To whom it may concern,
When I ask you if you heard something while we are sharing leisure time or walking somewhere or simply sharing a common space in a face to face, the preferred response is a simple "yes" or "no."
If you answer "yes," I may have follow up questions for you. If you answer "no," we will carry on about whatever business or pleasure or quietude we are on.
I do not need you to tell me "no, you are hearing things." I know I heard something. That's why I asked. I am asking you if you heard it too. I am not asking you if I heard it. I know I heard it. I need to know if it's from inside my brain or from the outside.
That's all. Thank you.
Sincerely,
Sanity
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 sanity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sanity. Show all posts
11/5/15
7/29/15
Summer Days Are Beautiful
Summer days are beautiful. Walk around in the grass that probably should have been cut yesterday and feel how fluffy and wet it is before the sun dries it out. Take time away from watering the garden to blow a bubble of mist around you and spin yourself around to see the rainbow halo around your waist. The birds are off on their errands. By now you do not hear their 5:30 A.M. alarm, but you will miss it a lot when it is gone and cold water chills instead of refreshes.
Sit in the wet grass and feel it soak through your shorts and underwear to the hairs and through to your skin. Wiggle down a little and lean back on your elbows and wait for the sun and the breeze to start drying your hair for you. Blowing kisses on the backs of your ears and neck and every few minutes a touch of lips to cheek and eyebrow, no more. A slip of hands around your wet hips and up your back until you cannot help a giggle, no more.
I am just like you, though we are different. Thinking about what my insides look like after patching things, jumping circuits, replacing parts, swapping connections, and fabricating new ones over and over again to keep on going, to function in place of everything that was torn out or never mounted or heavily damaged from the beginning. Thinking about the engineering and trial and error and discovery it took to get there, sitting in a backyard, watering a garden, and laughing at the sun, cooing in the palm of earth's hand, content.
Though we are different. The obstacles are unbelievable sometimes. Taking responsibility sometimes crosses into blaming myself for everything and hating myself and my make up more and more and more until all I can feel or think about is killing myself and it feels so good, so great, to remember the afternoon, even as obstacles to continued or increased or even maintained success close the horizon in every direction like the lips around an enormous crater.
It makes me smile wry: 30 years old, crippling social anxieties, manic depression, paranoid schizophrenia, anger management "problems," bringing in a whopping $12,000 a year, and ... what? I don't know. I don't know what is next. I've been lied to again and lost all confidence in what I thought I would do until I retired or never retired. That sweet sweet 12k paycheck. It is a joke. At 30? Is that really the best I am going to be able to do?
After I discovered that I had no job security whatsoever and a friend explained to me how my job has allowed me to stay in place and build a foundation for my life, but that the very nature of my job would not allow me to grow much further than that, she asked me about what I wanted to do.
I always want to write, but that's not a career for me for the foreseeable future. That's for fun. My passion and deep rooted connection to writing has its origins in my inabilities to communicate and express myself and my ideas through normal everyday means a lot, I would say most, people enjoy. It is a love and desire best described as an unexpected, exceptionally useful, child of the continuous process of patching and repairing and placing new equipment where normal/standard/necessary/"born with" equipment was never mounted to begin with or ripped away or smashed in. I don't love and pursue writing as a career, I have come to realize. I love and pursue writing because it is the best developed, low loss, way I know how to communicate like a normal person. When it works the way I need it to, it allows me to bridge myself to friends and people and know that I am not howling at my otherwise mashed, screwed, and missing communications centers and abilities with nothing coming across the interface at all in line with what is being spoken from inside.
The question was strange to me and it shouldn't have been. I had to think very hard. Being used to doing whatever I had to and was allowed to do for so many years after college flamed out against my will and things fell swiftly to pieces, taking whatever work would have me and clinging to what work would have me that I could also do and do well, the thought of what I wanted to do was foreign.
After an evening, I thought "master electrician" or "master plumber," since an MLS is completely unrealistic for the next decade or two at the least and I have loved the under the table work I've been able to do to help ends meet working on peoples homes for years. I thought "how great would it be to actually be paid the way you should for what you have in the skill files inside your head." After another day thinking about it, I knew it wasn't what I really wanted to do. It is something that I am good at that I like doing that fits well around my psyche, but not at all what I really want to do. Auto-mechanic.
The realization dawned on me. All of the schematics books I used to take from the library diagramming aircraft and race cars and automobiles. The perfect mix of tinkering and testing and results and giving life to machines and mechanisms. The smiles on folks faces. The tools and machines that allow the systems to be manipulated and molded to various functions. The solitude. All there. After so many years of being forced or trying to force so many paths in an effort to put food in my mouth and stay connected to life and society and have enough to sit in a backyard and smile at a garden, I forgot that I've wanted to be a mechanic for decades. I've only been alive for three, but I'm pretty sure I knew after decade one.
Thirty years old and getting no younger. A foundation finally established in this life, though shaky at times, an undeniable starting point. I am starting to see it as leaving a dying world. You have finally broken gravity's hold, do not concern yourself with trying to undo everything and erase everyone on the world's surface that brought it to its demise. Worry about what comes next in the stars. I have to try to find some security while there is a foundation. With no real job security, what was built could go away at a moments notice, a flash, a bang, some confetti, and a "thanks for playing, best of luck." So what? One more step through the yards to the next fence further away from the cell than you have ever been. Slip your fingers through the diamond wire links. Squeeze them until your fingers hurt and sniff the air on the other side.
It tastes different doesn't it. Oh it does! When the answer to the question "what do you want to do" is longer than "live another month." I cannot be happy living in the shadow of annihilation. I do not know if I will ever escape its reach entirely the way my insides are wired, dealing with, fighting, embracing, irreparable mental dysfunction. Will I ever make living money? Money that allows me to keep growing instead of treading water? Hold a standard 40 hour a week job without exploding into fragments or medicating? I have to find out.
Summer days are so beautiful. Even with warships of uncertainty hovering in orbit and peace negotiations fraying, feeling the tiny cool pricks of water landing on every inch of exposed skin feels absolutely wonderful. Chew a dandelion stem. As far back as can be remembered, love for the outdoors. The mysteriousness of the shadows infecting the gaps in the greens of the tree canopy smothering a hill across the river. Walk fingertips through blades of grass and poke a beetle's glimmering carapace. It is pretending to sleep. T-shirts almost dry. The garden dirt probably is too. One more go 'round. It is going to be a hot one today.
