Every time you wake up in the grip of the fall out of another meltdown or with your palm against the window of your cell and everything you thought was real ashed away or grown so thick all you can see and smell is wilderness and locked trees and you have no sense of how and where it came to now or the roads and rivers that lead to here, do not forget that it may very well have nothing to do with you or anything you did.
Can't control every fragment of your consciousness. Following routine. Everything you were supposed to do, you did. Everything designed to help and guide and control and nudge and suggest. The end results can have nothing to do with anything you did or did not do. Absolutely nothing. It will not change how or where you wake up. Where or how the sunrise will find you. It will. And you will. And you must not hate yourself or blame yourself no matter how badly you want to and no matter how badly your nature tells you someone has to pay for all that is wrong. Someone has to pay for this upside down world. And that someone is you. It isn't.
You cannot control every fragment of your consciousness. Let the sun rise on a world rearranged over the course of one night, after you fought and rebuilt all that was misplaced and felled in the weeks before by the weeks before that when you believed "this time it is going to last, I know it, I can feel it," and start again. It may stick this time. It may not. Do not fear that world. Do not tear your eyes away and bury them in your hands. Start again. It's okay. You did everything you could. Now try to do it again...
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 stability. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stability. Show all posts
8/28/15
6/11/13
Bed Time Story
A bed time story for you. I'm sorry I missed Friday. Life has been awfully up and down.
There was once a young man who had a goldfish. It lived in a square bowl inside of a white plastic castle with a little submariner who wore a big brass helmet.
Everyday the young man would watch the fish circle around his castle, big fins swirling the water, going about his fishy day and doing his fishy errands and forgetting things as quickly as he could remember to remember them.
The young man watched and chuckled and sometimes wondered about his fish. Was he happy as a fish in a pond or was he sad as a fish in a pond? Did he think about the sea or did the little fish wonder if the sea thought about him?
He'd chuckle and sprinkle little leaves of food and watch him make tiny bubbles on the surface while he ate, before turning in to sleep himself.
One day, the young man had a terrible day, he failed his tests at school, and left his backpack on the city bus. He tied his shoes so well he couldn't get them off and had to cut his favorite orange laces in two. He cried and his dad would not hold his hand and instead sent him to bed with no dinner. He knew his teachers would scream at him tomorrow without his homework in hand. He would try to explain that bad luck was the blame and they would not care nor understand.
That night as he sobbed and went sad to sleep, body sore from too much crying, the fish watched him weep and yawned, wiped his fin feet, and went inside his castle to lie down.
"Mr. submariner," the fish asked I need to cheer up a friend. Do you think you can do me a favor?"
"Sure," said he, all bubbly, "I think I can help you out."
"I need there to be a rainbow outside, when day breaks, near the window beside that bed in the corner way over there."
"Well you see," said the man, bubbles blowing from his brass head, "to do that is not at all easy. Rainbows only come when angels laugh til the cry and those tears fall down on trees. The trees shake in the breeze from the mouths of angel belly laughs and they catch little colds and sneeze. The colors fly up and loop back down and that is the rainbow we see."
"How, Mr. Submariner, how can I tell a joke so funny they'll hear. With all the prayers flying up in the air it will never reach their ears."
"Give me tonight, and I'll give it a thought and I will make a joke for you. But in the meantime, don't you worry a wink. Lay your fins on your pebbles and sleep."
The very next day as the young man woke, tears still dry on his face, he walked to his window, stretched and yawned and a smile began to grow on his face.
He whistled a tune to the summer sky, to the rain soaked air, and to the largest rainbow he ever saw. Inside his heart he knew the day was still young, but he knew too he would be okay.
The fish awoke late, the young man long gone, and rushed to the submariner, in a daze.
"Mr. Submariner! Mr. Submariner! Did it work? Did it work? What on earth did you say?"
"I told the angels, just before dawn, that a fish I knew needed a favor. I told them that if they did me this one favor I would love Jesus until the day I died and they, already shocked that I could talk, split their sides at my wager."
There was once a young man who had a goldfish. It lived in a square bowl inside of a white plastic castle with a little submariner who wore a big brass helmet.
