You've heard it before. For this and that. How about, after 30, you get to hit undo on one impossible to fix character trait? Just one and it has to be something long established and impossible to undo because it is so far ingrained into the base mechanics of your brain functioning that trying to eradicate it will destroy layers upon layers upon layers of other vital systems and courses and circuitry that are highly desirable.
Consider it an inoperable cancer. Because that is exactly what it is. It will be the death of you and you cannot live without its growth. Its eradication will mean your own extinction as well. It will die when you do. That.
If I had an undo button I would use it on my rage and aggression. The seeds were planted and nursed to seedlings in youth. Agitated and metastasized through adolescence and bloomed through young adulthood. Now the tree of might grows in my yard constantly and every season I have to go in and clean up all the rotting stuff that falls. Stare at them ripening knowing the best way to take care of it is to wait for it to fall. Knowing I have to, must to, gots to, wait it out and tend to it and if it dies it will only be because my heart stopped too. @#$% you, tree. Well after my father dies, I will still have that tree peering in my windows. Shadowing my kids while they play, picking up bats and swatting the little things every fall. Kicking them around. Wondering what they are and if they're edible. Tasting them anyway.
Myself watching them, if they ever do land. Firing cusses at him. My kids will think that tree was always there, because that's all they'll ever have known. "Doesn't everyone have a rage tree?" "Why don't you cut it down? The yard would be so much better without it." I know. I know.
I want an undo button for that. The schizophrenia, the paranoia, the anxiety, depression, mania, twin poles, I can deal with those fairly effectively except when I don't. The absolute rage is the hardest to bridle and if you screw it up people disappear and then so do you. Forever. I can't afford to make that mistake again. Ever.
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 passive construction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label passive construction. Show all posts
6/12/15
11/25/13
Atari
Going back in time to enjoy the things I love. It has been strange hanging out with people I've only just met and their siblings. The day before was silly violent and antagonized by the middle child in her family. Her being the middle child and antagonizing everyone around her. She was the back end of an eight banger. It was difficult to identify and made more hilarious by our friend asking if he could bang her older sister. I'm pretty sure it was not up to me or her sister's fiance. Pretty sure whether or not she wanted to get mucky was and still is completely up to her. You can come along for the ride if you want to.
"I've sucked enough dicks in my life." ~ Tammy
We had this ongoing bet about how long it would take before she ran to history no one else knew, and I chimed in,but it was half hearted. I just wanted to belong in the conversation. Not a pissing contest of abuse as much as a revisiting of the things that inform and continue to inform our existence. It's kind of like driving a car. Think about it this way: put in 40 degrees of left input to your road facing wheels and they will turn fifteen degrees. Learning compensation. Learning how much you actually do burn when you proclaim you've torched it to soil.
It really is that simple though and that laughable and that much more enjoyable than trying to slug away one for one. That much more enjoyable than trying to get one unit of output for each understood unit of input. Existence does not work that way. There are boosters constantly. Whether you like it or not, everything that you do is boosted and amplified upon reception. It's the combat feedback loop. I hit you. How hard did I hit you? Seven? Six? How hard will you hit me back? At least a six. What will I feel a six is? Put a number on it. At least a five, but you don't know so tag me at least at a six, but that six comes in at an eight because I already ate a six and you know that because you've been hurt before and know what a six feels like and know I probably played it soft and a jump cut is in order.
Into the flame, into the fire. I have a lot of love pent up and no way to spend it. Why you no want to cuddle no more?
Fucking cowards.
Sometimes we have to back off because we know they will take it the wrong way and run with it. Does it hurt to be alone? Sure. Does it hurt enough to make changes? No. One thing I've learned about myself is that distance is still necessary. What I view as an appropriate relationship is still not, by and large, viewed the same way and it's not heartbreaking the way it used to be. It used to break me apart in fantastic ways and now it's more of a "okay, we're here right now. Option A, B, and J." Cash out now, because two more steps will lead to two more steps will lead to two more steps will lead to two more steps and we're at J anyway.