///The Future Sound of London - "Among Myselves"
Sit in the wet grass and feel it soak through your shorts and underwear to the hairs and through to your skin. Wiggle down a little and lean back on your elbows and wait for the sun and the breeze to start drying your hair for you. Blowing kisses on the backs of your ears and neck and every few minutes a touch of lips to cheek and eyebrow, no more. A slip of hands around your wet hips and up your back until you cannot help a giggle, no more.
I am just like you, though we are different. Thinking about what my insides look like after patching things, jumping circuits, replacing parts, swapping connections, and fabricating new ones over and over again to keep on going, to function in place of everything that was torn out or never mounted or heavily damaged from the beginning. Thinking about the engineering and trial and error and discovery it took to get there, sitting in a backyard, watering a garden, and laughing at the sun, cooing in the palm of earth's hand, content.
Though we are different. The obstacles are unbelievable sometimes. Taking responsibility sometimes crosses into blaming myself for everything and hating myself and my make up more and more and more until all I can feel or think about is killing myself and it feels so good, so great, to remember the afternoon, even as obstacles to continued or increased or even maintained success close the horizon in every direction like the lips around an enormous crater.
It makes me smile wry: 30 years old, crippling social anxieties, manic depression, paranoid schizophrenia, anger management "problems," bringing in a whopping $12,000 a year, and ... what? I don't know. I don't know what is next. I've been lied to again and lost all confidence in what I thought I would do until I retired or never retired. That sweet sweet 12k paycheck. It is a joke. At 30? Is that really the best I am going to be able to do?
After I discovered that I had no job security whatsoever and a friend explained to me how my job has allowed me to stay in place and build a foundation for my life, but that the very nature of my job would not allow me to grow much further than that, she asked me about what I wanted to do.
I always want to write, but that's not a career for me for the foreseeable future. That's for fun. My passion and deep rooted connection to writing has its origins in my inabilities to communicate and express myself and my ideas through normal everyday means a lot, I would say most, people enjoy. It is a love and desire best described as an unexpected, exceptionally useful, child of the continuous process of patching and repairing and placing new equipment where normal/standard/necessary/"born with" equipment was never mounted to begin with or ripped away or smashed in. I don't love and pursue writing as a career, I have come to realize. I love and pursue writing because it is the best developed, low loss, way I know how to communicate like a normal person. When it works the way I need it to, it allows me to bridge myself to friends and people and know that I am not howling at my otherwise mashed, screwed, and missing communications centers and abilities with nothing coming across the interface at all in line with what is being spoken from inside.
The question was strange to me and it shouldn't have been. I had to think very hard. Being used to doing whatever I had to and was allowed to do for so many years after college flamed out against my will and things fell swiftly to pieces, taking whatever work would have me and clinging to what work would have me that I could also do and do well, the thought of what I wanted to do was foreign.
After an evening, I thought "master electrician" or "master plumber," since an MLS is completely unrealistic for the next decade or two at the least and I have loved the under the table work I've been able to do to help ends meet working on peoples homes for years. I thought "how great would it be to actually be paid the way you should for what you have in the skill files inside your head." After another day thinking about it, I knew it wasn't what I really wanted to do. It is something that I am good at that I like doing that fits well around my psyche, but not at all what I really want to do. Auto-mechanic.
The realization dawned on me. All of the schematics books I used to take from the library diagramming aircraft and race cars and automobiles. The perfect mix of tinkering and testing and results and giving life to machines and mechanisms. The smiles on folks faces. The tools and machines that allow the systems to be manipulated and molded to various functions. The solitude. All there. After so many years of being forced or trying to force so many paths in an effort to put food in my mouth and stay connected to life and society and have enough to sit in a backyard and smile at a garden, I forgot that I've wanted to be a mechanic for decades. I've only been alive for three, but I'm pretty sure I knew after decade one.
Thirty years old and getting no younger. A foundation finally established in this life, though shaky at times, an undeniable starting point. I am starting to see it as leaving a dying world. You have finally broken gravity's hold, do not concern yourself with trying to undo everything and erase everyone on the world's surface that brought it to its demise. Worry about what comes next in the stars. I have to try to find some security while there is a foundation. With no real job security, what was built could go away at a moments notice, a flash, a bang, some confetti, and a "thanks for playing, best of luck." So what? One more step through the yards to the next fence further away from the cell than you have ever been. Slip your fingers through the diamond wire links. Squeeze them until your fingers hurt and sniff the air on the other side.
It tastes different doesn't it. Oh it does! When the answer to the question "what do you want to do" is longer than "live another month." I cannot be happy living in the shadow of annihilation. I do not know if I will ever escape its reach entirely the way my insides are wired, dealing with, fighting, embracing, irreparable mental dysfunction. Will I ever make living money? Money that allows me to keep growing instead of treading water? Hold a standard 40 hour a week job without exploding into fragments or medicating? I have to find out.
Summer days are so beautiful. Even with warships of uncertainty hovering in orbit and peace negotiations fraying, feeling the tiny cool pricks of water landing on every inch of exposed skin feels absolutely wonderful. Chew a dandelion stem. As far back as can be remembered, love for the outdoors. The mysteriousness of the shadows infecting the gaps in the greens of the tree canopy smothering a hill across the river. Walk fingertips through blades of grass and poke a beetle's glimmering carapace. It is pretending to sleep. T-shirts almost dry. The garden dirt probably is too. One more go 'round. It is going to be a hot one today.
///The Future Sound of London - "Among Myselves"
2/12/15
Forgotten Pieces of Processes
One part of the process I always have to remember that is very important in life inside and outside of my heart and my mind is music. Not just music like noises or radio or background so that I can better divide and discern what might be real and what is artifact or relic or error, but actively listening to and pulling apart and submersing myself in music. It's not difficult to forget, but listening to music is incredibly important in my life. Sitting down to paper my pencil or pen or whatever is in my hand and ready to create falls dead. Instant death. Sometimes I can move things along and create a corpse or a rock or a tree or a dancer or lover or a struggle, but it is lifeless. Stale. Imagine being beyond death to a place where everything is dimensionless. I wonder where it comes from and I tinker with my process or my thoughts or turn the idea around to another side and hold it up to the light to see if anything sparks inside. Listening to music and breathing it in helps tremendously. I will run over the same sounds over and over again, picking them clean until the only thing left is a place holder in my music library and my mind settles inside that hole, quite comfortable, stable, and slowly, one replay at a time, dying. It's not easy to forget, but I do forget that a valuable piece of the process is pouring in unfamiliar music to help keep the system turning with any degree of fidelity.