Everyday the young man would watch the fish circle around his castle, big fins swirling the water, going about his fishy day and doing his fishy errands and forgetting things as quickly as he could remember to remember them.
The young man watched and chuckled and sometimes wondered about his fish. Was he happy as a fish in a pond or was he sad as a fish in a pond? Did he think about the sea or did the little fish wonder if the sea thought about him?
He'd chuckle and sprinkle little leaves of food and watch him make tiny bubbles on the surface while he ate, before turning in to sleep himself.
One day, the young man had a terrible day, he failed his tests at school, and left his backpack on the city bus. He tied his shoes so well he couldn't get them off and had to cut his favorite orange laces in two. He cried and his dad would not hold his hand and instead sent him to bed with no dinner. He knew his teachers would scream at him tomorrow without his homework in hand. He would try to explain that bad luck was the blame and they would not care nor understand.
That night as he sobbed and went sad to sleep, body sore from too much crying, the fish watched him weep and yawned, wiped his fin feet, and went inside his castle to lie down.
"Mr. submariner," the fish asked I need to cheer up a friend. Do you think you can do me a favor?"
"Sure," said he, all bubbly, "I think I can help you out."
"I need there to be a rainbow outside, when day breaks, near the window beside that bed in the corner way over there."
"Well you see," said the man, bubbles blowing from his brass head, "to do that is not at all easy. Rainbows only come when angels laugh til the cry and those tears fall down on trees. The trees shake in the breeze from the mouths of angel belly laughs and they catch little colds and sneeze. The colors fly up and loop back down and that is the rainbow we see."
"How, Mr. Submariner, how can I tell a joke so funny they'll hear. With all the prayers flying up in the air it will never reach their ears."
"Give me tonight, and I'll give it a thought and I will make a joke for you. But in the meantime, don't you worry a wink. Lay your fins on your pebbles and sleep."
The very next day as the young man woke, tears still dry on his face, he walked to his window, stretched and yawned and a smile began to grow on his face.
He whistled a tune to the summer sky, to the rain soaked air, and to the largest rainbow he ever saw. Inside his heart he knew the day was still young, but he knew too he would be okay.
The fish awoke late, the young man long gone, and rushed to the submariner, in a daze.
"Mr. Submariner! Mr. Submariner! Did it work? Did it work? What on earth did you say?"
"I told the angels, just before dawn, that a fish I knew needed a favor. I told them that if they did me this one favor I would love Jesus until the day I died and they, already shocked that I could talk, split their sides at my wager."
///Coco O - "Where the Wind Blows" sweet dreams, ghosts.
4/5/13
Ghosts [return]
What's black and white and red all over? Your mother, upside down, wrapped in electrical tape. You on the run. The pain has been astronomical. Mentally shredded. Bringing myself back together. You never want your heart to get too cold, but sometimes enough things pile up together and the fire goes out and it's just you out there, alone in the backwoods, beside a ring of rocks and ash and you can hear them at the tree line cutting under the bushes and between the trunks and leaves would rustle if it wasn't so late a winter, and instead the twigs are snapping and whistling when they breath and more than anything else you want to howl and bring them to you because waiting has you chewing your tongue out of your face, but even if you could draw enough breath to do it, your throat is swollen shut tighter than your shivering eyelids. So you wait for sunrise with the knee quaked temerity of a hangman who knows there are worse things than death.
It's been a while. It's been a long long while. Every minute an exercise, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing, in control. Childhood memories know no limits and have no expiration date. They're like veins laid into the skin of your brain that pump that history through your tissues and sockets and bones and every few days or weeks or sometimes, blessed months, they rattle around your cells and locks like blind inmates with worn down kitchen ware for picks. Sometimes, strolling those halls you catch their empty, milky, eyes in little bits of mirror gummed to metal rods watching the sound of your footsteps down the hall. You took them out, one by one, to solitary confinement and punched those brown and blue iris's out with a peen hammer. Each new arrival. Because you could not stand the watching, but you never thought they would keep on looking with their ears, little mirrors still poking between the bars out of habit. Or maybe just to fuck with you. Every few days, weeks, or blessed months, one will get it right, and out of the corner of your eye, too far down the hall to break the hand at play, a cell springs open. Two cells. Three cells. Two more on the upper level. Another in a wing of a branch of your complex you only know because the alarm is thudding through your ears, through the bricks of your skull and you know something has gone very wrong.
