distant past interactions and outcomes to judge and play into and inform and explicate the more recent and definite present ones. I need snow. I need cold weather. I need Winter. I need to trap my insides in and wear my skin all over again. Compression wraps. I'm trying to learn so many things on my own.
What do I need to do to suppress the monster? It's a puzzle game again. It's the puzzle game again. And I don't want to play. Even if I did, I can't if I can't get over there. Reconsidering therapy for the hundredth time.
I am dense. Dumb. I get that. So ask for help. I do, the problem, however, is that half the time I do ask for help with X and Y I get bitten. Look, okay, no one ever taught me how to be a grown up. I'm fucking trying. Okay, calm down. I'm trying and learning how to be an adult. How to take care of myself. How to be a part of other people's lives and, more over, part of society and a functioning member no less. It takes practice and it takes patience and sometimes other people are not as patient with me as I would like. I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but blunt objects get the job done pretty good. I'm good at things. I know that. I can do some things pretty well. Other things not so good. But why come no patience on their part? They must know I'm being patient with them and their remarks and their assumptions. They must know by now that I'm doing the best I can and that's all I've got by now. Granted the repertoire grows yearly, monthly, sometimes daily, but it's never going to grow fast enough to get on their level. I mean someone has to bring up the rear. Who else will be there to pick up the leaders when they stumble and fall and roll their ankle and have to be dragged until they can stand up and break the trail again? I serve a purpose, gotdamnit.
I'm not a doormat, or inferior, but I kind of am in many respects. In terms of tangibles. A state of perpetual repair. 800 brake horsepower on the dyno and shit tires. Steel struts for shock absorbers. The ride is harsh, but give me enough straight asphalt and I'll burn straight through to the vanishing point. I've been thinking my siblings and I relied on and alternately hated each other through the years, but before everyone dove off the edge to lives and relationships and variables apart from the smoking hole in the ground where our lives blew up, we were complementary parts.
Are you really happy? I'm happier than I've ever been. I swear I cannot fuse myselves together. It's like some kind of micro field acting over exceptionally short distances and so they gravitate and hang loosely together if I, when I, can manage to coerce them into the same headspace, but any further, any fucking further, and they fly apart. Driven like body parts from a weatherman's over packed pipe bomb and a warning two hours too late. Reduce the casualties, she says. We're not terrorists he says. Y'all can go suck a dick he says.
I chewed through my lip the other day. I'm not the strongest man in the world, or the tallest. But weapons are all around me. Tools, you know? A weapon is a tool. We should spend some quality time together some day. I know this place where the street lights have gone out. It's a stretch of road really. The headaches have gotten a little worse, but sometimes I can convince myself. Heavy industrial works and general cause. It's kind of funny sometimes. Let's play cards. Let's play Spades. I'll never go board. In my dream I was shot four times through the back, it was pretty amazing. Not the getting shot part. That part hurt a lot. More than anything I've felt in life. What felt amazing was the increasing inability to breath while my lungs filled up and my brain started to die and became unable to process pain. I started to think about how screwed up it was that my first DMT trip would also be my last, but then I started to look forward to at least being able to do that. And then someone else came up and they passed the gun and held it up between my eyes and blew my head apart before I could enjoy it. And I died, but didn't wake up and they left. And I waited and I waited and I waited for my life to start over. For reincarnation. For hell. For heaven. Nothing. And so, inside that dream still, I simply stood up, with half a skull from the nasal bones down to my neck, and walked out and woke up into an afternoon. Disappointed.
I am me. And you are you. The greatest form of flattery. The finest grains of abandonment. In the soles of my shoes. The cities crumbled. Many people died. The pain never goes away entirely, but honestly, that's asking too much. Who and what you are is no concern of mine. The man with the crystalline mind and the watch maker's hands with browns for whites of eyes and a head more water than land and no docks to be found. I don't know. I don't know and I cannot tell you if I wanted to. Steps in right directions. I need cold weather. I need something to cool the pile. Carbon rods? Is that what does it? The machine to help me understand and define the horror? Parcels of molecules and reckless atomic connections.
