Time To Shed, Or What They Call Its

Molt.  Molting.  It takes some time.

We have backed ourselves into a new corner.

Bare teeth.  You know I can always see

what you really are!

Scared?  Of course.  Unimaginably so.

Conscious?  Yes.  The pain scale is new.

Familiar?  No.  Unfortunately no.





///to be continued

What Half The Country Said

I can't stop bursting into tears every few hours.  Food won't stay in me when I do try to force myself to eat.  It's heart rending.  My body is physically rejecting reality like an immune system trying to defeat a bacterial infection.  Half of the country would prefer you don't exist.  Half of the country said that you are what's wrong with the country.  Half of the country said you are worthless.   Half of the country said do us a favor and keep it moving.  Sickening.  Half of the country said your life is good enough, you should be happy no one is tying you to a tree and that should be good enough for you.  Half of the country said we don't want to be bothered with you anymore.  Go away.

I wish I could fucking disappear.  Just evaporate into thin air.  Maybe you voted for him because he had that one campaign promise that you could really get behind.  Maybe you voted for him because Hillary is a woman and you just can't have a woman in an office with that much responsibility.  Maybe you voted for him because you flipped a coin and whatever it landed on was what you were going to vote.  Maybe you voted for him because you truly believe some of what he says or you thought he's a strong leader capable of leading America back to some made up glory from the past.  Whatever reason you found for yourself, whatever mental gymnastics you made yourself do: what you said with that vote was fucking get out of our lives because we are sick of you and this country is not for you, it is for us.  I want to kill myself.

You may continue to justify your vote with "well, I don't believe that and I don't think he really thinks that.  I love minorities.  I'm friends with them.  I love women, they should have the same rights as men and jobs..." oh of course.  "He only said that to get people riled up.  He tells it like it is, but he doesn't mean what he says..." you are so full of insane bile it is nauseating.  If you are willing to overlook everything he stands for to find the one thing you can hold on to and make yourself okay with casting a vote for him you are saying you are okay with everything else about him and can get behind everything he says.  You cannot pick and pull little bits here and there and throw blinders on toward the rest of the hatred and disgust.  That's like riding in a car with some people who are on their way to beat someone to death and shrugging because you're in the car to get a lift from your house to the store.  What the fuck should you care who gets beaten lifeless, it wasn't you holding a chain or bat, hell you didn't even get out of the car and turned the radio up when they stopped.

What you said with your vote was disappear.  I wish I could.  My body will stop convulsing soon.  I'll get back in to the movement of life.  Half of the people I see I will wonder what hatred is hiding underneath that smiley "good day, to you" mask.  What part of his hate speech is inside you word for word that you've managed to mask with "I like his healthcare ideas."  What part of his hate speech is inside you, but with a gentler paraphrase because you would never say it that way exactly.  I will wonder what fears lie behind half of their eyes.  I can't kill myself.  You'll always be there and disappearing won't change how you feel.  My pain will always be there and I'll have to learn to live with this latest greatest example.  I'm just tired of fighting and trying to fit in around the margins near the shadows.  What you said with your vote will never not be disgusting, will never not bring tears to my eyes.  You say get over it, we've come so far since slavery.  What half the country said with their vote with proud chests and big smiles begs to differ.

Bonus Track 2

waiting for the button to be pressed for the awesome release of good work to be done, good baby sweet barbecue jesus on a spit, push the damn button that turns that light from red to green, honey bear!




///Django Django - (Wor)  you have to know who you are wearing your leash for and when that alarm goes...  you know you have to go from zero to all in .2 seconds.  i hate waiting.  rumble rumble rumble.   it is not time to ring the bell yet.  i cannot wait for the next project to sink my teeth into.  it's gotten to a point of physical discomfort thinking about it.  i cannot wait to see the next house.  i am going to eat it with great glory by moonlight and teeth large enough to fit a megalodon skeleton

The Rage Tank

When I see you.  When I see myself with you.  I wonder: what does he have that I do not.

I see that he has a several few things.  A successful family and a family that communicates with itself.  A family that loves and is open.  Brothers and sisters that can get along.  And then I look at myself.

A family with a brother that can get along with one sister.  A sister foreign.  Another brother that is foreign.  Extended family that is all strangers.

I ask myself what I actually have to offer and the answer is pretty stark.  Pretty stark and pretty pretty in it's own way.  Pretty pretty in it's own way, but damn near not the same.

What do you want to be associated with?  By definition, that.








I ask myself every day.

I tell myself 'nough said.



I hate myself more and love myself more.

I ask myself what do I need to do more to be more accessible and then I ask myself what I need to do to be more of a person.  I have no idea.  In all consuming rage everything makes sense.  I think we were working around that.  No?

The rage tank is deep and has many chambers.  We will explore them soon.                                                                                          

Undo Button

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.

Dear (_____)

Dear rage,

you have never treated me well.  Over the years or the moments. Some say you can be shed with meditation or prayer.  Some say you can be shed with practice of sorts.  Can I say none of those soothe sayers have known rage in its most easily digestible, most accessible, most virulent form?

Sincerely,

a lover

The Two Dimensional Garage, Jury Duty, and the Furnace

I continue to not eat.  I don't know why.  Well, I do know why: it's very difficult to do regularly.  In short, it's hard.  That's not a reason.  That doesn't qualify as a reason.  That's an excuse.  It's a reason!  I know it's a reason because I like food.  I like shopping for food.  I like looking at food.  I like cleaning and preparing food.  I simply cannot eat it and I don't know why it is so difficult to get food from in front of me to inside of me.

Eating with people is still so strange and, for the most part, to be avoided.  It's incredibly uncomfortable.  It makes my forearms itch to watch and listen to it.  It's not disgusting, but mechanically it's draining to be around, and then people ask you why you're not eating and it turns into a whole thing and just thinking about it now I want to vomit.  It's difficult to do.  I don't understand it.  I try to do it, the feeding, but even two a day is a break through.  Once is enough.  Get it down and out of the way and forget about it.  Go to bed.  Sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep.  You can't run yourself into trouble if you're asleep.

I'm not sure what.  You can see all of the colors and the sun's light and clouds and birds and it flattens  and smears out to gray.  There are things you have to do.  Things that must be done.  Feeding, washing, resting.  Sometimes it feels like a two dimensional garage.  A plastic play place facsimile of garage where everything is laid out inside white lines.  You get up and everything is numbered in order.  You take this off and put that on, brush this, comb through that, turn knobs here and there, check your fuel gauge, off to work little guy, home, and into bed to lie awake until your brain turns itself off.