The ghosts have been roaming again. To the point where the best thing I can do is lock myself up and pray for rain stiff enough to take the chalk off the attic walls where the roof is worn away. Sometimes I know why it happens. A lot of times I still don't. Managing is a kind word. But you do it to the best of your abilities. At some point it becomes not protecting yourself from others intrusions or exploitation or oversights or abuse or perceptions as much as it becomes protecting other people from yourself. Just because you know and can, to a degree, understand what's happening to you or not always the what, but the why (sometimes not even that) and can feel that something is not in its right place and that knife is not where you left it, and your shoes are covered in mud, but you went to bed early yesterday and it didn't rain until deep into the night, and that math is simply not accurate, does not mean that you can do anything to stop it besides isolate and insulate yourself as much as possible. "Bad things are about to happen."
It shakes you on the inside. The frameworks you've built up to contain and blanket fracture and split apart and you have to force one hand into the other. Force your hands to love each other so they do not tear you to pieces. And sigh "please, not now. Not yet." They will pay someday, but you're not ready yet. The switch turns and you're alone again. The things with names I cannot pronounce are gone, but how far away did they go this time. Are they in the next room? Around the corner of the building? Is he on the windowsill, outside the drawn shade admiring the night air? Check the bathroom. Where did all of this blood come from? The switch turns again. Rusty contacts spark and pain flows like spilled water on live copper. You hold your hands over your ears and go days without saying a word because if you do not know who and what it is that is breathing in your ear, you can never trust a word from between your lips again.
Pain builds and abets and builds in the dark inside your folds. They eat at your body. Snack and taste and tear away this and that. They can hear you crying through the years, sniffing you out. One and then two and then too many to count and all you want is to reach back through that long stairwell, past the cobwebs, to hug your little body and press your round little face into your chest until you stop breathing, but you can't bring yourself to do it, so you hold yourself tight and listen to the echos rising to the floor above and the snick snacking shuffle of their footsteps trying to find their way down to where your body broke all those years ago. They come down those stairs and pull chairs near and wait and watch and some laugh and some pick skin out of their teeth with spare change or a bobby pin. Some draw little things in the dust on the floor with little fingers. Pain builds and you take it and take it until it becomes.
In the pile of ash inside the stone circle in the backwoods you failed to navigate and so made a bed, the weight of ignition is reached. The heart inside you, driven and compacted to a block of solid steel arctic ice, begins to burn again. Focus taken returns. It is only you. Yes, they are near, but it is only you holding the gun to your chest and the hammer falls and you exhale fire. The sun is hanging itself and all you need do is walk toward it to feel its heat. The air is not vibrating anymore, instead holding you the way you tried to hold yourself. Pain destroys until the scale goes so far it can only be described by what it creates. Clarity is a kind word. Control. Management. I know someday it will go somewhere we will not come back from. But that day is not today. Today, everyone is in their cell. Everyone dangerous enough to raise the hairs on my neck and make me piss into my pant leg and fill my left shoe. History never goes away.
Rebuild. Come back to us. There is no reason for this is the biggest lie you'll ever hear. Someday we'll be right and they'll see what it is that steals sleep from our eyes. It's been a long long while, but it feels like no time at all. Someday we'll have a necklace made out of their teeth, little holes drilled in them, fillings and all, with a little pink thread through them and the back ends in fisherman knots tied to silver clasps. That would be nice. Someday sweetheart.
It's been a while. It's been a long long while. Every minute an exercise, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing, in control. Childhood memories know no limits and have no expiration date. They're like veins laid into the skin of your brain that pump that history through your tissues and sockets and bones and every few days or weeks or sometimes, blessed months, they rattle around your cells and locks like blind inmates with worn down kitchen ware for picks. Sometimes, strolling those halls you catch their empty, milky, eyes in little bits of mirror gummed to metal rods watching the sound of your footsteps down the hall. You took them out, one by one, to solitary confinement and punched those brown and blue iris's out with a peen hammer. Each new arrival. Because you could not stand the watching, but you never thought they would keep on looking with their ears, little mirrors still poking between the bars out of habit. Or maybe just to fuck with you. Every few days, weeks, or blessed months, one will get it right, and out of the corner of your eye, too far down the hall to break the hand at play, a cell springs open. Two cells. Three cells. Two more on the upper level. Another in a wing of a branch of your complex you only know because the alarm is thudding through your ears, through the bricks of your skull and you know something has gone very wrong.