I can remember going in for the scans and the EMG and the warmth of the dye they injected into my veins and waiting quietly in the wheel chair for it to get pumped throughout before they put me inside and trying to stay awake while feeling like my entire nervous system was wrapped in an electric blanket. It was a gorgeous feeling. That was years ago. I've been thinking about dating again. I know I'm not and will probably never be ready. I also know what I want is something I can't have. It's a catch two two. I can't bank on getting away with it twice. I just wish I could have thought of that the first time. Says everyone at some point in their life. It's been difficult. I won't suppose. I know. Reaching out to other schizophrenics is like picking up someone else's phone, pounding the numbers until it rings, and saying "hello, it's me. You know me, right?" Asking someone to come in, when the sign on the door clearly reads "get the fuck out."
I'm trying. Please be patient. The heat has been stifling. Crush, baby. Crush. Who loves you? I do. You still keeping odd hours? That depends. Are you still on vacation? I don't know. Maybe you should think about writing during daylight hours. Maybe you should think about the kinds of questions you ask me. The city is large and I'm just one man. The country is larger, but I'm still just one man. Come with me if you want to see or don't. I won't fault you either way. Do you remember how you laughed in 2005 at that concert? No. But the tears have been uncontrollable since. A right sort riot. I can't go back, but I have to. Keep it down. Where are your sunglasses? I don't know. Let's get it right this time. I was born yesterday.
///Lo-Fidelity Allstars - "Valentine Boast" ... the greatest romance of the 21st century...
///The Orb - "Secrets" awed by tradition
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 orb. Show all posts
Showing posts with label orb. Show all posts
10/15/12
6/24/11
Take It Light and Hungry Muffins
I had this thought last night before work. I was foot loosing through some drafts of head poems that were approaching paper semi-permanence and what I was thinking about was a way to make the words more active. One of the problems with poetry is that it lends itself to passive construction, which is not always a bad thing as a starting point, but is a bad thing in the final deliverable. Poetry saddled up high and hard with passive constructions and ideas and sentences and fragments becomes burdensome pretty quickly.
The longer the poem the more noticeable the passive effect becomes and it's frustrating to me. For me it's a major obstacle most of the time. Taking a point of view out of a poem, making it neuter, or making it accessible and multiplicable, I guess open ended comes to mind, can also very quickly take so much focus out of it that it becomes a lot like staring at those damnable 3D art calendars that are supposed to be ships on the canals of Venice if you stare through them hard enough for an hour or two and that's not always what I want to create. Passivity leaves "so what"s dangling in the air afterward. Forgetability is probably the greatest symptom that tells you something bore too many passive structures to mean what it wanted to mean, whether by accident or on purpose. Which made me think some more as I tongued the words over and over to get a better angle.
What I struck on, and it's not new, is the idea that it's easy to write about being hungry, or being depraved, or being happy. The thing that adds in some separation between the people that can do that and the people that can write about hunger, the people that can write about depravity, and the people that can construct happiness is the conversion, successful conversion, of passive to active without losing parallels and loops and flurries of movement in meaning and senses that make words vibrate and condense into what could be considered a poem. Personally my definition of poetry is pretty wide. My professors never took too much of a shine to it, but whatever. They had Ph.Ds to work on or something. Skin tight jeans to squeeze into. Hair to gel. And tattoos to reveal corners of to beg questions from star eyed lyric junkie chicks. I assume. I'm pretty sure one was too busy to help me pass his class because he was way too busy cramming elements of his thesis into our heads to get raw useful material out of us that he could reincorporate later. Also too busy sucking his own cock. Which is beside the point.
I want to write not about being hungry, or being a muffin, or being asleep, but what I want to capture the verb state of hunger, the verbness of the muffin, the sensation of the sleeping and sometimes in the building it's so easy to slip off on passive bubbles and think I've accomplished something when in reality it was forgettable to everyone who wasn't there to see the furious action, the sparks, the welding, the rivet guns, and the workers high in the sky putting it all together and wrecking ballin' it back down and throwing it up again higher and higher and lower and lower.