5/3/14
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"
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"
1/19/14
Plight
The most terrifying thing about disease is that you know the best you can do is stay where you are and maybe pretend to be more than you are upstairs sometimes. Some things remain intact. Some things continue to degrade regardless of what you do. It's not fair at all.
It's difficult. It's difficult watching everyone else continue to accelerate and knowing you can be as good as you want to be at some things, but other things ... nope. The best you can do is hold ground.
I want to just say "fuck that." I can't. I have to at least try.
Yes it is easy to fit in. It's easy to stand out for the wrong reasons too. There is no blame with respect to bad wiring to be laid. There's some, but it flows both ways. I acknowledge that.
It is undeniably heart breaking though sometimes trying to externalize what they're saying to me. So we drunk to dull the blunt force of conversation. It's an airbag and a stand in for pills that lets me socialize more than I like to, but not less than I need to so I'm not swinging from my neck outside my front window.
It's a trade off. To tear off the mask is not appropriate at all and will land me..
... I don't know how to describe it. Rape me once, shame on you. Rape me twice, I was probably asking for it.
I will say there's nothing to fear because I learned a few several things.
There are many red zones.There is not one me.-000000000000000000000000000888888888qq0--------------211qqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqq
///Sage Francis - (The Buzzkill) ...by analyzing the past, Sage can project into the future..,
It's difficult. It's difficult watching everyone else continue to accelerate and knowing you can be as good as you want to be at some things, but other things ... nope. The best you can do is hold ground.
I want to just say "fuck that." I can't. I have to at least try.
Yes it is easy to fit in. It's easy to stand out for the wrong reasons too. There is no blame with respect to bad wiring to be laid. There's some, but it flows both ways. I acknowledge that.
It is undeniably heart breaking though sometimes trying to externalize what they're saying to me. So we drunk to dull the blunt force of conversation. It's an airbag and a stand in for pills that lets me socialize more than I like to, but not less than I need to so I'm not swinging from my neck outside my front window.
It's a trade off. To tear off the mask is not appropriate at all and will land me..
... I don't know how to describe it. Rape me once, shame on you. Rape me twice, I was probably asking for it.
I will say there's nothing to fear because I learned a few several things.
There are many red zones.There is not one me.-000000000000000000000000000888888888qq0--------------211qqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqq
///Sage Francis - (The Buzzkill) ...by analyzing the past, Sage can project into the future..,
6/3/13
Dear (_____)
Wasn't something I wished for.
Relentlessly craving. Power. Power. Power. Power!
hurt. hurt.
I'm going through the logic of pain and please and I have no idea where to draw the line. I know doing X does Y. That is a given. I still don't know why Y does X. Why Y lights up X. I think, once I get it in a row, I'll be better off. At least if not for others, for myself.
Little steps.
Relentlessly craving. Power. Power. Power. Power!
hurt. hurt.
I'm going through the logic of pain and please and I have no idea where to draw the line. I know doing X does Y. That is a given. I still don't know why Y does X. Why Y lights up X. I think, once I get it in a row, I'll be better off. At least if not for others, for myself.
Little steps.
12/28/12
Redrum and Other Origins and Valuation
Is it wildly addictive, yeah of course. Does it change you? No not really. There's a certain amount of disappointment that comes with it. A certain amount of asking yourself questions that persist despite the time of day. It's a pretty weird thing. A confluence of circumstance and luck so thick I can talk about it now almost a year removed. Can you imagine sitting on anything for a year?
I tried to talk to my friend about it and she pretty much shut me out. That sucks. I did not anticipate at all how I would be re evaluated. That part of it has been hard to parse and it really has been across the board with each person I've shared it with, chosen to share it with. It's an odd difficulty but I can understand the rejection. I can understand it, but I don't have to accept it, I would like to think.
Do I feel better? Not really. Not as good as I thought I'd feel. Kind of reminds me of paint snuffling. Very short lived and very gorgeous and very forgettable, but so far away from everything enjoyable on a common basis. A rare sadness that presents some unforgettable joy. It's difficult to talk about. Because I know there are people missing her and all that. It's difficult to relate because on top of that there is the knowledge of the missing and maybe that's why I don't sleep so good these last years. Getting away without really getting away (heart in the floor kinda shit except ...)
The most difficult thing has been trying to relate this story without who I relate it to drastically reevaluating who I am as a person. I'm still the same. What's so difficult to understand about needing and finding practice? I understand that I am a very strange and enchanted boy and eventually luck runs out, but how does that mean love evaporates? Or should evaporate? How come once suddenly doesn't mean enough? I could understand trust lost. I could understand that. Total abandonment still stymies me. I don't care what you did or what you do. If I love you I love you. That's it. Where it starts and ends I guess. I think that's all I wanted in return. That's all. Step by stepped is what I got. Oh well. let's explore more. It's a big world and I've a small heart and there's a hell of a lot of music along the way. we'll see where this goes, but honestly i want more comedy. I don't think that's too much to ask. Trying to increase my value to others, you know? It is the first and last time I'll talk about it, so enjoy.
The Seatbelts - "Rain" - its a strange balance. even to me. the worst being that i dont know its been struck yet. knowing how i feel afterward i will try, but i cannot promise anything and i never will.
I tried to talk to my friend about it and she pretty much shut me out. That sucks. I did not anticipate at all how I would be re evaluated. That part of it has been hard to parse and it really has been across the board with each person I've shared it with, chosen to share it with. It's an odd difficulty but I can understand the rejection. I can understand it, but I don't have to accept it, I would like to think.
Do I feel better? Not really. Not as good as I thought I'd feel. Kind of reminds me of paint snuffling. Very short lived and very gorgeous and very forgettable, but so far away from everything enjoyable on a common basis. A rare sadness that presents some unforgettable joy. It's difficult to talk about. Because I know there are people missing her and all that. It's difficult to relate because on top of that there is the knowledge of the missing and maybe that's why I don't sleep so good these last years. Getting away without really getting away (heart in the floor kinda shit except ...)