The ghosts have been roaming again. To the point where the best thing I can do is lock myself up and pray for rain stiff enough to take the chalk off the attic walls where the roof is worn away. Sometimes I know why it happens. A lot of times I still don't. Managing is a kind word. But you do it to the best of your abilities. At some point it becomes not protecting yourself from others intrusions or exploitation or oversights or abuse or perceptions as much as it becomes protecting other people from yourself. Just because you know and can, to a degree, understand what's happening to you or not always the what, but the why (sometimes not even that) and can feel that something is not in its right place and that knife is not where you left it, and your shoes are covered in mud, but you went to bed early yesterday and it didn't rain until deep into the night, and that math is simply not accurate, does not mean that you can do anything to stop it besides isolate and insulate yourself as much as possible. "Bad things are about to happen."
It shakes you on the inside. The frameworks you've built up to contain and blanket fracture and split apart and you have to force one hand into the other. Force your hands to love each other so they do not tear you to pieces. And sigh "please, not now. Not yet." They will pay someday, but you're not ready yet. The switch turns and you're alone again. The things with names I cannot pronounce are gone, but how far away did they go this time. Are they in the next room? Around the corner of the building? Is he on the windowsill, outside the drawn shade admiring the night air? Check the bathroom. Where did all of this blood come from? The switch turns again. Rusty contacts spark and pain flows like spilled water on live copper. You hold your hands over your ears and go days without saying a word because if you do not know who and what it is that is breathing in your ear, you can never trust a word from between your lips again.
Pain builds and abets and builds in the dark inside your folds. They eat at your body. Snack and taste and tear away this and that. They can hear you crying through the years, sniffing you out. One and then two and then too many to count and all you want is to reach back through that long stairwell, past the cobwebs, to hug your little body and press your round little face into your chest until you stop breathing, but you can't bring yourself to do it, so you hold yourself tight and listen to the echos rising to the floor above and the snick snacking shuffle of their footsteps trying to find their way down to where your body broke all those years ago. They come down those stairs and pull chairs near and wait and watch and some laugh and some pick skin out of their teeth with spare change or a bobby pin. Some draw little things in the dust on the floor with little fingers. Pain builds and you take it and take it until it becomes.
In the pile of ash inside the stone circle in the backwoods you failed to navigate and so made a bed, the weight of ignition is reached. The heart inside you, driven and compacted to a block of solid steel arctic ice, begins to burn again. Focus taken returns. It is only you. Yes, they are near, but it is only you holding the gun to your chest and the hammer falls and you exhale fire. The sun is hanging itself and all you need do is walk toward it to feel its heat. The air is not vibrating anymore, instead holding you the way you tried to hold yourself. Pain destroys until the scale goes so far it can only be described by what it creates. Clarity is a kind word. Control. Management. I know someday it will go somewhere we will not come back from. But that day is not today. Today, everyone is in their cell. Everyone dangerous enough to raise the hairs on my neck and make me piss into my pant leg and fill my left shoe. History never goes away.
Rebuild. Come back to us. There is no reason for this is the biggest lie you'll ever hear. Someday we'll be right and they'll see what it is that steals sleep from our eyes. It's been a long long while, but it feels like no time at all. Someday we'll have a necklace made out of their teeth, little holes drilled in them, fillings and all, with a little pink thread through them and the back ends in fisherman knots tied to silver clasps. That would be nice. Someday sweetheart.
4/4/12
Over The River and Through The Woods
It's been a long trip here. Back here. I should say. A lot of different pressures. A lot of losses. One of those peculiar things. Not one, several. I got dumped. Not exactly big news. I also broke up with someone. Two different people. At the same time. In the same span of conversation. And then was propositioned again. By the person I just dumped and the offspring of the person who left me. Mainly all I could think was "how is this even possible." Mainly all I could do was do nothing and ask for some time to think about the entire course of the 48 hours.