I guess what I'm trying to say is I need to remember not to beat myself up over the work I love to do. At least not too hard. It is, afterall, my chosen line of work. The rest is just to make sure I have enough to keep on going until it's all done and all over. And that's what counts. So I say right now. From the top of a cresting wave of anti-comedown. From the edges of comfortable space.
Space has been treating me alright. I'm probably about to leave the inner system at some point. The view has been great. Miss the steady contact, but quite frankly it was unsustainable without help and on top of that it was as many parts discomfort as comfort. I don't know if all or nothing is reasonable, but it is a way. And for a plains walking spaceman it's the only way I've come to know for sure that let's me go as I mean to run on. So I take it. Light and sound. I don't really know if I'm gonna try to land again. Probably not. Gravity is for chumps.
On a totally unrelated note: I just realized that if I turn my chapstick all the way down there is virtually no way for it to get screwed up into the cap as it rubs against the sides of my pockets. Why did it take me damn near ten years of using chapsticks to figure that out!? Talk about essential information no one told me EVER. I mean, I'm sometimes not the fastest car on the track, but am I the last person in my peer group to figure this out? I suspect, quite possibly, yes.
///The Orb - "Spanish Castles in Space" After you come home from the longest day of work ever and lock your front door, put this on loud enough to hear it clearly no matter what you're doing. In the time it takes you to take your shoes off, take off your clothes, crack a beer, roll a joint, put on your homey clothes, and start to think about dinner and actually start to breath easy this song will sop it's way right into your brain and you won't even have realized it's whispering in your ear and all the bottom half of your brain can feel is the ocean lapping at your brain stem and your spine unwinding and you haven't done a damn thing to force the issue. It's just there. Actively soothing you.
The longer the poem the more noticeable the passive effect becomes and it's frustrating to me. For me it's a major obstacle most of the time. Taking a point of view out of a poem, making it neuter, or making it accessible and multiplicable, I guess open ended comes to mind, can also very quickly take so much focus out of it that it becomes a lot like staring at those damnable 3D art calendars that are supposed to be ships on the canals of Venice if you stare through them hard enough for an hour or two and that's not always what I want to create. Passivity leaves "so what"s dangling in the air afterward. Forgetability is probably the greatest symptom that tells you something bore too many passive structures to mean what it wanted to mean, whether by accident or on purpose. Which made me think some more as I tongued the words over and over to get a better angle.
What I struck on, and it's not new, is the idea that it's easy to write about being hungry, or being depraved, or being happy. The thing that adds in some separation between the people that can do that and the people that can write about hunger, the people that can write about depravity, and the people that can construct happiness is the conversion, successful conversion, of passive to active without losing parallels and loops and flurries of movement in meaning and senses that make words vibrate and condense into what could be considered a poem. Personally my definition of poetry is pretty wide. My professors never took too much of a shine to it, but whatever. They had Ph.Ds to work on or something. Skin tight jeans to squeeze into. Hair to gel. And tattoos to reveal corners of to beg questions from star eyed lyric junkie chicks. I assume. I'm pretty sure one was too busy to help me pass his class because he was way too busy cramming elements of his thesis into our heads to get raw useful material out of us that he could reincorporate later. Also too busy sucking his own cock. Which is beside the point.
I want to write not about being hungry, or being a muffin, or being asleep, but what I want to capture the verb state of hunger, the verbness of the muffin, the sensation of the sleeping and sometimes in the building it's so easy to slip off on passive bubbles and think I've accomplished something when in reality it was forgettable to everyone who wasn't there to see the furious action, the sparks, the welding, the rivet guns, and the workers high in the sky putting it all together and wrecking ballin' it back down and throwing it up again higher and higher and lower and lower.
I guess what I'm trying to say is I need to remember not to beat myself up over the work I love to do. At least not too hard. It is, afterall, my chosen line of work. The rest is just to make sure I have enough to keep on going until it's all done and all over. And that's what counts. So I say right now. From the top of a cresting wave of anti-comedown. From the edges of comfortable space.