I'm getting back to the things I love and it's been difficult. It's been a battles by turn. I have been trying not to think about it, but the successful artists I know had a pretty solid backing before they had outside backing making their whiles worth something. I want to cut their faces off and wear them and drink the blood that trickles into my mouth while I talk behind their skin and I want to be able to talk to them about it, but "that's not okay." And still they call themselves artists and photographers in the meantime never having actually known what the mean times really are. I'm no teacher, but I am willing to crash course them.
Stop cock teasing me. Stop front loading me. I cannot handle that kind of nonsense. Take your vacations and enjoy your languages, but do not fucking... ....I'm going to war. There are rules. Aligning with my own. Measures not drastic.
Deterioration. Leaving memories at least as fast as they come. I drive toward new ones as constantly as I can because there really is nowhere else to be and I am okay with that. It's a riot. I feel silly sometimes bending over to pick up the shards of myself and sometimes the entire exercise feels machinated. What I really want to do is tattoo you and have you tattoo me whatever you want. Battling down the brain chiggies. The glitch farm.
I could look back in time, but it won't change the view. The hardest I ever cheated was kissing another woman and being truthful about it. What makes you okay? Violently successful people who don't understand how they were set up to succeed aggravate me. Everything they know are things I should have known when they did, but had to learn later because, like those post coin op machines with the news on their face, I had no coins to insert and no nudge on top of that to pay attention to them and am now taking notice and am now earning quarters to slot in and am now getting up to speed with and am not mad about it. A little sorry, but not mad.
Through the TV eye. A wrecka. I said "hey!" Being bummy with no standards is okay. I'm not going to hurt you if you promise not to hurt me. Dhali Lama and llama beans and trying to be profound in every little thing. It's silly. The outside world bleeds in and the inside world bleeds out and really i just want you to say you're sorry. Even that will be and is meaningless because I won't remember it until I'm steamed and wishing I was not so forgettable.
Power. Something cosmic. It takes a lot out of me to be here and I know it takes a lot out of you to be here with me. Diet on anxiety. I wish I could fill my stomach whenever I wanted to, but I've been grained to the scale of rice to need as little as possible and digest want as a hack hazard that is a crumple zone. I want to be a foodie. I really do. Up chucked bringing to do more with less.
Every time I get something new to me I expect it to break down immediately or somehow fail me because no one gives something valuable to them up for grabs. Except people like me who do not deal in currency. Your word is your word. Your bond is your bond. Everything starts and ends at that initial hand shake. No farther and no less. Things new to me are things old and decrepit to others. Not a revitalization as much as a re-purposing. There is love in that.
Time elapsed, time remaining.
There was this one time I set my cat's whiskers to flame, not understanding that he was made of fur. The whiskers caught and burned down to his coat and we were both surprised at how fast it was able to go. Needless to say, or perhaps, for everyone's sake, we never got that ticky tacky mad again, but if I need to I know some good out of the way spots to bury you if you want to roll those dice. I'm a bad liar and a good forgetter. Push upstairs ;")
I will play asteroids with you for days.
///Daedelus - "My Beau" at night, I think of you and do not call because our wars are different and mounting a head after a battle means something wildly different to me than it does to you, no slight
"I've sucked enough dicks in my life." ~ Tammy
We had this ongoing bet about how long it would take before she ran to history no one else knew, and I chimed in,but it was half hearted. I just wanted to belong in the conversation. Not a pissing contest of abuse as much as a revisiting of the things that inform and continue to inform our existence. It's kind of like driving a car. Think about it this way: put in 40 degrees of left input to your road facing wheels and they will turn fifteen degrees. Learning compensation. Learning how much you actually do burn when you proclaim you've torched it to soil.
It really is that simple though and that laughable and that much more enjoyable than trying to slug away one for one. That much more enjoyable than trying to get one unit of output for each understood unit of input. Existence does not work that way. There are boosters constantly. Whether you like it or not, everything that you do is boosted and amplified upon reception. It's the combat feedback loop. I hit you. How hard did I hit you? Seven? Six? How hard will you hit me back? At least a six. What will I feel a six is? Put a number on it. At least a five, but you don't know so tag me at least at a six, but that six comes in at an eight because I already ate a six and you know that because you've been hurt before and know what a six feels like and know I probably played it soft and a jump cut is in order.
Into the flame, into the fire. I have a lot of love pent up and no way to spend it. Why you no want to cuddle no more?
Fucking cowards.