A lot of my creative time was damaged leading up to that point, which was part of why I had to leave and be let go. Part of it was biological incompatibilities. Vaginas and tiny dicks. What's a boy to do? The proposition is worse than the original make up. Better in it's emotional make up. Worse in it's biological make up, but closer to normal than the previous one, but altogether worse because the venue is the same, with the same accouterments and attendant chemical problematics and it would be so much less, if it wasn't so much more. Hours to land on the same page, hours to read each other, hours to post script to everyone's satisfaction. Hours and hours of time I would rather spend writing. Hours to spend dreaming spent instead in interaction I need, but don't want.
Tripping round and round town and all the while stalking through my own dreams when I do sleep to find the nemesis. The dreaming has been spectacular in it's depth. And also time consuming. The hunt largely unsuccessful. The body count, however, relatively high. I have found, in there, many things to fear and many things that could bleed that I never thought would until I tried in moments I would normally wake from, but instead followed on. It's hard sometimes when they're the ones hiding from you and there is nothing to do beyond waiting. Sitting and waiting to feel well enough to wake up. Charged enough to support waking hours. Pacing through dreams. I've been over the territories. Every god damn way. Without success. I'm beginning to think he won't show until I stop looking. Like those stupid Super Mario ghosts. I'll get him though. Just a matter of time. Patience.
Things have been scatter formed. Trying to get back on a pace. Any pace. I had a pace you could set an erratic watch to. A watch that was missing some teeth. And had a cracked face. And the watch band was either too tight or too loose, but you could never lose it because the minute it was not on your wrist you knew it because you didn't feel anything at all. I lost my watch. I'm finding it again and I can't fuck it up again.
I mean, I can. I will. Because I've fucked it up at least ten times before. Closer to twenty. But I'm trying. This makes twenty one. Or something around there. The quality of the poetry has been. That is all. It just has been. Not too dark, not too light. So I have to keep doing that. I just wish the erratic and hit and miss was just one long string of things I could stand next to and be proud of instead of a whole lot of things I have to read twenty four hours later to understand and begin to appreciate or begin to hate and then it's like picking up old photographs on a coffee table at grandmother's house and you scratch your chin for a minute and then think oooooh yeah, I was there, wasn't I. God damn that sweater is terrible. What was I thinking. But, damn I looked good then. I hate grandmother's house.
Over the river and through the woods, to dreamland's houses we go. Off to slay the thoughts of the day and retrace my footsteps in snow.
I'm not going to talk about my mental state. There are things in the dark and there are things in the light and all of them would kill you given the chance. Stay alert. Watch the corners. Don't point at the sky, because one day it will point back at you. Don't chase the sounds, unless they are following. Don't chase the splits in the seams of your vision, because people will think you are crazy. Don't listen to the voices. If you ignore them long enough, they'll tell you something special you wouldn't have thought about on your own. And that thing will be so amazing the only way you could relate it to someone who was not there, inside you, is by saying nothing and leaving it all up to the rattle of tree leaves and two A.M. hounds that think they are scrap metal boatswains to rails.
///Mono - "High Life" ... all you live is the high life and never come down... loved this song in high school. still do. Mono always had a sound that completely took me in and I loved them for that.
///Mono - "Life in Mono" I never know exactly what to do, but they never make it easy to walk away. Expectations too great. I want to say. And then the little voice in the back of my head whispers, maybe this is it, for now. So leave nothing on the table.
A lot of my creative time was damaged leading up to that point, which was part of why I had to leave and be let go. Part of it was biological incompatibilities. Vaginas and tiny dicks. What's a boy to do? The proposition is worse than the original make up. Better in it's emotional make up. Worse in it's biological make up, but closer to normal than the previous one, but altogether worse because the venue is the same, with the same accouterments and attendant chemical problematics and it would be so much less, if it wasn't so much more. Hours to land on the same page, hours to read each other, hours to post script to everyone's satisfaction. Hours and hours of time I would rather spend writing. Hours to spend dreaming spent instead in interaction I need, but don't want.