Space has been treating me alright. I'm probably about to leave the inner system at some point. The view has been great. Miss the steady contact, but quite frankly it was unsustainable without help and on top of that it was as many parts discomfort as comfort. I don't know if all or nothing is reasonable, but it is a way. And for a plains walking spaceman it's the only way I've come to know for sure that let's me go as I mean to run on. So I take it. Light and sound. I don't really know if I'm gonna try to land again. Probably not. Gravity is for chumps.
On a totally unrelated note: I just realized that if I turn my chapstick all the way down there is virtually no way for it to get screwed up into the cap as it rubs against the sides of my pockets. Why did it take me damn near ten years of using chapsticks to figure that out!? Talk about essential information no one told me EVER. I mean, I'm sometimes not the fastest car on the track, but am I the last person in my peer group to figure this out? I suspect, quite possibly, yes.
///The Orb - "Spanish Castles in Space" After you come home from the longest day of work ever and lock your front door, put this on loud enough to hear it clearly no matter what you're doing. In the time it takes you to take your shoes off, take off your clothes, crack a beer, roll a joint, put on your homey clothes, and start to think about dinner and actually start to breath easy this song will sop it's way right into your brain and you won't even have realized it's whispering in your ear and all the bottom half of your brain can feel is the ocean lapping at your brain stem and your spine unwinding and you haven't done a damn thing to force the issue. It's just there. Actively soothing you.
3/23/11
Something's New Some Things Old
I've been looking at you all evening and trying not to move. It was putting off the inevitable. Well, I mean, I didn't have much to say before so I wrote what was floating on top because I don't have the equipment to go swimming with any guarantee of safety. Which is what I was worried about. Which is why I was trying not to move. Basically I didn't want to have to open my door. There were some strange happenings earlier and I was waiting for them to die down, but I've spoke too soon again. Unauthorized border crossings, if that makes sense. I don't have a grip on it like I thought I did. It's not something you can be okay or not okay with. It's just something that is and then you learn to live around it. It makes me jumpy during the day. It makes it so that you have to look and hear and make a complete judgement about an entire setting because you don't really have time to work through details in everyday life outside. It's disconcerting. So many times I just need more time to investigate to know.
I used to wear keys everywhere to remind myself that I was awake and moving around and to track time. It's nice to have the option of taking them off and not participating in the movement of time and place. Sometimes though it burns through and it feels like forced induction. I don't like being tracked. Well, not tracked, but followed. Physically. It makes me nervous. Whenever I'm walking and I hear the neighbor walking in the same direction I stop what I'm doing and do something else. It's not bad luck. I just don't want our lines coinciding. It's like using someone elses network. I don't want whatever's over there coming over here. There's enough wildlife over here as it is.
There was something I was supposed to do today that I didn't do while I was avoiding I don't know what it is. I'm trying not to think about it. They don't like being talked about so I'll skip it.
I'm thinking about starting another repository of words. I haven't decided yet. The formulation hasn't struck a critical mass of need, but it's getting there like a bad itch. I'm sorry. I just don't know much today. Something's coming and it's heart breaking because for once all I've been doing is watching the kids play cards on a throw rug and they're playing so well and everybody's home and I don't know why. Well, maintenance has suffered some. I don't want people to be afraid of me. I'm not just like you, but... but what? You don't have to hate being around me. I like being around you? I don't know. I thought I did. Where is it coming from? Something has been built and it's doing work and I don't know where to begin on it. On protecting the rest of me from its function. I don't even know what it does, but I do know its activity is dragging the guts out of the fabric and the stuff back there, inside there, needs to stay over there. It's like waking up and there's a gas leak and the gas has made you sleepy and high and sick and it needs to be fixed, but I'm not a gas specialist. I would look for the hissing, but everything is hissing. I can't leave. I live here. Proximity alarm. But what the hell am I close to? I haven't been paying attention and I ran out of channels.