The most difficult thing has been trying to relate this story without who I relate it to drastically reevaluating who I am as a person. I'm still the same. What's so difficult to understand about needing and finding practice? I understand that I am a very strange and enchanted boy and eventually luck runs out, but how does that mean love evaporates? Or should evaporate? How come once suddenly doesn't mean enough? I could understand trust lost. I could understand that. Total abandonment still stymies me. I don't care what you did or what you do. If I love you I love you. That's it. Where it starts and ends I guess. I think that's all I wanted in return. That's all. Step by stepped is what I got. Oh well. let's explore more. It's a big world and I've a small heart and there's a hell of a lot of music along the way. we'll see where this goes, but honestly i want more comedy. I don't think that's too much to ask. Trying to increase my value to others, you know? It is the first and last time I'll talk about it, so enjoy.
The Seatbelts - "Rain" - its a strange balance. even to me. the worst being that i dont know its been struck yet. knowing how i feel afterward i will try, but i cannot promise anything and i never will.
7/27/12
Communications Fault: Line 446890-C0-CC1 (circuit a1 >> branch 9)
I've had a very difficult time with communication. The heat hasn't helped. The pressure cooker of my apartment hasn't helped. I know what it's an extension of, and yes, I don't want to talk about it directly because it has been all consuming. Requiring maximum effort to distance myself from and hide from others, but even the lack of communication is telling enough for the people that know me, so even the hiding has been a full time occupation. Let alone maintaining myself. That has also been a full time occupation. Missing too many consecutive days of eating. Not too many in the personal book of what too many days is, as I once went a solid week without eating until a friend intervened. But, I've come to understand that one day of not eating when the option is available, is too many days. A new standard that makes me feel glutinous, but shouldn't by any means do so, but it's a hold over from another time and another segment of my life that refuses to go away.
Communications have been strained. Within myself. Production is down. Simply not happening. Close to zero cooperation from the parties involved, but that happens. Hallucinations are up. Managing them has sucked up a lot of "up" time. Sleep is off the charts.14 to 16 hours. Cross bridge explorations, however have been phenomenal. For quite some time I couldn't remember anything and then I started coming back with pieces and parts. It got to a point yesterday where I woke up and reached for a pocket watch I found after I asked a dead body in a half crushed fully rusted barge (it was an interstate race across a state made up of only islands arranged in a rapids a half continent wide [the waves were high enough to bury the Petronas towers if they were perched on top of the Dover cliffs, and then some], but I got off course and ended up trapped in an island surrounded by weirs that made it impossible to get off it without something with an engine) if there was anything of value and he woke up and pointed to a muddy box with a finger that had a key ring dangling from it. I opened the box and there was a spring loaded clock as big as my fist with a vest fob attached to it, and I was honestly surprised that it wasn't there and I realized I was dreaming again.
There was a very large bear in my room yesterday. A very large, unusually square shaped, bear. Which tipped me off that I was probably dreaming, but then my cat popped up on my pillow and poked me in the face and the bear was still there and I realized I was symptomatic again and so I pulled up my covers, rolled over, and tried to shut it out. The sun came up, though, so everything was resolved well enough. Daylight has its uses. My sleep cycle went completely out of whack. As far as it could possibly go without looping over on itself. And then I got sick. And slept for 36 hours. I needed to. Things have been righting since. A little bit on their own, a little bit through my own efforts to force them to.
What comes next is a re-assumption of some kind of routine to protect the balance. Shield myself from the bad wiring. That's really all I am trying to do. Remake the failsafes. It was one of those rare times when one breaker fail set up the ability for the next one to fault. And the next fault set up the next two to fail. The next two set up the next four. A large part of the mental restructuring is redeveloping the system to avoid that kind of expansion. That kind of breakage leads to zero to atmosphere times that feel like blinks of the eye. I was still talking about today as though today were Sunday. With the understanding that today was Sunday. Functionally that was where I left off. Imagine your body is a car. You jump in after dreaming and turn the key and halfway to your friend's house you realize there are 30,000 more miles on it than the last time you can remember driving it. Not fun. A little scary. Where the hell have I been?
So much unmounted rage. Learning all over again how to deal with it. How to manage it effectively. How to operate within a range of reason and reasonable values. Your base language is either violence or love and the communicator operating system between them either works or it doesn't. 1 or 0. I envy the analog. They really are a different species of human being. A holdover from another time that still procreates and propagates with great success. Us digital human beings still propagate, often despite ourselves. I don't mean digital in the respect of the how our communications are moved between people. We're all digital enough to make that not matter in that respect. The step before digitization though is a separate story. A separate breakdown for another time, but it's there. Digital communication at its root is violence or love. Extreme to extreme and the methods and ways, the words and letters provide the ability to create shades of the experience. For some. For others there is an increasingly fine number of ways to say things and the translation to digital fields is easier to the point of effortlessness. It's like an exam paper. Every paper being different depending on who you are and how you were engineered. Some people receive a paper where every question has twenty boxes. Some people receive a paper with two boxes. They both have the right answer to the question on them. Expressing that answer is a lot easier when you have twenty boxes to choose from instead of two boxes and a bunch of blank space to try to scrawl in explanations and clarifications and other junk to help the twenty boxers understand what you meant.
Established frameworks of communications. No one's to blame. At least I'm not blaming anyone. I'm just frustrated with my machinery. But I already explained, you can't build new machinery with bad tools. Perhaps I didn't. A lot of things do not make it passed the cutting floor, believe it or not. The idea was this: if the tools that make new tools are broken already or offset somehow, the new tools those tools make will be off by even more. And those tools will build structures off by that much more. And those structures will house tools constructed with that offset and be poor to look at to begin with and it just continues rolling up until it all collapses and you start again with the same crappy hammer and chisel and furnace trying to build a lathe to turn some sense out of something and you end up with nothing all over again. So I dunno. I do not know. Maybe just try to enjoy the work more than the product? Maybe? Anthem of my life if I ever had to write one. Probably needs more gunshots. And more cowbell. A little more clap hands and foot stomping and a little less dirge. A little more "remember the mission and all you might do" and a little less "quarterly review for the noble and 'a societal remove' sorts of moves. Nobility, much less nobelity, is passing and as beholden to the eye as anything ever was.
///Bjork - "Pluto" ... a little bit tired, but brand new
Communications have been strained. Within myself. Production is down. Simply not happening. Close to zero cooperation from the parties involved, but that happens. Hallucinations are up. Managing them has sucked up a lot of "up" time. Sleep is off the charts.14 to 16 hours. Cross bridge explorations, however have been phenomenal. For quite some time I couldn't remember anything and then I started coming back with pieces and parts. It got to a point yesterday where I woke up and reached for a pocket watch I found after I asked a dead body in a half crushed fully rusted barge (it was an interstate race across a state made up of only islands arranged in a rapids a half continent wide [the waves were high enough to bury the Petronas towers if they were perched on top of the Dover cliffs, and then some], but I got off course and ended up trapped in an island surrounded by weirs that made it impossible to get off it without something with an engine) if there was anything of value and he woke up and pointed to a muddy box with a finger that had a key ring dangling from it. I opened the box and there was a spring loaded clock as big as my fist with a vest fob attached to it, and I was honestly surprised that it wasn't there and I realized I was dreaming again.