Tripping round and round town and all the while stalking through my own dreams when I do sleep to find the nemesis. The dreaming has been spectacular in it's depth. And also time consuming. The hunt largely unsuccessful. The body count, however, relatively high. I have found, in there, many things to fear and many things that could bleed that I never thought would until I tried in moments I would normally wake from, but instead followed on. It's hard sometimes when they're the ones hiding from you and there is nothing to do beyond waiting. Sitting and waiting to feel well enough to wake up. Charged enough to support waking hours. Pacing through dreams. I've been over the territories. Every god damn way. Without success. I'm beginning to think he won't show until I stop looking. Like those stupid Super Mario ghosts. I'll get him though. Just a matter of time. Patience.
Things have been scatter formed. Trying to get back on a pace. Any pace. I had a pace you could set an erratic watch to. A watch that was missing some teeth. And had a cracked face. And the watch band was either too tight or too loose, but you could never lose it because the minute it was not on your wrist you knew it because you didn't feel anything at all. I lost my watch. I'm finding it again and I can't fuck it up again.
I mean, I can. I will. Because I've fucked it up at least ten times before. Closer to twenty. But I'm trying. This makes twenty one. Or something around there. The quality of the poetry has been. That is all. It just has been. Not too dark, not too light. So I have to keep doing that. I just wish the erratic and hit and miss was just one long string of things I could stand next to and be proud of instead of a whole lot of things I have to read twenty four hours later to understand and begin to appreciate or begin to hate and then it's like picking up old photographs on a coffee table at grandmother's house and you scratch your chin for a minute and then think oooooh yeah, I was there, wasn't I. God damn that sweater is terrible. What was I thinking. But, damn I looked good then. I hate grandmother's house.
Over the river and through the woods, to dreamland's houses we go. Off to slay the thoughts of the day and retrace my footsteps in snow.
I'm not going to talk about my mental state. There are things in the dark and there are things in the light and all of them would kill you given the chance. Stay alert. Watch the corners. Don't point at the sky, because one day it will point back at you. Don't chase the sounds, unless they are following. Don't chase the splits in the seams of your vision, because people will think you are crazy. Don't listen to the voices. If you ignore them long enough, they'll tell you something special you wouldn't have thought about on your own. And that thing will be so amazing the only way you could relate it to someone who was not there, inside you, is by saying nothing and leaving it all up to the rattle of tree leaves and two A.M. hounds that think they are scrap metal boatswains to rails.
///Mono - "High Life" ... all you live is the high life and never come down... loved this song in high school. still do. Mono always had a sound that completely took me in and I loved them for that.
///Mono - "Life in Mono" I never know exactly what to do, but they never make it easy to walk away. Expectations too great. I want to say. And then the little voice in the back of my head whispers, maybe this is it, for now. So leave nothing on the table.
2/2/12
Gestating Names
The low line is happening.
slowfluid
fingerslip
sunlance
powerdive
horsemenofthesun
highsequence
memoryanthem
keptaquaintance
throattwine
founderstext
Yes, I spent five hours doing this. Yes, it was hard. Yes, it would have been a lot easier if there weren't fifteen thousand dead blogs with catchy names still alive from 2002 that haven't been posted to in five years. Or, roughly, and my math isn't that great, but fifteen thousand days. Roughly. Probably more. Anyway, there were about three times more names that made it to the final cut. Two thirds were already taken. And five thirds were crappy for various reasons. Too cheap, too easy, too slow, too fast, too complex, too simple, too pandering, too monotone, too soft, too sexual, too written, too base, too serif-ed, too guilded, too quilled, etc, etc. These are the front runners.
The sad thing is, while I'm working on this I come across a ton of dead blogs. A ton of "this is my outlet"s. And they have clearly failed or moved on to other things that distract them or allow them some kind of other outlet or actually physically or maybe emotionally dead or just medicated. Enthralling and disheartening at the same time because I see it and I think "oh my god, I'm just like you, let's be friends" and then I understand they quit or walked away or grew out of it or whatever you want to call it for whatever reason.