It's not in the factory. I cleaned that out already. Well, not cleaned out, but repurposed. Actually, I wouldn't even go that far. Just moved some things to the junk yard like Russian submarine pens. I am scared to go to sleep tonight. Not because of tomorrow. Tomorrow will be good. I am scared of what's out there thats creeping through here and I wish I had something that would put me down cold for eight hours. I can option out of waking space sometimes. That's easy. Optioning out of sleep induction can't be done on will alone with any sort of success rate. I don't want to go there. It strikes me, or has struck me, just now how that has flipped. Somethings have come and gone. Just passing through. This one feels different. Whether I want answers or not, I'm going to get some fairly soon. I wish that knowing something is wrong could translate into fixes. Knowing your teeth are bad means you go to a dentist. Ir knowing you're about die of high cholesterol means eating differently. Knowing means nothing. It's like thinking it's about to rain ten pound stones. All you can really do is stay inside or find a bridge to huddle under with the rest of the stray souls till it's over.
///The Orb - "Montagne D'Or"
I used to wear keys everywhere to remind myself that I was awake and moving around and to track time. It's nice to have the option of taking them off and not participating in the movement of time and place. Sometimes though it burns through and it feels like forced induction. I don't like being tracked. Well, not tracked, but followed. Physically. It makes me nervous. Whenever I'm walking and I hear the neighbor walking in the same direction I stop what I'm doing and do something else. It's not bad luck. I just don't want our lines coinciding. It's like using someone elses network. I don't want whatever's over there coming over here. There's enough wildlife over here as it is.
There was something I was supposed to do today that I didn't do while I was avoiding I don't know what it is. I'm trying not to think about it. They don't like being talked about so I'll skip it.
I'm thinking about starting another repository of words. I haven't decided yet. The formulation hasn't struck a critical mass of need, but it's getting there like a bad itch. I'm sorry. I just don't know much today. Something's coming and it's heart breaking because for once all I've been doing is watching the kids play cards on a throw rug and they're playing so well and everybody's home and I don't know why. Well, maintenance has suffered some. I don't want people to be afraid of me. I'm not just like you, but... but what? You don't have to hate being around me. I like being around you? I don't know. I thought I did. Where is it coming from? Something has been built and it's doing work and I don't know where to begin on it. On protecting the rest of me from its function. I don't even know what it does, but I do know its activity is dragging the guts out of the fabric and the stuff back there, inside there, needs to stay over there. It's like waking up and there's a gas leak and the gas has made you sleepy and high and sick and it needs to be fixed, but I'm not a gas specialist. I would look for the hissing, but everything is hissing. I can't leave. I live here. Proximity alarm. But what the hell am I close to? I haven't been paying attention and I ran out of channels.
It's not in the factory. I cleaned that out already. Well, not cleaned out, but repurposed. Actually, I wouldn't even go that far. Just moved some things to the junk yard like Russian submarine pens. I am scared to go to sleep tonight. Not because of tomorrow. Tomorrow will be good. I am scared of what's out there thats creeping through here and I wish I had something that would put me down cold for eight hours. I can option out of waking space sometimes. That's easy. Optioning out of sleep induction can't be done on will alone with any sort of success rate. I don't want to go there. It strikes me, or has struck me, just now how that has flipped. Somethings have come and gone. Just passing through. This one feels different. Whether I want answers or not, I'm going to get some fairly soon. I wish that knowing something is wrong could translate into fixes. Knowing your teeth are bad means you go to a dentist. Ir knowing you're about die of high cholesterol means eating differently. Knowing means nothing. It's like thinking it's about to rain ten pound stones. All you can really do is stay inside or find a bridge to huddle under with the rest of the stray souls till it's over.
///The Orb - "Montagne D'Or"
7/21/10
"Weed Is For Slackers..."
...a good friend of mine once said a long time ago. I wasn't arguing. I think the fist she drove into her open palm for good emphasis was directed mainly at the "across the hall" neighbor (who ended up working for Microsoft somehow) and their fragrant escapades.
Not that you would ever doubt me (or that I would ever doubt myself... EVER...) this is where Bits is at right now. I have not been slacking:
I'm ironing out the php and creating page templates from scritcha scratch so that they do exactly what I want them to, every single time I ask them to. It makes it a little bit easier since I plan on doing all of the graphics for it, but also it'll be a nice thing to put on my resume when it's done. The wealth of knowledge I'm gaining from this project is enormous. At first it was like trying to bite into an uncut watermelon straight off of the vine, but through ceaselessly kicking that mother fucker I've broken it up into pieces that sort of fit in my mouth (or at least fit in my hands comfortably enough to chuck them at the birds outside my window when I get really frustrated, which is almost as satisfying, but I digress).