There was a very large bear in my room yesterday. A very large, unusually square shaped, bear. Which tipped me off that I was probably dreaming, but then my cat popped up on my pillow and poked me in the face and the bear was still there and I realized I was symptomatic again and so I pulled up my covers, rolled over, and tried to shut it out. The sun came up, though, so everything was resolved well enough. Daylight has its uses. My sleep cycle went completely out of whack. As far as it could possibly go without looping over on itself. And then I got sick. And slept for 36 hours. I needed to. Things have been righting since. A little bit on their own, a little bit through my own efforts to force them to.
What comes next is a re-assumption of some kind of routine to protect the balance. Shield myself from the bad wiring. That's really all I am trying to do. Remake the failsafes. It was one of those rare times when one breaker fail set up the ability for the next one to fault. And the next fault set up the next two to fail. The next two set up the next four. A large part of the mental restructuring is redeveloping the system to avoid that kind of expansion. That kind of breakage leads to zero to atmosphere times that feel like blinks of the eye. I was still talking about today as though today were Sunday. With the understanding that today was Sunday. Functionally that was where I left off. Imagine your body is a car. You jump in after dreaming and turn the key and halfway to your friend's house you realize there are 30,000 more miles on it than the last time you can remember driving it. Not fun. A little scary. Where the hell have I been?
So much unmounted rage. Learning all over again how to deal with it. How to manage it effectively. How to operate within a range of reason and reasonable values. Your base language is either violence or love and the communicator operating system between them either works or it doesn't. 1 or 0. I envy the analog. They really are a different species of human being. A holdover from another time that still procreates and propagates with great success. Us digital human beings still propagate, often despite ourselves. I don't mean digital in the respect of the how our communications are moved between people. We're all digital enough to make that not matter in that respect. The step before digitization though is a separate story. A separate breakdown for another time, but it's there. Digital communication at its root is violence or love. Extreme to extreme and the methods and ways, the words and letters provide the ability to create shades of the experience. For some. For others there is an increasingly fine number of ways to say things and the translation to digital fields is easier to the point of effortlessness. It's like an exam paper. Every paper being different depending on who you are and how you were engineered. Some people receive a paper where every question has twenty boxes. Some people receive a paper with two boxes. They both have the right answer to the question on them. Expressing that answer is a lot easier when you have twenty boxes to choose from instead of two boxes and a bunch of blank space to try to scrawl in explanations and clarifications and other junk to help the twenty boxers understand what you meant.
Established frameworks of communications. No one's to blame. At least I'm not blaming anyone. I'm just frustrated with my machinery. But I already explained, you can't build new machinery with bad tools. Perhaps I didn't. A lot of things do not make it passed the cutting floor, believe it or not. The idea was this: if the tools that make new tools are broken already or offset somehow, the new tools those tools make will be off by even more. And those tools will build structures off by that much more. And those structures will house tools constructed with that offset and be poor to look at to begin with and it just continues rolling up until it all collapses and you start again with the same crappy hammer and chisel and furnace trying to build a lathe to turn some sense out of something and you end up with nothing all over again. So I dunno. I do not know. Maybe just try to enjoy the work more than the product? Maybe? Anthem of my life if I ever had to write one. Probably needs more gunshots. And more cowbell. A little more clap hands and foot stomping and a little less dirge. A little more "remember the mission and all you might do" and a little less "quarterly review for the noble and 'a societal remove' sorts of moves. Nobility, much less nobelity, is passing and as beholden to the eye as anything ever was.
///Bjork - "Pluto" ... a little bit tired, but brand new
7/7/11
In the Back Woods and Friendship Tugs of War
Well, I've been gone for a minute, but it's been something of a stroll in the backwoods. The creepy backwoods that are often not to be strolled until the circumstances demand some sort of outing and the only reasonable place to go where you can't be bothered is the back 9 of the mind. Keeping a good clip with poetry. A minor defeat of writer's block that has allowed some things to flourish. I haven't used that word in a while, if at all. Flourish. It has a certain pirouette to it that has to be reserved for unique measures of success.
Success in the face of nightmares.
Actual nightmares. Actual moments of the involuntary bridging of dream and real states. Of seeing what is there and what isn't or at least shouldn't be in the same instance of breathing and having to close my eyes and repeat after me "you are safe"s. If repeating is believing. I guess that's one of the reasons why I don't believe in heaven or hell. I've seen them both and they're not what anyone says they are supposed to be. I've been to the end of the world and it's nothing like what we've been told is it? Few things ever are. If I smell a little like death it's because we've been bedfellows on and off recently. A flirting couple that knows neither is really committed to anything serious, but when is play ever except when it is?
So we've pumped and ground and made and done and life has gone on for less and worse and better and blood. The organs still pump and the sound still comes in fountains and so I continue. I continue on in the backwoods and little leaps to foregrounds until, I have come to convince myself recently in the train of reasons to reason in, the day when my life transposes from discrete experiences into a singular piece of poesis. A perfect and sustainable solid state. And then I'll happily call it a day. Not in a bid for immortality because immortality is only to memory and human memory will never break the solid state barrier (so even immortals are no more than incarnates), but in a bid to have become. I suppose there are probably many things I am becoming, but to have definitively crossed that boundary of becomingness to the hell pots of posterity is a thing worth aspiring to if there is anything worth shooting for. Call the stars, or the moon, or glory, or whatever. Incarnations of the become be damned. To have is to have in some way shape and form held in hands so often dropped in emptiness. To have gripped, and not let go even in whatever can be termed death.
There have been joys in the backwoods. Joys tasted rarely in and the travel has been hard and light, but worth it in some ways and a waste in many others. And I don't know why I am trying to see this in two points of view. Oh wait I do! Friendship tug of war. You can pick your nose. You can pick your friends. But you can't favor one person over the other though they both know you in pathetically thin terms. What the hell does it matter, you idiots? I mean really. Can we all just grow up a good four years and call this bullshit a day. Not to rant on so silly a topic. It's just aggravating. Neither one of you could really keep pace with what I'm up to so what the hell difference does it make. Both of you would probably have nothing to do with me if you knew me to the fullest possible extent so can we please all just get along by the terms of the established sensibilities of isness? Probably not.