Sometimes we have to back off because we know they will take it the wrong way and run with it. Does it hurt to be alone? Sure. Does it hurt enough to make changes? No. One thing I've learned about myself is that distance is still necessary. What I view as an appropriate relationship is still not, by and large, viewed the same way and it's not heartbreaking the way it used to be. It used to break me apart in fantastic ways and now it's more of a "okay, we're here right now. Option A, B, and J." Cash out now, because two more steps will lead to two more steps will lead to two more steps will lead to two more steps and we're at J anyway.
I'm getting back to the things I love and it's been difficult. It's been a battles by turn. I have been trying not to think about it, but the successful artists I know had a pretty solid backing before they had outside backing making their whiles worth something. I want to cut their faces off and wear them and drink the blood that trickles into my mouth while I talk behind their skin and I want to be able to talk to them about it, but "that's not okay." And still they call themselves artists and photographers in the meantime never having actually known what the mean times really are. I'm no teacher, but I am willing to crash course them.
Stop cock teasing me. Stop front loading me. I cannot handle that kind of nonsense. Take your vacations and enjoy your languages, but do not fucking... ....I'm going to war. There are rules. Aligning with my own. Measures not drastic.
Deterioration. Leaving memories at least as fast as they come. I drive toward new ones as constantly as I can because there really is nowhere else to be and I am okay with that. It's a riot. I feel silly sometimes bending over to pick up the shards of myself and sometimes the entire exercise feels machinated. What I really want to do is tattoo you and have you tattoo me whatever you want. Battling down the brain chiggies. The glitch farm.
I could look back in time, but it won't change the view. The hardest I ever cheated was kissing another woman and being truthful about it. What makes you okay? Violently successful people who don't understand how they were set up to succeed aggravate me. Everything they know are things I should have known when they did, but had to learn later because, like those post coin op machines with the news on their face, I had no coins to insert and no nudge on top of that to pay attention to them and am now taking notice and am now earning quarters to slot in and am now getting up to speed with and am not mad about it. A little sorry, but not mad.
Through the TV eye. A wrecka. I said "hey!" Being bummy with no standards is okay. I'm not going to hurt you if you promise not to hurt me. Dhali Lama and llama beans and trying to be profound in every little thing. It's silly. The outside world bleeds in and the inside world bleeds out and really i just want you to say you're sorry. Even that will be and is meaningless because I won't remember it until I'm steamed and wishing I was not so forgettable.
Power. Something cosmic. It takes a lot out of me to be here and I know it takes a lot out of you to be here with me. Diet on anxiety. I wish I could fill my stomach whenever I wanted to, but I've been grained to the scale of rice to need as little as possible and digest want as a hack hazard that is a crumple zone. I want to be a foodie. I really do. Up chucked bringing to do more with less.
Every time I get something new to me I expect it to break down immediately or somehow fail me because no one gives something valuable to them up for grabs. Except people like me who do not deal in currency. Your word is your word. Your bond is your bond. Everything starts and ends at that initial hand shake. No farther and no less. Things new to me are things old and decrepit to others. Not a revitalization as much as a re-purposing. There is love in that.
Time elapsed, time remaining.
There was this one time I set my cat's whiskers to flame, not understanding that he was made of fur. The whiskers caught and burned down to his coat and we were both surprised at how fast it was able to go. Needless to say, or perhaps, for everyone's sake, we never got that ticky tacky mad again, but if I need to I know some good out of the way spots to bury you if you want to roll those dice. I'm a bad liar and a good forgetter. Push upstairs ;")
I will play asteroids with you for days.
///Daedelus - "My Beau" at night, I think of you and do not call because our wars are different and mounting a head after a battle means something wildly different to me than it does to you, no slight
9/15/12
Cell By Cell
Had a bad run in with myself. I'm laughing just saying it and hearing that phrase come out of my mouth and wondering how it is still possible. Still possible to mount surprise attacks on my own fortress. Woke up today in a fine mess of pain. The important thing is the drought is over. I had to break some ground to get at the well. Wake myself up again. The dreaming has been fantastic. I wish I could sleep forever, but that's unreasonable. Not irrational. There's a difference sometimes. Even in my country.