I now know more about sql, php, js, and web hosting than I ever thought I would. The best thing about it is that sitting down at my terminal feels less like walking up to the black mouth of a cave belonging to an agitated dragon, and feels much more like going to visit a somewhat grumpy uncle. I guess I'm trying to say that the thing has finally become doable. I can look at the code and csv and the tables and css and I can see what they're doing between the lines.
It's like if Tony Montana did so much coke that he finally became permanently wired and no longer needed coke to become super Tony. Or like Peter Pan smoking so much pixie dust that... I'm not really sure if this is making sense anymore. I've been up way too late.
Onward to the morning star. Well I wanted to do a drawing for you. It was going to be a self portrait. Then I wanted to make a teddy bear face. In the end this is what came out of my head. I'm not happy with it. But more than unhappiness, I don't want to have nothing to show for the past hour of my life, sorry in advance:
Hopefully next efforts will turn out better in that department.
///The Orb - "Vuja De" "It's the way that you hold me."
Not that you would ever doubt me (or that I would ever doubt myself... EVER...) this is where Bits is at right now. I have not been slacking:
I'm ironing out the php and creating page templates from scritcha scratch so that they do exactly what I want them to, every single time I ask them to. It makes it a little bit easier since I plan on doing all of the graphics for it, but also it'll be a nice thing to put on my resume when it's done. The wealth of knowledge I'm gaining from this project is enormous. At first it was like trying to bite into an uncut watermelon straight off of the vine, but through ceaselessly kicking that mother fucker I've broken it up into pieces that sort of fit in my mouth (or at least fit in my hands comfortably enough to chuck them at the birds outside my window when I get really frustrated, which is almost as satisfying, but I digress).
I now know more about sql, php, js, and web hosting than I ever thought I would. The best thing about it is that sitting down at my terminal feels less like walking up to the black mouth of a cave belonging to an agitated dragon, and feels much more like going to visit a somewhat grumpy uncle. I guess I'm trying to say that the thing has finally become doable. I can look at the code and csv and the tables and css and I can see what they're doing between the lines.
It's like if Tony Montana did so much coke that he finally became permanently wired and no longer needed coke to become super Tony. Or like Peter Pan smoking so much pixie dust that... I'm not really sure if this is making sense anymore. I've been up way too late.
Onward to the morning star. Well I wanted to do a drawing for you. It was going to be a self portrait. Then I wanted to make a teddy bear face. In the end this is what came out of my head. I'm not happy with it. But more than unhappiness, I don't want to have nothing to show for the past hour of my life, sorry in advance:
Hopefully next efforts will turn out better in that department.
///The Orb - "Vuja De" "It's the way that you hold me."
2/27/07
bronchitis, herbs, and stories 02/27/07
Subject : bronchitis, herbs, and stories
Posted Date: : Feb 27, 2007 11:56 AM
ive decided im going to face my fears and watch brazil. the last time i saw this movie i was really young. it was back when mtv still had a space man logo as their chief advertising gimmick and nickelodeon still had a song to sing a long to. Rocko's modern life was still really popular and ren and stimpy was not all but forgotten by everyone except the casual stoner. The last time i saw this movie was like the first time i saw kafka... fucking frightening. I just remember a guy in a porcelain baby mask getting shot in the back of the head by some tall, dark, and blonde woman and his brains firing out through his forehead onto the camera. and i also vaguely remember another scene where there were two men in air tight suits that were filled with feces through tubes until they exploded. obviously not the best material for children.
which reminds me... i need to watch time bandits again sometime cuz that movie was really good even though it was unbelievably long and hard to follow for my 13 year old brain.