I have got too much to run from to ever fully open to either so what can I possibly be expected to do when I can't even begin to describe what can be reasonably expected of myself. How can you love anybody when you don't love yourself? Well, it's kind of easy if you try. Just kidding, it's impossible, but still- what the hell. Are my choices really to go hang with the one person who always lies to me and makes assertions they can never back up and keep trusting in them and keep getting screwed up worse than I am, or is it to drag myself across town to hang with someone who has no idea who i actually am and will be put in a weird situation when he does. I guess the one thing I do have to consider is that I shouldn't presume to know people I - don't know. Simply stated. So maybe it's worth a shot. Maybe it's time to bend the orbit a little bit and come in close enough to lay some mathematics and calculus to a potential short rendezvous. Haven't used that word in a while either. Generally reserved for important things. Like scenes from 2001 A Space Odyssey. Elegant things. My staff of scientists are not elegant or important. Their idea of a delicate landing is detonating on the surface. They didn't do so well in school, I guess. If shithead A gets a shot, I think it stands to reason that potential decent friend B should also get a shot to play the table and fit into my arbitrary and ridiculous set of rules for friendship that, I swear these people do exist, few people can seem to fit into. I miss those people a ton. I guess the stupid thing is they'll never know who they are. If they did know they probably wouldn't care what it is they accomplished. Alright I'm gonna pipe this down as I'm making myself slightly depressed. And by slightly I mean massively. It's been a tough week. Sorry I've been away.
Well anyway, thought I would drop off some graphics. Because what is a road trip without photographs. There are things that live when you sleep that do not sleep as you are living. They wait for you to come on back. Come on home. One more time. You'll not leave this place alive, but you can try. You can try for old time's sake. We'll give you a fit and running start. See how far you go before we are there, sucking the lengths of string of your calf through your heel like fine noodles through a straw of shredded skin. Don't stay up too late.
///The Black Angels - "Mission District" You can sometimes hear it. You can always feel it when it comes beating on your heart like a death threat. You will write or you will suffer in ways you did not know existed, but will become intimately familiar with. And you do it. And you duck away into the grass and you listen to it beat it's way farther along and then it's gone and you can't really tell if you saved yourself or if maybe the entire thing is coming around again and this time at an angle you did not know was possible and maybe you'll hear it. You'll certainly feel it closing in, but how much less warning will there be next time?
Success in the face of nightmares.
Actual nightmares. Actual moments of the involuntary bridging of dream and real states. Of seeing what is there and what isn't or at least shouldn't be in the same instance of breathing and having to close my eyes and repeat after me "you are safe"s. If repeating is believing. I guess that's one of the reasons why I don't believe in heaven or hell. I've seen them both and they're not what anyone says they are supposed to be. I've been to the end of the world and it's nothing like what we've been told is it? Few things ever are. If I smell a little like death it's because we've been bedfellows on and off recently. A flirting couple that knows neither is really committed to anything serious, but when is play ever except when it is?So we've pumped and ground and made and done and life has gone on for less and worse and better and blood. The organs still pump and the sound still comes in fountains and so I continue. I continue on in the backwoods and little leaps to foregrounds until, I have come to convince myself recently in the train of reasons to reason in, the day when my life transposes from discrete experiences into a singular piece of poesis. A perfect and sustainable solid state. And then I'll happily call it a day. Not in a bid for immortality because immortality is only to memory and human memory will never break the solid state barrier (so even immortals are no more than incarnates), but in a bid to have become. I suppose there are probably many things I am becoming, but to have definitively crossed that boundary of becomingness to the hell pots of posterity is a thing worth aspiring to if there is anything worth shooting for. Call the stars, or the moon, or glory, or whatever. Incarnations of the become be damned. To have is to have in some way shape and form held in hands so often dropped in emptiness. To have gripped, and not let go even in whatever can be termed death.
There have been joys in the backwoods. Joys tasted rarely in and the travel has been hard and light, but worth it in some ways and a waste in many others. And I don't know why I am trying to see this in two points of view. Oh wait I do! Friendship tug of war. You can pick your nose. You can pick your friends. But you can't favor one person over the other though they both know you in pathetically thin terms. What the hell does it matter, you idiots? I mean really. Can we all just grow up a good four years and call this bullshit a day. Not to rant on so silly a topic. It's just aggravating. Neither one of you could really keep pace with what I'm up to so what the hell difference does it make. Both of you would probably have nothing to do with me if you knew me to the fullest possible extent so can we please all just get along by the terms of the established sensibilities of isness? Probably not.
I have got too much to run from to ever fully open to either so what can I possibly be expected to do when I can't even begin to describe what can be reasonably expected of myself. How can you love anybody when you don't love yourself? Well, it's kind of easy if you try. Just kidding, it's impossible, but still- what the hell. Are my choices really to go hang with the one person who always lies to me and makes assertions they can never back up and keep trusting in them and keep getting screwed up worse than I am, or is it to drag myself across town to hang with someone who has no idea who i actually am and will be put in a weird situation when he does. I guess the one thing I do have to consider is that I shouldn't presume to know people I - don't know. Simply stated. So maybe it's worth a shot. Maybe it's time to bend the orbit a little bit and come in close enough to lay some mathematics and calculus to a potential short rendezvous. Haven't used that word in a while either. Generally reserved for important things. Like scenes from 2001 A Space Odyssey. Elegant things. My staff of scientists are not elegant or important. Their idea of a delicate landing is detonating on the surface. They didn't do so well in school, I guess. If shithead A gets a shot, I think it stands to reason that potential decent friend B should also get a shot to play the table and fit into my arbitrary and ridiculous set of rules for friendship that, I swear these people do exist, few people can seem to fit into. I miss those people a ton. I guess the stupid thing is they'll never know who they are. If they did know they probably wouldn't care what it is they accomplished. Alright I'm gonna pipe this down as I'm making myself slightly depressed. And by slightly I mean massively. It's been a tough week. Sorry I've been away.
Well anyway, thought I would drop off some graphics. Because what is a road trip without photographs. There are things that live when you sleep that do not sleep as you are living. They wait for you to come on back. Come on home. One more time. You'll not leave this place alive, but you can try. You can try for old time's sake. We'll give you a fit and running start. See how far you go before we are there, sucking the lengths of string of your calf through your heel like fine noodles through a straw of shredded skin. Don't stay up too late.