There's nothing special.  There's nothing important.  There's nothing pressing.  There's nothing.  The routine is critically important.  The more rigid the better, I used to think.  I'm not so sure.  With familiarity, brutal and starkly lit familiarity, there are fewer opportunities for mistakes, misreadings, miscues, misses.  All of them.  Destructive and damaging misses.  Misses that can affect my relationships with friends or neighbors and strangers.  Fewer opportunities for misses that can lead to depressions and emotional collapses.  Fewer opportunities for problems to arise all across the board, because of something I saw or heard and reacted to or engaged with that later proved to never have existed at all beyond my own eyes.

Brute force coping.  Except even that fails and begins to deteriorate and then you can't be at work and you can't be at home either and you hide from them by sleeping as much as you possibly can and maybe this time when you wake up they'll be gone and they're not and you're quietly terrified and you can't be out of the house for too long, and you can't be awake for too long.  They'll know.  Turn your world into a two dimensional garage and nail the windows shut and paint them black so they can't get inside and they won't be able to tell if anyone is awake at night by candle light.  To be safe and certain.  They'll try to fool you, but you know.  You know what you have to do to live.  It's all laid out by numbers and if something goes missing you know exactly what it is because its outline will be there in its absence.

I've tried for years to understand it.  I say tried, but it is not as though the attempts to understand it have reached their conclusion.  They are ongoing.  It is very difficult to prioritize.  There are many things to complete, and all they all strike me as the same.  Eating or a glass of water are as important as going to work or placing critical phone calls.  As important or as unimportant.  Prioritization has stepped away and I don't know where exactly to.  I want to feel the sensation of hot blood across the surface of my skin.  I am trying to summon the rage that fills and fires the furnace that can push me forward into and through a day or a week.  By the end, there isn't much left.  The weekend or the month's end will be composed of reassembling what is left of the furnace when I have to use it and over use it.  Picking up and bending sections and pieces back into place for having to contain for lengths and lengths of time roiling licks of anger and sheer rage.

I hate myself.  I hate having to force on smiles and eat back tears and shake hands.  I hate that I have so much trouble getting into and keeping jobs.  I'm lucky enough to have a position now that is fairly flexible and accommodating.  I'm afraid of the day the unpredictable nature of my disorder will strike me with no warning with a ferocity and depth of intensity that I.  I just don't want to hurt anyone.  Often I've said my main desire in this life is to be left alone, but that's not because I want to be left alone.

Isolation is the only way.  Every day I know I am going to die alone.  I cannot be married.  I cannot raise children.  I cannot take care of someone else.  I cannot ask someone to help me take care of myself.  I completely understand.  It would not be fair.  Beyond fairness, and the idea that trying to build a home with someone who is afflicted and, for lack of a better word, damaged it would be hazardous on many other levels.  At least isolated there is a very large zone of dead space, neutral space, physically speaking, but isolated there is also a zone of communications that can be closed off and shut down until a time arises when they can be safely used again.  Whatever damage is done is localized and hopefully hidden from those who would be part of relationships tended.  That way when communications and visitations resume they can be pursued with the cues and tips and exchanges of normalcy and proportions near normalcy that govern civil life.

Which brings me to jury duty.  There was the questionaire about all of the reasons why the prosecution or the defense may not want to select you for their trial and I came to the line item of: do you have any mental or physical disabilities that may impair your ability to perform the duties ... to paraphrase.  I don't have a prescription anymore.  That lapsed so long ago I can't remember the specific year.  I don't have paperwork.  I hate saying "what's wrong with me", but I tried to describe, during the interview portion when they ask you about your particular survey answers, what was wrong with me.  It was terribly uncomfortable though they smiled a lot,but it was the evil smile.  Not the understanding smile.  You can't ask everyone to understand.  They won't get it.  If I struggle to grasp it myself, how can I ask someone else to?

Several hours later, we had to sit for all of the interviews even though we knew we weren't going to be selected, I still thought about it.  There are many things I should not be allowed to do and serve on a jury is among them.  It's upsetting.  Feel fractional because you are.  Parts of your mind are missing or maybe it's that there are many more glitches on top of and laced throughout what is supposed to be there, what is standard equipment, and there is no way to clean or tear down and rebuild the system free of them without killing yourself in the process.  Feel and know that you'll never quite be up to par with anyone, as long as you live and know that it probably will not be all that much longer.  Maybe another 30 or so years.  Maybe less.  When you were younger you wanted to die.  Not far removed from then you realize, there's no hurry.  Be patient.  Don't fool yourself.

Or do.  I try to laugh a lot.  The idea is that maybe if I smile and laugh enough it will stick in place and remain.  People will love being around me and I will love being around them because they will love being around me.  Carefully and painstakingly construct it inside your two dimensional garage, piece by piece by piece.   Power it up.  Go through the movements and the timing and conversational spacing.  Practice and memorize so that you can drum up this other self upon demand, slip inside of it and wear it effortlessly and with enough repetitions it will become not only effortless, but a full projection and extension of you to the point that it is you.  Until your body violently rejects it and you blaze apart before your own eyes.  We will see.



///TV on The Radio - "Wear You Out" let me to bed.  please?

The Bars (short and sweet)

They're duf===- error.  Error.  Error.  Error. Thb.  Error.  They'
Error.
j.  Error.

They're difficult to approach.   I do have rabbit ears when it comes to waving around the word "retard".  Not because I've known people that have fallen into that "category" so much as I have fallen into that category kicking and screaming and have grown to appreciate it through the years as a very and very viable and conscious segment of society.

It's not some sort of syndrome or some sort of recognition and therefore adoption.  It's reel and real. Much more real than reel.  I've done a lot of things to accommodate for my "deficiencies", some more successful than others.  I'm still not sure if an attempt at self diagnosis is a paltry cry for help for socio-societal issues and maladjustment or not, but I soldier on and that's cool.

Sometimes it's really thrilling to fit it in successfully like a bandit, however, sometimes I do latch on to other people around me that appear to be similar or at least similarly categorized and otherwised appropriately boxed off and well segregated.  Not necessarily in a bad way.  People that do not remember to shower or pick their eyes.  People that do no clip their nails or cannot do so.  People that can only talk if they can see the left ear of the person they are talking to.  People they can only talk to if they have a lock of their hair in their own pocket.  regular things, ya know?  Is it aggravating? Yeah, absolutely.  Do you find ways around it?  Yeah, absolutely.

Who am I to get mad?

Let's keep this bitch short and sweet, honey bee!

I didn't get around to talking about what I wanted to talk about, but
I flattened out some of the da'gum'errs and that's mighty fine, I'll take it.
I hope you will too.
I promise I'll be back soon, but I hate promising anything, but I promise I'l be back soon.






I'll finish this thought:

Never felt bad with my bulbous nose tween thighs.