Anyway... in other news. I'm writing a parody of the emo dissillusionment black tragedy. I call it black tragedy because it is invariably laced with black comedy, despite its tragic content. Movies like the virgin suicides and american beauty (among others) really tick me off sometimes because they can get to be formulaic. So I realized that the problem isnt the formula, the problem is me. I don't like the formula, but a lot of other people love it... thus i will write a subtle parody, using the formula, to win acclaim. That way I and the other people, who hate that formulaic, unresolved ending, emotional crap, will have something to laugh to ourselves about, while the less narratively inclined readers will have something to say "oh, what a profound commentary on the humanity of adolescents and maturity impaired adults that was." a win-win and win situation.
also... having successfully gotten over bronchitis... well actually i should say having successfully begun to get over bronchitis i am considering alternatives to the occassional cigarette and i think i've found something interesting... herbs. not like pot herbs or potted herbs but like flower herbs that are smokable. they dont produce nicotine or tar when smoked and can be quite fragrant... which makes me wonder what the downside is. im pretty sure its bronchitis if smoked habitually... but if that's it then i simply wonder why people don't smoke more herbs all the time? it seems like fun. you even get a complimentary pipe with your first purchase. how bout them apples. so i think im gonna try it. im not looking for a marijuana high or anything close. I just want to see if its an enjoyable past time while I do other things like... blog... or ... read ... or something. we shall see.
///orb - "secrets" 'as we look at the weather map we see a forecast with sub-zero temperatures with tomorrows temperatures a continued mild- continued mild?' spring is coming. I can already feel it in the air. This is my favorite time of year... when it can still snow hard as all hell the first half of the week and then be light jacket and t-shirt weather for the other half. beauty.
Posted Date: : Feb 27, 2007 11:56 AM
ive decided im going to face my fears and watch brazil. the last time i saw this movie i was really young. it was back when mtv still had a space man logo as their chief advertising gimmick and nickelodeon still had a song to sing a long to. Rocko's modern life was still really popular and ren and stimpy was not all but forgotten by everyone except the casual stoner. The last time i saw this movie was like the first time i saw kafka... fucking frightening. I just remember a guy in a porcelain baby mask getting shot in the back of the head by some tall, dark, and blonde woman and his brains firing out through his forehead onto the camera. and i also vaguely remember another scene where there were two men in air tight suits that were filled with feces through tubes until they exploded. obviously not the best material for children.
which reminds me... i need to watch time bandits again sometime cuz that movie was really good even though it was unbelievably long and hard to follow for my 13 year old brain.
Anyway... in other news. I'm writing a parody of the emo dissillusionment black tragedy. I call it black tragedy because it is invariably laced with black comedy, despite its tragic content. Movies like the virgin suicides and american beauty (among others) really tick me off sometimes because they can get to be formulaic. So I realized that the problem isnt the formula, the problem is me. I don't like the formula, but a lot of other people love it... thus i will write a subtle parody, using the formula, to win acclaim. That way I and the other people, who hate that formulaic, unresolved ending, emotional crap, will have something to laugh to ourselves about, while the less narratively inclined readers will have something to say "oh, what a profound commentary on the humanity of adolescents and maturity impaired adults that was." a win-win and win situation.
also... having successfully gotten over bronchitis... well actually i should say having successfully begun to get over bronchitis i am considering alternatives to the occassional cigarette and i think i've found something interesting... herbs. not like pot herbs or potted herbs but like flower herbs that are smokable. they dont produce nicotine or tar when smoked and can be quite fragrant... which makes me wonder what the downside is. im pretty sure its bronchitis if smoked habitually... but if that's it then i simply wonder why people don't smoke more herbs all the time? it seems like fun. you even get a complimentary pipe with your first purchase. how bout them apples. so i think im gonna try it. im not looking for a marijuana high or anything close. I just want to see if its an enjoyable past time while I do other things like... blog... or ... read ... or something. we shall see.
///orb - "secrets" 'as we look at the weather map we see a forecast with sub-zero temperatures with tomorrows temperatures a continued mild- continued mild?' spring is coming. I can already feel it in the air. This is my favorite time of year... when it can still snow hard as all hell the first half of the week and then be light jacket and t-shirt weather for the other half. beauty.
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