///The Black Angels - "Mission District" You can sometimes hear it. You can always feel it when it comes beating on your heart like a death threat. You will write or you will suffer in ways you did not know existed, but will become intimately familiar with. And you do it. And you duck away into the grass and you listen to it beat it's way farther along and then it's gone and you can't really tell if you saved yourself or if maybe the entire thing is coming around again and this time at an angle you did not know was possible and maybe you'll hear it. You'll certainly feel it closing in, but how much less warning will there be next time?
6/8/11
Three Hundred and Eleven, Stupid Fucking Christians, Foreignness, and Musing
I want to have something important to say today, but I don't. Still working on the dream. I'm gonna muse for a minute, well several, as I am mentally drifting. While at work, the pressures of so much unpleasantness force my thoughts into a water jet that cuts steel, but away from those pressures it diffuses and runs easy and slipshod and quiet, or quieter, and my adrenal glands are gonna be shot by the time I'm 30 iterations old because so much of the day, well the night, is spent trying to wrestle control, heart charging, mind racing, all for nothing. There's nothing I can do to undo that. That shit job will still be around long after I leave it. The same people will still be there enforcing backward policy and rewarding incompetence. And that's the way it has to be. Competent people leave. They don't stay there. The only way any sort of structure can be maintained there is to reward stupidity, soft mindedness, weakness, and buffoonery and it is upsetting to me and it should be upsetting. All it means is that I have to leave before my head explodes.
I was working the other day and growing sicker by the moment. Physically sick to my stomach. The sounds being pumped down from the speakers in the ceiling were like ice picks touching my brainstem behind my throat and pricking it over and over and the pain of it was turning my stomach and making me dizzy. I considered after some time asking if I could leave at 3 AM, lunch time, and call it a day, but my stupid loyalty and pride in the work that I do told me to gut it out. Don't be weak and stupid and candy and thin. Gut it out. I don't care what you want, you came in today to do a job so do the job and then, when it's finished, go home and rest. You're not like them, is what I told myself until finally, while kneeling and shelving my body basically rebelled and pulled a knife on me. To which I answered, you wouldn't. And then it did, but it missed. Shattered the blade of the box cutter on the floor tiles taking a blind left handed downward swing at my leg and caught a rebounding shard in my mouth. So I met myself half way and took a long lunch break. It was a shitty day. I gotta get outta there.
So for the anniversary of my initialization my parents sent me a card. One of their signatures said live in peace. Which made me want to immediately purchase the next available train ticket down there to end their lives and burn the house to the ground. But I can't do that. I have too much I need to work on finishing already without the added difficulty of trying to do it in prison where materials would likely be even more scarce though free time would be in abundance so potentially that trade off might become more interesting if scarcity becomes a greater issue out here. It mostly made me question, though, how backward can a human being be. How stupid can a person truly be. To tell someone to live in peace. While simultaneously denying them every single last avenue open toward a life of peace and stability. It just reminds me of so many Christians. So many good Christians. It's in God's hands. She's with God now. He's in God's protection now. What the hell is wrong with you idiots. It's not in God's fucking hands. It's in your fucking hands. It just stymies me that people can be so oblivious. So learnedly oblivious to the obviousness of the impacts their decisions make on other peoples lives, especially, especially when so little effort on their part can make titanic changes for their own flesh and blood. Which is why I no longer consider them to be. They are an unfortunate do while loop that erred and spawned a NaN variable in me, but that has picked up where it left off doing nothing except cancer consuming it's surrounding while time left to live is not equal to or less than zero. I need a new mommy and daddy. Or a used set. Or even just one or the other as I have a pair of glaring vacancies. Apply within.
This is the three hundredth posting. My eleventh birthday is this Saturday. I might take myself out for ice cream. You can come too. I had another attack of something last night. It sucked. I woke up in the middle of it. Maybe it was a siezure. It was kind of funny in retrospect. I tried to get up and my whole body just want stiff and I fell back into my blanket with my face on my pillow. Funny because if someone were just walking by my room they would think I was fast asleep. I suppose if I hadn't woken up I wouldn't be composing this. I wonder sometimes where I am in the alternate reality when that happens. I wonder if maybe I touched something and received some sort of static shock and this state of contraction is how it crosses the bridge and stings me here. I wonder if assaulted by sound here what happens to me over there. I don't think it's just me crossing. Well I know it's not just me crossing. I wonder if I'll ever meet me over there. It is a rather large world.
Just the other day I was there and apparently there were some sweeping changes made while I was away. There concrete viaducts and underpasses everywhere and all biege and everyone was busy moving here and there and it took damn near half an hour to stop someone and ask them what was going on and where I could find the train station, because I hadn't ridden it in some time and I wanted to lose myself for a while. The man I stopped was about my height. Brown leather jacket and a shirt crushed with sweat and what looked like engine oil. He explained to me, after adjusting his glasses, that cars were banned. He wasn't mad at me for asking an apparently obvious question. He told me the upcoming action required that as much crude be saved and that the viaducts and underpasses were all light rails and that everyone pretty much took the light rails or biked where they needed to, but I didn't see a single bicycle or train car pass me while I spoke to him. He left. The city was a mess of design, but clean in the same way a beach is clean after a really bad windstorm. The whole thing was off putting. And then I woke up. No sign of other me. I think if I ever did see him I'd be roundly terrified. I hate talking about him. Any of them. They don't like being talked about behind their backs, but it's not fair because I'm always behind their backs until they show up and then I'm just fucked. I don't know.
Still haven't made the call. Still trying to land. Still no where to touch down if I wanted to. I've gone back to making necessary long term repairs. Things chance. Things change. There are times when things keep fucking up and keep fucking up and keep fucking up no matter what you do. And you know this because it is the same situation that you've approached two dozen different ways and it never ends up mattering by the time your bones hurt and your eyes are pools from finger bloodying attempt after attempt. And times like that force you into a position where the only agency you can really exercise is to fuck it up yourself. It is real. You can do it. It's the only way you'll ever be able to say you did something for yourself. I smashed in that fucking fender. All me. The only control you will be able to revel in is to decide where you want the hammer to touch down instead of letting someone else decide it for you. Something to revel in. Anything to revel in. To feel a part of the inside out and bizarre and upside down world you're in. If you live in a world of systematized counter productivity and human waste long enough, does the opposite become foreign? Absolutely.