To be continued:

The Year End Look

2014 had many moments I would like to take back, but not too many.  I didn't break my nose again, which is awesome!  Thinking back through it I cannot remember a single concussion, which is also awesome and very good.  Awesome and very good are different things.  Awesome can be tanking on purpose to see if you can get a flat line goose egg.  Awesome is also seeing if you can bust the high score.  Very good is taking care of business and dotting every single "I" and looping to the correct depth of the drop liner each "P".  Very good is washing your hair every time you must do it, but awesome is having a great shampoo without a schedule.

Twenty fourteen saw a battle between myself and a close friend and another close friend and another close friend that required more time to heal than any physical injury.  Fully healed?  Yes.  Full confidence?  No.  The third piece of the puzzle is entirely lost.  As is the fourth piece.  I never believed it was possible to force or be forced beyond the edge of limping the object into a shop and getting blow torches out and suitable scrap, but sometimes, no matter how the repairs go, you can never look at the finished product the same way no matter the lighting.

The year presented no new physical projects in terms of repurposing homes and was difficult in that respect too.  The hardest part about being on call is that you are waiting for something to go wrong.  In that zone it becomes difficult to see everything going right.  By the second quarter of the year I could see better that when I am doing my job well I will not receive calls.  I always strive to do the best work because while I am doing whatever job it is the goal is to never hear from them again.  In the time it takes me to get home I can, and sometimes do, forget that is the primary objective.  I do not work to make friends.  If I make friends after or during a viewing it is business.  Business does not cross over to farming.  Sometimes farming crosses over to business.  I confused the two in 2014.  Because I work a small job for you does not mean we have to be friends for life.

I thought I could make significant repairs to my lower lumbars, but I do believe the back injury is in the nerves.  It's not a structural injury.  It's software, not hardware.  I learned through 2014 that some tissue explosions/implosions cannot be fixed by tending or work or loosening or tightening.  Bring all of the wrenches you choose, unless one of the tools in your kit is a new gold plated circuit board, you are screwed no matter what you plug in, replace, or renew.  It took a year, still feels like yesterday, to figure that out.  I became very aware of my age last year and the limitations that age brings.  The new year will bring a secondary mode.  Caution.  Beside the hatswitch for go is a new button installed to activate precision.   Everything cannot be solved by a hammer.  I knew that before 2014, but the application was aimed outward.  The application will be aimed inward in 2015.

Everyone who shares a drink or breaks bread with you is not your friend.  They may have motives aside from smiling.  Believe it or not, I have better things to do today than laugh and clap my hands.  So do they.  That does not mean that they need to be cut out of your life entirely.  That remained silly through the previous year and that point will remain sharp, if not sharper, through this year.

I performed a great deal of reading through 2014 without any specific schedule.  That should continue.  No books were finished.  There was a boost in output that will take more discipline in 2015.  It is a steep ask, but I am prepared for it.  I do not like that my discipline grew slipshod enough to not finish or even map a new story though they ping ponged around my skull.  It's pathetic.  It's awful.  You screwed up and I am saying it now: we dropped the ball and it hit you in the teeth.  All we had to do was open our hands and we were too busy adjusting our emotions to see.  We do not appreciate that.  At all.  And I want to make sure you know.  "Why am I picking up my teeth?"  Because you were punched in the mouth.  You didn't trip.  You didn't fall out of bed.  You didn't scrap.  You were punched dead in the mouth and didn't have the wherewithal through an entire year to defend yourself.  Do better.  I do not care if it is garbage.  I do not care if it is too rich.  Do you really believe years will keep falling out of the sky?  Ignorance is not a defense.  Do better.  Stop reading, stop audiobooking, stop trawling, start layout.  Start mapping.  Stop talking about "I started this universe in highschool and"... what since then?  I'm sick of hearing about it.  Yes, physically ill.  Begin to finish it and stop spit polishing a trophy no one else can understand.  "But there's no translation..." so translate it!!!  Do you hear me???  Look at me.  Look at me!   Translate it!  Damn it, you are thick skulled.  I want notes out of 2015.  Stop dancing and screw like you dream.

 I began a few tattoos in 2014.  Progress is going very well.  The sleeve will not be completed at the close of 2015 however there is very specific direction and direction is extremely important as they cannot be erased, easily or ever aside from through growth and the normal cycling of skin cells like tectonic plates.  The reminders still remain on my face and are used daily.  They are pretty much worth every second of the process.  We are building a lens on our left hand to remind us of our ability and scope and potential and violence.  That we can and should hold back at time as a window can be opened or closed or screened.  Not zero and not one.  Infinite, yes!  Singular yes!  The real pleasure is in the curve, not the approach either way.

Are we addicted to tea now?  Yep.  Significantly cut down on the drugs through 2014.  Management & things.  One of my cats died.  Actual cats.  Not "cats" cats.  I took it rough.  Too rough.  Harder to deal with than I anticipated, but it reminded me that my pets are closer to me than my cousins or extended family.  I think that's when the extent of my cut off really hit.  My family, direct family, includes my brother and two sisters.  It ends there.  My father is dead to me so that I do not fuck up and go back to Maryland to kill him myself.  I cannot do that.  If I do that everyone will know, no matter how I mask it or plan it or do not plan it or just get in the mood and take the trip and kill him and my mother, because she'll either be in the house or somewhere within ear or eyeshot, no offense but it's best to keep things tidy, because I said it here and it's public record.  I am closing that door, but it's dead bolted from both sides.  Very good.  Not awesome, but very good.  Call it a standing threat if you want to; I call it a restraining order.  If you come into my space I will kill you.  In return, we will do everything we can to stay away.  Deal.  The cat's death was very sad.  I mourned for quite some time.  More than I mourned for any of my extended families deaths through the year.  The sensation was arresting and unexpected and taught me the depths and exhaustion true hate goes.  His death also taught me the danger of dehydration and the ties I have still with local law enforcement and the patience they have with me and the value of a friend who can tap into your nerves in ways we thought we only tapped their structure.  The year heightened my self awareness and heightened my awareness of my emotional footprint.

I cried a lot in the last year.  Much more than usual.  I began to understand the actual details of outcomes through 2025.  There is a lot of potential there and more danger than I would like.  Many of my peers are pairing up and gearing themselves toward producing families and I became acutely aware of timelines.  I'm not sure how to govern the sensation.  I suppose I will have to start graphing... I can't.  It will be the struggle of 2015.  What do you give up, what can I give up, what can we give up, to make a family.  I cannot.  Not for me.  Not for you.  I will get up for a child, not for you.  I will not fight for a child, not for you.  Ever.  I will not crack a beer on an off day for a child, not for you.  It's a strange equation and I'm not sure how to change it.  I'm not sure what is supposed to come on the other side of the equal sign.