It is odd, I do suppose. The sensation of being outside yourself and watching the sublet drive it straight into empty air on the wrong side of a cliff. It's nice to be back. It always is, even though I know it won't last and never does. Pull the circuit board out and wave it in the wind until it stops smoking. Pop out the fried resistors and solder in some new ones with the same ratings; their the biggest baddest ones you can get on the street. Slide the board back in and fire it up. Note the time and date. Log the lost information and missing sectors. Build new ones in the virtual environment. Repopulate. Repeat as necessary.
Reconstruction. It's like a gunman went cell by cell through the complex. Cell by cell through the prison and gunned down every inmate. It's an unfamiliar quiet. And then you remember you told someone you were a sociopath trapped in a citizen body. I wonder what Jeff's doing right now. I wonder if he'll take my call on a Saturday even though I'm not seeing him anymore. I don't know what he would have to say. He said if I ever thought of a good joke I should drop him a line. Psychiatrists. I've been trying since our last meeting two years ago to think of one and for the life of me I can't.
He'll laugh anyway, to make me feel less awkward and it'll work. Maybe I just want to hear him laugh. He'd be proud of the work I was doing. He wouldn't entirely get it, but that's fine. Poetry is a fickle beast. Half the time I don't get it either. He'll put it up on his fridge if I wrote him something on the couch. He'll take it down after I leave and add it to my file. I wonder if he still has that file. Probably not. I vaguely remember him telling me, when I told him I was thinking about joining the army, that he is obligated to destroy records older than seven years.
I miss him. I had a bad run in with myself. I'm laughing just saying it out loud. How did this happen? Why? I don't understand. I like to think it's somewhere down that rabbit hole. I used to wonder if I was color blind. Then I stopped worrying about it. I think I scratched my eye ball yesterday. I miss his note taking. You might be out of your god damn mind. Eventually he stopped taking notes. Which was fine. It is kind of a tall order getting to know someone that close out of nowhere without taking notes. I wonder sometimes what he was doing or expecting his week to be like that first Monday I walked in there. I wonder if he still thinks about me too. If I still populate his cells.
///El-P - "Stay Down"
It is odd, I do suppose. The sensation of being outside yourself and watching the sublet drive it straight into empty air on the wrong side of a cliff. It's nice to be back. It always is, even though I know it won't last and never does. Pull the circuit board out and wave it in the wind until it stops smoking. Pop out the fried resistors and solder in some new ones with the same ratings; their the biggest baddest ones you can get on the street. Slide the board back in and fire it up. Note the time and date. Log the lost information and missing sectors. Build new ones in the virtual environment. Repopulate. Repeat as necessary.
Reconstruction. It's like a gunman went cell by cell through the complex. Cell by cell through the prison and gunned down every inmate. It's an unfamiliar quiet. And then you remember you told someone you were a sociopath trapped in a citizen body. I wonder what Jeff's doing right now. I wonder if he'll take my call on a Saturday even though I'm not seeing him anymore. I don't know what he would have to say. He said if I ever thought of a good joke I should drop him a line. Psychiatrists. I've been trying since our last meeting two years ago to think of one and for the life of me I can't.
He'll laugh anyway, to make me feel less awkward and it'll work. Maybe I just want to hear him laugh. He'd be proud of the work I was doing. He wouldn't entirely get it, but that's fine. Poetry is a fickle beast. Half the time I don't get it either. He'll put it up on his fridge if I wrote him something on the couch. He'll take it down after I leave and add it to my file. I wonder if he still has that file. Probably not. I vaguely remember him telling me, when I told him I was thinking about joining the army, that he is obligated to destroy records older than seven years.
I miss him. I had a bad run in with myself. I'm laughing just saying it out loud. How did this happen? Why? I don't understand. I like to think it's somewhere down that rabbit hole. I used to wonder if I was color blind. Then I stopped worrying about it. I think I scratched my eye ball yesterday. I miss his note taking. You might be out of your god damn mind. Eventually he stopped taking notes. Which was fine. It is kind of a tall order getting to know someone that close out of nowhere without taking notes. I wonder sometimes what he was doing or expecting his week to be like that first Monday I walked in there. I wonder if he still thinks about me too. If I still populate his cells.
///El-P - "Stay Down"
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.
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