I do believe from a civilization spanning viewpoint... well that just sounds cockneyed. Well probably not even cockneyed. Just stupidly grandiose. I do believe from the standpoint of socialization into the fabric of Americanisms that I am more or less feral. Defining feral as undomesticated and domestication as a state of obedient harmony with established standards and practices. But more on the nose I was raised like a dog. The more I think about, well I'm done thinking about, I've gone over the evidence internally through committee several times over and it's all there. I'm still learning to be American and person, but I feel like several of my key behaviors are kanine first and reasoning person second. I should probably make that call sometime. Trying to domesticate myself. To relate to people better. But the thing no one tells you about making sacrifices to relate to people is that none of it will ever matter if the people you are trying to relate to have no interest in rejoining your sweat for connection. Shove away then.
///The Cardigans - "Losers"
I was working the other day and growing sicker by the moment. Physically sick to my stomach. The sounds being pumped down from the speakers in the ceiling were like ice picks touching my brainstem behind my throat and pricking it over and over and the pain of it was turning my stomach and making me dizzy. I considered after some time asking if I could leave at 3 AM, lunch time, and call it a day, but my stupid loyalty and pride in the work that I do told me to gut it out. Don't be weak and stupid and candy and thin. Gut it out. I don't care what you want, you came in today to do a job so do the job and then, when it's finished, go home and rest. You're not like them, is what I told myself until finally, while kneeling and shelving my body basically rebelled and pulled a knife on me. To which I answered, you wouldn't. And then it did, but it missed. Shattered the blade of the box cutter on the floor tiles taking a blind left handed downward swing at my leg and caught a rebounding shard in my mouth. So I met myself half way and took a long lunch break. It was a shitty day. I gotta get outta there.
So for the anniversary of my initialization my parents sent me a card. One of their signatures said live in peace. Which made me want to immediately purchase the next available train ticket down there to end their lives and burn the house to the ground. But I can't do that. I have too much I need to work on finishing already without the added difficulty of trying to do it in prison where materials would likely be even more scarce though free time would be in abundance so potentially that trade off might become more interesting if scarcity becomes a greater issue out here. It mostly made me question, though, how backward can a human being be. How stupid can a person truly be. To tell someone to live in peace. While simultaneously denying them every single last avenue open toward a life of peace and stability. It just reminds me of so many Christians. So many good Christians. It's in God's hands. She's with God now. He's in God's protection now. What the hell is wrong with you idiots. It's not in God's fucking hands. It's in your fucking hands. It just stymies me that people can be so oblivious. So learnedly oblivious to the obviousness of the impacts their decisions make on other peoples lives, especially, especially when so little effort on their part can make titanic changes for their own flesh and blood. Which is why I no longer consider them to be. They are an unfortunate do while loop that erred and spawned a NaN variable in me, but that has picked up where it left off doing nothing except cancer consuming it's surrounding while time left to live is not equal to or less than zero. I need a new mommy and daddy. Or a used set. Or even just one or the other as I have a pair of glaring vacancies. Apply within.
This is the three hundredth posting. My eleventh birthday is this Saturday. I might take myself out for ice cream. You can come too. I had another attack of something last night. It sucked. I woke up in the middle of it. Maybe it was a siezure. It was kind of funny in retrospect. I tried to get up and my whole body just want stiff and I fell back into my blanket with my face on my pillow. Funny because if someone were just walking by my room they would think I was fast asleep. I suppose if I hadn't woken up I wouldn't be composing this. I wonder sometimes where I am in the alternate reality when that happens. I wonder if maybe I touched something and received some sort of static shock and this state of contraction is how it crosses the bridge and stings me here. I wonder if assaulted by sound here what happens to me over there. I don't think it's just me crossing. Well I know it's not just me crossing. I wonder if I'll ever meet me over there. It is a rather large world.
Just the other day I was there and apparently there were some sweeping changes made while I was away. There concrete viaducts and underpasses everywhere and all biege and everyone was busy moving here and there and it took damn near half an hour to stop someone and ask them what was going on and where I could find the train station, because I hadn't ridden it in some time and I wanted to lose myself for a while. The man I stopped was about my height. Brown leather jacket and a shirt crushed with sweat and what looked like engine oil. He explained to me, after adjusting his glasses, that cars were banned. He wasn't mad at me for asking an apparently obvious question. He told me the upcoming action required that as much crude be saved and that the viaducts and underpasses were all light rails and that everyone pretty much took the light rails or biked where they needed to, but I didn't see a single bicycle or train car pass me while I spoke to him. He left. The city was a mess of design, but clean in the same way a beach is clean after a really bad windstorm. The whole thing was off putting. And then I woke up. No sign of other me. I think if I ever did see him I'd be roundly terrified. I hate talking about him. Any of them. They don't like being talked about behind their backs, but it's not fair because I'm always behind their backs until they show up and then I'm just fucked. I don't know.
Still haven't made the call. Still trying to land. Still no where to touch down if I wanted to. I've gone back to making necessary long term repairs. Things chance. Things change. There are times when things keep fucking up and keep fucking up and keep fucking up no matter what you do. And you know this because it is the same situation that you've approached two dozen different ways and it never ends up mattering by the time your bones hurt and your eyes are pools from finger bloodying attempt after attempt. And times like that force you into a position where the only agency you can really exercise is to fuck it up yourself. It is real. You can do it. It's the only way you'll ever be able to say you did something for yourself. I smashed in that fucking fender. All me. The only control you will be able to revel in is to decide where you want the hammer to touch down instead of letting someone else decide it for you. Something to revel in. Anything to revel in. To feel a part of the inside out and bizarre and upside down world you're in. If you live in a world of systematized counter productivity and human waste long enough, does the opposite become foreign? Absolutely.
I do believe from a civilization spanning viewpoint... well that just sounds cockneyed. Well probably not even cockneyed. Just stupidly grandiose. I do believe from the standpoint of socialization into the fabric of Americanisms that I am more or less feral. Defining feral as undomesticated and domestication as a state of obedient harmony with established standards and practices. But more on the nose I was raised like a dog. The more I think about, well I'm done thinking about, I've gone over the evidence internally through committee several times over and it's all there. I'm still learning to be American and person, but I feel like several of my key behaviors are kanine first and reasoning person second. I should probably make that call sometime. Trying to domesticate myself. To relate to people better. But the thing no one tells you about making sacrifices to relate to people is that none of it will ever matter if the people you are trying to relate to have no interest in rejoining your sweat for connection. Shove away then.
///The Cardigans - "Losers"
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