One of the other things I realized through twenty fourteen is that I am fiscally trapped.  Free as a mongoose in every way besides the wallet and the wallet is where futures are made when you look at families.  I am damaged goods in that way and can be as free as I want to proclaim, but jailed for quite some time fiscally.  Going for jogs, playing catch, buying food with EBT, unable to hold a credit card, unable to get loans (even though I refuse to, but cooperation will require it) or car notes, impressing other's parents with charisma, buying them shoes, going to dinners and lunches, going on a paint craze, shutting myself in a room for a few days because I cannot listen to anything because it hurts, all of these do not help a child's upbringing at all, but they are instrumental.  I have no idea when or if they will change.  I became acutely aware of the maintenance I require and it made me cry.  Take what it takes for me to relate to other people my age without falling apart like crushed salmon in a frying pan with burnt butter.  Add a marriage.  Add a child.  Desire came in the last year.  Twenty fifteen will include learning how to better understand what exactly that desire is and not consciously or subconsciously destroying it wherever it arises, be it from outside in general or specific environments or from within or side effect to proximity to others.  I will try to be more reliable and predictable and acceptable to your children or child rearing or child bearing circumstances.  Failure to do so will cause increased isolation and we all know where that heads.

2014 taught me that no matter how I feel I have to get up.  2014 taught me who to trust.  2014 taught me to let go a little bit and who to hold on to without hanging on.  It taught me change is inevitable and you cannot wish everyone a happy birthday because at least half them muthas have no idea who you are now and you have no business wishing them well because you have about as much idea of them as they do you, so stay out or at least don't go balls in to their affairs, unless they ask, which gives us a little gray area because it's fun to play even though not everyone would like to play with you.  Understand better when no means no in fifteen. Just because you would like to laugh does not mean everyone else you encounter does too.

Let's draw this to a close.  The last thing I socked away for 2014 was that you still definitely get what you pay for.  That and given enough time anyone can be a mechanic if you study well and stock a good garage.  You get what you pay for and through repairs to my truck I got exactly what I paid for: a running truck.  I love the sound of a "V" layout 8 cylinder more than an inline 6 cylinder engine.  It's really throaty.  It has some gargle and growl and purr to it more than an inline 6.  Sixes sound closer to a four cylinder screech now that I've become accustomed to an 8.  I'm not sure where I was going with getting what you pay for.  I wish a little bit that I was heterosexual.  I envy it a lot and often and at many times intensely.  Even more than perfect sanity.  At least then I'd be married and crazy instead of just crazy.  It makes me cry.  It makes me furious too.  It makes me violent.  I want access.  I don't want to just understand, I want access!  I fucking want access!  What do you do?  Do you fake it?   Do you sleep walk it?  I'm laughing now because I am crying.   I hate my circuitry.  Let's not beat ourselves too hard in 2015 and let's keep that streak of no nose breaks and no concussions going.  I said I will never cut my face again.  That promise will be kept.

XOXO




///Daft Punk - "Giorgio By Moroder"   the year end playlist is up next.  shoot em dahn.

You Need To Vibrate Higher and The Good News (and the bad news)

I want to get the bad news out of the way first, but the bad news is also the good news.  Let's do that first.  The good news is we've made some changes, but they will not stick.  Self doubt.  The results were not at all to expectation.  The expectation was, through dropping metaphor, there could be achieved a clearer stage of communication between people, but it only introduced severe complications.  We're going to go ahead and burn that solution so hard it leaves shadows against the walls of my head.

It was a spirited effort and executed to the best of our abilities, but ultimately a failure.  Well intentioned though.  It introduced an incredible amount of doubt in meaning and second guessing, even more so than the use of extended metaphor.  "Is now the time to be blunt?"  "Are you being blunt enough?"  "Who are you speaking for because I know for damn sure you are not speaking for me."  There was an excessive amount of hate and miscommunication circulating because of the effort and action to connect A to D effectively.  It was a worthy pursuit.  Always diagnose actionable thoroughfares.  ADAT.

ADAT is a friendly reminder to carry with you.  When confusion eats in, the best way back toward organization is through ADAT.  Understand, however, there is only so much to be gained in terms of growth through deviation from the path best traveled.  It's not about volume or trail blazing.  Select what will allow you to travel and utilize your abilities to the best of their purpose.  What good is the path less traveled if you're not equipped to attack it?  What good is the path most traveled if you're not equipped to attack it?  Destruction.

I'm not going to put on my sage hat because I don't have one.  Mostly, I could really go for some coke right now.  I think I already told you, but every time I hear the Coca Cola commercial that ends with "smile because it's coke" I snicker a little because I know other people have caught it too.  We're all people.  Some of us are more people than others.

I have to remind myself that I am not spinning my wheels.  If I was it would be, easily, the show stopper of all burn outs at the muscle car convention.  I am not marking time (I am).   I am side tracking myself, but still tracking.

Anyway, the good news is we are making some changes.  The bad news is we are making some changes.  What has been added cannot be subtracted because it will tirelessly and quietly shred my insides with abandon.  There's is no doubling back.  There is, but I will not forgive myself if I do.  I am not looking forward to changes.  I will still ask questions because I have the memory capacity of a goldfish when it comes to current events that do not scar hard enough to wake up the following day and demand investigation.  Which is fine.  That, we can do.  You don't have to punch me in the brain pan, you just have to make sure I will ask myself about it later and get some answers.  The latter half of that being key.

You need to vibrate higher.  As unpleasant as it sounds, it must be done.  Not in the spirit of further development or outside tracking or productivity or any multi-syllabic word.  In terms of exorcising the engine.  The engine has been well breathed of late, but needs exorcised.  Far too many misfires.  What was accomplished recently could have been accomplished four weeks ago if not for the misfires.  Those should be remedied.

Remediation through vibration.  Knocking and being quiet enough to hear the knock back.  It's not easy.  It is very easy to allow distraction.  It's not easy to be quiet enough to hear the knock back loud enough to know whereabouts to knock next.  That's the hard part.  I think that's where I've been dropping the ball.  Forgotten how to navigate silence.  Not entirely forgotten, but locked the skill away for reasons I do not clearly remember, but looking at it from the outside I suspect it had something to do with trying to actively connect with people.  A holdover from a submission that failed or succeeded (hell if I know) that was still being invoked to the detriment of the rest of us.

There is nothing in the desert.  And no man needs nothing.  Aberrations, hallucinations, and oasis's and dry docks aside... that was a mistake.  Actually, not aside, but in hand.  It was a mistake and poorly executed operation.  S'ok though, don't mug yourself.  Mistakes are made to learn repair.  You're going to jam it up again.  We both know this.

The good news is we're going to make changes.  The bad news is we're going to make changes.  We will vibrate higher.  Hibernation is not an option.  Do not convince yourself otherwise.  Get mad.  You know what you are.  Stop talking yourself out of it.  Stop fighting it.

Things have been a bit upside down.  It's very difficult to connect with people and continue to maintain the routine that is so desperately needed.  I have not been so outwardly frustrated with how clearly against the grain of normal I am than I have been through this last month.  It's like getting hit in the teeth with a metal ruler on full spring.  My head keeps screaming "GET AWAY FROM ME OR I WILL RUN!" and I don't know what to do about it.

I think that's why I cherish and despise free time at once.  Free time is too much time to think and work is too much work to create.  It would be different if it was a mixture of the two.  It would be different if I could handle a tincture of the two.  I cannot.  It has to be one or the other.  And still, atop that, is the difficulty, the pain of emotion that keeps coming stamped "on pain of death" if not exercised.  I want to feel, as much as you do.  I want to feel and not force.  I do not understand why they must force me.  Sometimes the forcing is enjoyable.  It wakes me up where I would otherwise fall dead, emotionless.  I cannot take it all of the time though.  Why can they not understand that?  I want to say no.  My body tells me no.  My head tells me no.  My heart tells me no.  So where is this motor coming from?

Am I an extension of you?  Not again.  Not again.  Not again!  Yes, again.  I'm not.  I don't love many people.  Not in terms of justifying existences or anything near that cosmic in scale.  More important, I don't trust many people.  I'm not sure where I'm going with it.

Collecting.

I wish we spoke the same language instead of crying.

Crying being universal and cross dimensioned, but all too simple to express the depths to which we go.




///Massive Attack & David Bowie - "Nature Boy"

Dogging It and the Winter Manifesto

Yep, I have been dogging it, for lack of artistic direction.  I've become consumed with the immediate and unable to find the magic, the whimsy.  The press of culture has been stifling.  The pressure of fitting into some kind of God damned role has been palpable, or I should say, more palpable than in past weeks and months and years even.  I keep looking up and asking myself if this is all there is and I have been pounding my fist on the table with six empty chairs around it and rattling nothing more than my own glass.

There is no such thing as a dry spell.  I know it is all still there, still pouring, still palpitating.  What I want to get at, however, is after the flow.  I am storing metaphor and analogy and analysis, but not having tapped the vein I want I have limbs dying for overdose and infection.  "Eating heroin is one thing, but injecting it is another."  Probably the funniest thing I heard this year.  The funniest admonishment.  It burns my ass sometimes to hear people complain about things that are fairly simply resolved.  Hilarious in some ways.  Met up with a friend of mine at the local hole and he told me about another friend who had a fiberglass, nuclear white, road bike.

Turned out the guy was high as fuck on mescaline and out for a joy ride and he rode with him up to his place and the guy just housed the hill there.  Should I feel bad for feeling inspired?

I've (enter apostrophetics) been dogging it none the less.  I can't describe the feeling.  If you've ever read the phantom tollbooth you know what the love affair of language can be like.  Sometimes she wears lace.  Sometimes he wears the same lace the last time you had to suck him off for a solid hour because he lied about not jerking off before he came over and you found out second hand from his other friend he was banging beers back with before he decided to ring you up and now your neck hurts when you tip your head backward to drink water the morning after.

The point is, he doesn't realize you would be more than happy to throttle his neck the same and watch his eyes start to pop out until they turned back and up into his eyelids and the tears ran down your hands because that's what gets you off.

And that just turned way angry and too honest.  I don't know.  I can't speak to human engineering because I don't know enough, but I absolutely believe that engineering can be trumped by training.  The problem and the pitfall is the belief and extrapolation from that idea that training can be unlearned.  Somehow the incorporation, the building of the structure can be as easily or possibly as difficulty and painstakingly deconstructed.  The question arises: if you have 24 years of programming and construction and habituation built into your psyche, how many years will it take to reprogram, reconstruct, repurpose, and rehabilitate those patterns into new ones?  If it takes, just drawing cards from my own deck of experience, twenty minutes to demolish a level 3 Revell GT 500 painstakingly constructed over two weeks, it should be fairly easy.  That's my deck.

It's been hard.  Real hard.  Violently hard.  Violently happy.  To the point where people know me well enough that I have to actively push away opportunities to ...I'm not a destroyer.  But I know I am.  I know I can be a creator too.  I used to be.  I used to create willy nilly and I still do, but the work goes into that.  The creating.  The destruction comes naturally.  I'm not a big guy by any stretch, but I never thought five years ago I would ever be comfortable popping someone's eye with my thumb.  Yeah, it was salty.  Not good salty either.  Like, I do not know how to describe it.  It was like the saline was an afterthought.  I did not realize, at all, how much energy I was burning to be, but I've felt the exhaustion of it, of late.  It's been taxing.  Who to tell what and how much.  I'm rambling.

I know.  I have been dogging it.  Not on the low roads though.  I'm kind of surprised some times how easy it's been.  Violence as language.  I think the Auralport has been a lot of language as violence.  Which is a start, but not enough of a start.  There's no point in conquest you can't talk about.  No entryway.  No friends.  I just laughed saying that out loud.  I am not an animal.  I build models with tweezers.  Still do.  I suppose that is not making me any less creepy.  I have fallen off.  Maybe fallen in to.  Something.  Fighting fair is a sad man's game.

I am not an animal, but I am trying to work my way back to the human side of the master equation.

And so I present to you the Winter manifesto:

Do good.  Do not just be better within yourself, because that is not enough.  Be better within, and for, others sake.  Do not just see stars, but see horses and do not steal them, only enjoy their being and watch and maybe tip a hat to that wilderness, but do not beg to be the center.  Do not fight this winter, for any reason.  Physically.  Because you have one body and one set of knuckles and you have enough years on them to make making it past forty a probability instead of a certainty.  Lose no more fractions of teeth.  Put together your works and compose for compositions sake alone because recognition is fool's gold and the short path to the quitter's raga.  Be bright and not literally, but for light's sake.  Be motivated and train and not for the sake of preparations for conflict, however, be prepared to defend yourself, and only in defense cause a mother fu$$ing ruckus.  Finish the twenty thousand words to your book you left hanging two years ago.  No Damoclesean swords.  Less reference.  Clearer analogy.  And I don't know how much further I should take it because I've already stepped into the boundary between what I know I can do and what I know I know I may not be able to do.

The Winter manifesto is this:  take it head on and do not fear the cool.

The trees talk to me in summer, at night when the moon is out.  I am looking forward to their silence and the peace of the death of the ground beneath my feet.  I am looking forward to reclaiming the night that I leased to the summer and all her passerby and the bullshit.

I survived another season.  I know the next two will be beautiful.

Redesigns coming soon.


///Sneaker Pimps - "How Do"  I grew up on sneaker pimps.  through the conflict years.  them, massive attack, and floyd, and disco.  and the orb.

Dry Motor and What It Is

Creeping creeping.   Creeping up on you like silverfish in your bedspread.  The anxiety has been hilarious.  Awful.  To the place on the scale where it ceases to be funny and "haha, that scared the shit out of me, but now I know I was imagining things, so I can laugh about it because no one was here to see it" and becomes "hahahaholyfuckinggodamnit, just get out of my head."  Balls of string, almost, that get knottier and knottier with each passing sunrise and then a glimpse of something that might have a been a flicker of spider's webbing in daylight is grown into a hunched fistful of glitter black something that makes you stop and look with both your eyes to make sure you are moving and not it and then the words come back in like crowd dialog in vapors and the whole morning there is no fix on what it is that smells like gas.  Get out of my head.

Creeping sense of rage.  A little bit of task lock.  There's no transition between the time fixitive and the free base of writing.  Well, I shouldn't say there is none.  There is none developed.  It's been a very long time since I had to generate one through my own channels.  Normally I hit the mechanical hard lever contacts and everything changes over like a locomotive switch track.  Or has the potential too if I can get the charge high enough to arc the distance (the switch doesn't always close).  What am I talking about?  So I haven't had that.  Oddly enough, or typically enough, smoking grew tightly threaded to production.  I quit smoking.  It is not at all tempting to go back to smoking in a bid to make writing easier.  That's a back blown lock.  Explosive decompression.  Sorted.  A bridge designed into the process I took toward quitting, but a necessary effort at sabotage, because I knew I'd never quit if I didn't hack myself.  I'm not sure if that's coming across, but you get the picture.  Things have been harder to do, is the bullet point.  For good reason is the second bullet.

I find myself outside the gates of my skull, mornings, looking in, trying to smell them out.  Where they've been and where they plan to go next.  Hard pressed not to cut myself.  An inexplicable taste for it, really.  You come to the moment.  To it and then back around to it.  Someone asks if this is it.  Don't be so hard on yourself, you're having a good time, Jack.  Necking with yourselves.  Across from you there is also you and they are talking their way around you like you're not even there.  Don't be so hard on them.  Without us, they would have died a long time ago.  And someone asks if this is it.  What is?  Through space and time, not in that philosophical, flowered hill top, poet staring at the stars nonsense, through actual manipulation of distance and the passage of time there has been an answer.  The distance problem.  Too close and then too far.  With no sense of balance.  The old states.  The newer state is orbit, not quite to deep space.  Where I belong.  A place void enough that violence drives nothing and no one away because there is no one near enough.  Sort of thing.

It's weird.  Wanting closeness.  The other part of what it is.  Mechanical maintenance demanding space to allow for irradiation.    Power on.  Wanting closeness and knowing it is exactly that which has the horsepower to turn the entire engine over in a fraction of a second.  Blow your skull apart.  A finger at a time.  Division, I suppose, is difficult.  Fragments.  It's hard to understand.  To put my thoughts around in a way that cuddles with the chemistry and wraps it up in something cool under force of touch.  Maybe nature.  I have to remind myself to not be alarmed.  Panic buries absolutely.  What it is: I can want it and have it sometimes.  Under specific circumstances.  Limited instances.  Hard wired for... something.  I dunno.  What it is.  Is weird.  Living within it.  All you have to do, if you really think hard about it, is understand enough of what you are to project beyond the black shaped box inside your head.  Before you can count to three you are the same as you and me.  Inside of there.  Developing ways to convert binary emotion into all the flavors of the analog rainbow.   Access rights, never found.

I'm trying though.  Ten days at a time.  One day at a tear.  Three tears ripped off at a clip.  I don't know.  Plus warning.  star streaming.  always always always dreaming.  of a perfect chemistry.  Get out of my head. I still have pictures to make.  Stories to write.  Music to make.  Too much to do.  I am me and you are you.


///Sneaker Pimps - "Water Baby"  sport is love and blood is sport

Amongst Myselves

Trying to parse so much conflict. There are only so many channels available. At work I have to deal with awful music being piped in through the ceiling, physical demands, emotional demands, mental demands, and managing inconsistencies and as the day rolls fatigue takes its toll on the number of channels available. That's an analogy that works sometimes. The problem with channel failure is that things connected and monitored and capped through the channel are left to grow and die on their own. Sometimes its all cross chatter and all I have to do is select and confer or revoke access rights to my mouth parts. Sometimes its active denial and that takes up a channel. It's always monitoring sound as my eyes aren't always trustworthy under physical stresses. Well my eyes are but my vision is not. Sometimes a channel gets eaten up entirely by the effort required to make sure I don't shred my skin on some incorrect call to a memorized movement. Often times a few are taken up by keeping track of how I'm spreading loads and pain responses and how often I'm lifting what and with which muscle group. Today was so long a day that I limped out of there with so many failures it was all I could do to pay attention to how I was placing my feet so not to re-aggravate an ankle rolled earlier in the day. I was thinking if I killed them all then they would all be my friends because if they're dead then they can't not be my friends. I was thinking a lot of other things too, but the rest is lost to the dust on the linoleum tiles. Maybe I'll remember it later. My spine is burning. I did too much again. I have a dysfunctional relationship with my job. I don't hate it. I just wish it could be better. I just wish I could be better. I dropped a case of two liter jugs of bleach today and it exploded. Wasted thirty seconds with conflicting courses of action. It's like everyone put their hands up at once and started talking before I could call on any particular one and half of them had nothing to contribute to the solution which ended up being 'clean it up, dumbass'. I don't know how I feel today. At the end of yesterday I was pretty fucking depressed and I still don't know why. Maybe trust issues? I went running yesterday and some fat sows were outside with their lye ruined hair wrapped up while they killed the afternoon attempting to grill (it smelled terrible) and they were making fun of me for jogging. I have no idea why. I want really badly to explain to the people that I work with the importance of their cooperation and the generation of well knit atmosphere of trust because I am struggling mightily to keep all my parts moving in one direction without the whole thing smashing itself to furious pieces, but I know they wouldn't understand and if anything it would probably end up costing me the job. Maybe that's what's got me blue this afternoon while I'm trying to sleep. There are lots of 'I's in this one and not many returns.

There's one. Because I care. If only everyone cared just a little more. If I were a dictator the options would be friendship or death. Then I thought maybe exile would make it easier for me to make friends or at least delay the assassination attempts that would inevitably come along. And the extermination of the families of the exiled I would have to pursue to end the cycle of retaliation. Because I just want to be friends.

There's two. Am I that fucking hard to get along with? I asked an old woman if she needed help finding anything. She said 'no, but there is something you can do to help me out, champ.' She was adorable. She couldn't reach the back of the top shelf so I grabbed her fruit cereal for her. I guess I'm rooting for the world's current format, or at least America's current format, to completely collapse. Partially so I can finally get to work on my list of people who need to end, and partially so I can travel freely, but also partly so everyone who's security is based on finances and bullshit jobs will be cut loose to die and I can pick their bones for good meat. I walk past a lot of nice homes on my way to work. Outside of a conspicuously wealthy complex of four shared homes was a pile of nice things interleaved with their trash pickup. Why would they not simply donate it to somewhere? Don't most places have a pickup service? Oh well. It was stuff I couldn't use, but I'm sure someone else could.

There's three. Maybe that's it. Maybe that's what I'm training for. That's why I run and work my body till it breaks and stitches and then I break it again. I'm working toward the end of the world. You can come hang out with me when it's over. I'll take care of you. We'll kill lots of zombies, smoke some doobies some afternoons and hike to South America for the winters (the douchebags of America will probably bloat and ruin Cali when it's over). Shit'll be ridiculous, I promise, but stupid fun. For us. Because we've already been to the end of the world. Twice. I guess that's what makes us different.

///El-P "Oxycotin"

Whiskey Short and the Newer Braver World and No, Haven't Found Him

My brain has been white washed. There's nothing there. It's like somebody came in for lunch and took the furnishings with them when they left after dinner while I was in the bathroom. Today I kept laughing at the thought of a "race" of Asians. Is that the right nomenclature for that? It just made me think of a race of mole men. A race of super men. And all the other races of things that have graced headlines over the years.

It's amazing really. The only way to honestly cope with this new situation has been to dull my awareness of everything outside of it until the sole focus becomes the situation. If I make myself into this thing that exists for 18 hours out of the day then the thing that exists for the remaining 6 ceases to be and the conflict is resolved. Sure some blood gets shed, but Stalin's cohort put it best about the eggs and omelets and things before they got executed. At least I think I remember them doing that. Is there anything sexy about living in 1984? What about a Brave New World? I think the answers to those two questions are no and yes in no specific order. That's how life becomes manageable. If you think about it the best way to end a struggle is to simply eliminate one half of the combatants. Certainly if the struggle is what perpetuates the combatants lives than you'll end up with genocide by that logic. If you kill off everything you're fighting against you'll have to generate new things to fight against from within you.

In a society more interested in peace than war, I suppose eliminating one half of the disagreeing parties would be a means to an end. If there's no one to argue against then there's no argument. Plain and simple. The hardest part about figuring out where I fit into my own life now that my life is 75% owned by a company that wouldn't give two shits if I died by getting gutted by industrial meat hooks as long as they weren't liable to pay for damages or my funeral is trying to figure out if I'm worth eliminating or if the company is what needs to be eliminated.

Someone sent me a jesus themed text message yesterday. In fact someone else sent me a text message with the words "i hope and pray things turn out." What the fuck does that even mean. I'm sorry, excuse my language. I'm just wretchedly upset right now having recalled that second text message. Here's an idea: lets not hope, lets stop praying, and lets start doing. I am so sick and tired of hearing that bull about hopes and prayers and "I've been there before, I know excatly what you're going through"s. How about we simply appraise the situation from a logical, rational standpoint. How about societal compression. How about GDP that won't quit, but somehow wages don't keep pace with inflation or cost of living (are those the same things). How about getting more bang for your buck and the actual cost of that extra bang you're getting. The bottom lines at companies that somehow don't seem to rise nearly as quickly as profit margins.

I know everyone wants to succeed and somebody will get the short shrift (I'm full of slanted definitions today, but I hope that's the right word). At any rate, I guaran-damn-tee you the bullshit expected of some of the formerly menial jobs that have somehow crept up in demographic from appropriate for teens as a base to appropriate for 40 year olds with 6 years of experience as their base, suck more and leave less humanity in the shells of the bodies daily broken open to sell you your fucking bottle of snapple quickly and efficiently is more than what was required when you, mr. 50 year old been there done that, were punching spring loaded keys on a giant slab of plastic and metal with ink ribbon.

And I haven't found him yet. The motor is still going, but I'm just trying that much harder to hold it down no matter how much it knocks around and wrecks up the place. The week of industry came. The week of industry went. And to show for it, all I have for you is a stilted diatribe about work and a partial understanding of things that don't actually exist and a burning urge to take the steel to good use on the neighbors. Do not fucking talking to me you fucking fuck I will kill you. It's becoming more and more amazing sometimes how thin the tethers can get that hold me to a behavior steps away from thought patterns born into my infrastructure and known better and more intimately than anything learned and what's next. I'll dig them out yet.

That picture. That picture up there? It's a short whiskey. Apple top. Try it. You'll love it too. I want to feel like I should say it's the only thing that makes me feel really warm and fuzzy these days, but I'd be flat lieing if I did. And California totally sucks. Mainly because it's still twilight and happy and balmy there and I hate them for that. That's the real reason why the east coast is more pissed off than the west coast. The east coast knows. The west cost pretends to not know. Screw California.

///Wildchild - "The Wonder Years" I just wish I knew.

Anger Blankets and Arguing with Foreigners on Trains

I don't know. Great start right. Actually, what I said specifically was "I dunno." Blanket anger. I've had several arguments with a man from Ghana. It started off innocuous enough. He's only a year old than me, but he looks 18. At any rate, we were going back and forth about the source of American English and whether or not it was rooted in a rebelliousness borne of the revolution that lead to the Declaration of Independence or if it was the symptom of a liberal society. Things got minced and, in my opinion, he started crossing up his own perspectives of unrelated American culture with the point of the argument and rage was subdued by confusion and ill placed seconds of laughter that lead to him chalking up my perspective to general american rambunctiousness and uncouth manners (Ghana's still pretty fresh off of British everything. Boo U.K. and Ghana, but especially the U.K. ............. and especially Bart. Had to throw that in. Sorry (but not really). I don't know. Devolving. Angry. Let's play word associations. Blankets. Anger. Ambiguity. Television. Rage. Work. Time. Dissolution. Anger. Dilution. Failure. Success. Cups. Rates. Money. Failure. Dreams. Existence. Nihilism. Existence. Existentialism. Reading. Alternates. Time. Work. Conflict. Existence. Time. Hate. Distance. Company. Companies. Cigarettes. Industry. Costs. Work. Conflict. Time. Urine. Permission. Silence. Rage. Rage. Rage. Blankets.

I am, in short upset with an omnidirectional upsettedness that is killing my ability to make words and I think sanity is suffering and all I want to do is laugh and the desire is overriding common sense in the placement of that laughter and its ripping out of me like a chainsaw with a broken throttle in hands covered with olive oill and all I want is for the whole thing not to fly out of my grip, but everyday as I'm diving deeper into this new cadence of time I'm becoming increasingly aware of how thin that grip is and it doesn't disturb me as much as it makes me wish for the love and security of involuntary internment with all of my heart and something is shiny in the dark room and its the currency of the long term care I will eventually need when things break with a permanence that defies even the most aggressive modes of corrective medicine. I just have to wait a while. And I don't want to wait anymore and watch the whole thing keep racing like a rabid horse after carrot strapped infants.



///Bjork - "Joga" time out. Please?

Panel 3 and "What Had Happened Was..."

Panel 3 for poetry is above. Panel 3 option is below. Haven't decided which one to go with yet, but that's a good problem to have.

So what happened is there was me and her and now there's just me. And me and her were supposed to be best friends, but that's sort of not happening. Or maybe it is. Maybe I just don't understand what a best friend is supposed to be. So, in the spirit of lolcats, I has a sad. It's distressing and depressing and it's every morning waking up from dreams of being left and having to leave and spending the day working, but in the back of my mind wishing and hoping and yearning for the day not to end and a new one to begin and to have to go to sleep and dream again and wake. All I want is for the night to keep going and my eyes to not close and my mind to not show me things that can't exist.

I saw (500) Days of Summer and, in seeing it, I finally "got it". I suppose, the reason (precipitating from the root cancer eating its way into my life through horrific family ties) for the separation was something along the lines of she really liked me, but as for someone to spend the rest of her life with she simply could not be sure. It would be an unfair gamble for her, and unfair of me to demand that she roll her dice with someone living at the edge of an abyssal plain. I wouldn't want to make anyone have to step into and live in the midst of the daily bullshit that goes on behind the scenes of the farce of my family and I know now that is what I was asking her to do.

It's supremely aggravating and gut punching the way things unfurled because a lot of avoidable things happened through their intent... and then to be constantly asked by the culpable behind the scenes actors who helped orchestrate failure "so how's she doing, do you guys talk?" is particularly galling. I want to stab them in their fat, beady eyed faces and slit their throats. So many awful things happened, caused by their utter lack of support, religious conceit, and selfishness and they'll never take responsibility for their massive role in cutting my legs out from under me with almost super villain frequency. It's funny because there is almost no other way to describe it. It's like James and the Giant Peach, but I still haven't had the benefit of magical intervention.

In another world, an alternate space, where they didn't exist and I did and all the stupid money issues I had nothing to do with never happened and I finished school because I had the support and genuine concern of parents who were not themselves bitter, money grubbing, pathetic shells of themselves locked in a dead end marriage that ate the lives of their children to survive... we're still together.

Where does love go. Who the fuck knows. How do you stay best friends with someone who doesn't talk to you? You send letters and messages and it starts to feel like you're the sorry sumbitch in no man's land waiting for the mail service to get through, but it never does and you'll never know why. I don't think I'll ever be alright with that. As for my romanticized view of the world: it's still there and still tinted Gothic.

I hate when people say things like "it could be worse." Of course it could be worse, but that doesn't exactly make the current unpleasantness any more livable. Anywho. Probably the last time I tag a post with "girlfriend" for a while. I don't think I'll ever be okay, but in time I'll have grown into another person and this person who feels this way will have died and the new person won't remember how the corpse felt, but will see the old photographs and think "oh, how charming. Wonder how that ended". It would be easier if it wasn't glaringly obvious how drastically, positively, different things could have been in my life from the time I was 5 years old to now without them destroying the things I cherished and the things that made me laugh and smile and the people around me and my siblings. They know it too. They'll never admit it though and that's why I will hate them until the day they die and I can sleep knowing they can never hurt me and my relationships with the people I love ever again.





///Dntel - "(This is) The Dream of Evan and Chan" Someday soon, I'll leave it all behind. Sorry for asking you to listen to all of that and thanks if you did.

useful information and the other chris davis

so we all like useful information. are we in agreement? sure we are. so maybe i should make an effort to post useful information. maybe. maybe. thinking about it. considering it. useful information to me? or you? to us? to us!

no i dont think so. well maybe. its tempting. i could put ads on it and stuff to links of things that are useful. but when you think about it people are simply obsessed with useful things. like really super useful ultra niche things. pointlessly useful things, like a shoe horn on a stick. or... hmmm.

heres some useful information... or not.... its hard to think. my wonderful neighbors are having some sort of reunion or gathering and they parked their buicks and dodge chargers, 20 inch crome rims and all, in everyone elses driveways and theyre smoking black and milds and blasting gospel music and generally driving me insane. i hate south bowie. its times like these i wish i was 10 people.

but if you had the power to divide yourself into 10 people and then sent them off to do 10 different things then you could have the potential to feel an infinite mix of emotions at any given moment. if one person could feel mixed emotions about anything it must then be like feeling nothing to feel an infinite mix of emotions. like mixing a bunch of colors of paint together ... eventually it always makes black. so i guess being the core of a collective mind is like being the most level headed person ever... but then if things settle down it would become like one or several of many mental disorders. speculation is sometimes not useful. maybe this is one of those times.

useful information is good. entertainment is better? maybe. a blog full of speculation is better for me. and useful. useful information is good for you, but not here. well maybe once in a while. maybe not. im on the fence.

suuuuck it belgium. maybe. yeah. suck it belgium.



in other news... i found another christopher davis with a blog about optimism and self starting and other strange things. in short its another business man trying to spread his businessmanly old guy wisdom by way of shitty plugs to things he didnt create. i guess thats why i hate the idea of useful information. im just not going to fill my pages with "useful information" you would find elsewhere anyway. im not going to be a middle man for your bullshit. i have my own bullshit to peddle thank you very much. and you can suuuuck it too chris davis on other blog. suuuck a fat ... hmmm whats something original that hasnt been said before.... suuuuck a fat stick of old spice, prick!!! then go blog about how smelling good makes for better business deals or something. i mean come the fuck on.... slivers of goodness? thats what you call it? slivers of razors blades in my wrists. rage. but not enough rage to actually... well maybe. we'll just have to wait and see.

///aphex twin - "next heap with" get some of that peace in your brain before you do something crazy like sick german shepards on people while beating them with batons and hoses cuz it doesnt matter how many of you there are god damn it, this is a quiet nieghborhood and you cant just park where ever the hell you want to in the middle of the day when people are coming and going from their personal business that does not involve asking you to move your god damn car while you stand in a row with your arms crossed trying to intimidate strangers. kthnx.