The important thing is, the important thing being, the important thing seeing and I will tell you what you see, progress. I already had several design themes in mind and the name that wins out will probably be the one that fits the thema best. I'm not sure that's a word as much as it is a feeling. But yes. Usually it is fairly bad practice to name a color after you identify what color it is, but I am an impressionist and I see definites in swatches and brush strokes and it's much easier to name the thing after it exists instead of creating a name and top downing it.
So I'm thinking saturday will not be a terrible day to launch something new and old and new. It has been a long time coming. It will be fun to get my fingers dirty in adobe again. It's been a while. Too long. Like everything else. Well not even close to like everything else. the important thing is, and i can't stress that enough, the mind work is done. now it's getting down to the actionable items and I am gathering the disparate, the desperate, and the deserters to the factory floor because its not time to make weapons or war. It's time to make... period.
///Kinny and Horn - "Sacred Life" ...love the everything. Just write it all down cuz I don't really care. But I do. And that's why I foster love for the one's I don't dare. Be nice and sacrifice and play nice. Align. The world wasn't won in a day. The world wasn't one in a day. The world wasn't sung in a day. The world wasn't done in day. There's still time. So play.
slowfluid
fingerslip
sunlance
powerdive
horsemenofthesun
highsequence
memoryanthem
keptaquaintance
throattwine
founderstext
Yes, I spent five hours doing this. Yes, it was hard. Yes, it would have been a lot easier if there weren't fifteen thousand dead blogs with catchy names still alive from 2002 that haven't been posted to in five years. Or, roughly, and my math isn't that great, but fifteen thousand days. Roughly. Probably more. Anyway, there were about three times more names that made it to the final cut. Two thirds were already taken. And five thirds were crappy for various reasons. Too cheap, too easy, too slow, too fast, too complex, too simple, too pandering, too monotone, too soft, too sexual, too written, too base, too serif-ed, too guilded, too quilled, etc, etc. These are the front runners.
The sad thing is, while I'm working on this I come across a ton of dead blogs. A ton of "this is my outlet"s. And they have clearly failed or moved on to other things that distract them or allow them some kind of other outlet or actually physically or maybe emotionally dead or just medicated. Enthralling and disheartening at the same time because I see it and I think "oh my god, I'm just like you, let's be friends" and then I understand they quit or walked away or grew out of it or whatever you want to call it for whatever reason.
The important thing is, the important thing being, the important thing seeing and I will tell you what you see, progress. I already had several design themes in mind and the name that wins out will probably be the one that fits the thema best. I'm not sure that's a word as much as it is a feeling. But yes. Usually it is fairly bad practice to name a color after you identify what color it is, but I am an impressionist and I see definites in swatches and brush strokes and it's much easier to name the thing after it exists instead of creating a name and top downing it.
So I'm thinking saturday will not be a terrible day to launch something new and old and new. It has been a long time coming. It will be fun to get my fingers dirty in adobe again. It's been a while. Too long. Like everything else. Well not even close to like everything else. the important thing is, and i can't stress that enough, the mind work is done. now it's getting down to the actionable items and I am gathering the disparate, the desperate, and the deserters to the factory floor because its not time to make weapons or war. It's time to make... period.
///Kinny and Horn - "Sacred Life" ...love the everything. Just write it all down cuz I don't really care. But I do. And that's why I foster love for the one's I don't dare. Be nice and sacrifice and play nice. Align. The world wasn't won in a day. The world wasn't one in a day. The world wasn't sung in a day. The world wasn't done in day. There's still time. So play.
1/10/12
The Ice-stache (grow one for your own safety), Hotwheels, No Age, and Serial Commitment
So I'm taking the next step toward building something to get me closer to making the writing I want to be able to make. Not necessarily the next step toward it as much as a reanimation, reorganization, of the effort. Partly, I want to get more from short stories and I can't expect to get more character development and practice from trying to cram more into small jars. Not that I haven't enjoyed the challenge and sucked at it and succeeded in parts and pieces (by my measure), but it presents problems with having a job and other things to chase after that are life necessities not granted. I have to step into something that won't force me to make endings where they don't belong and rush souls into bodies, and while there are people to animate and worlds to create, I have to give myself time where time is all too often short. And I need the pressure of show and tell to push it forward. The answer? Serials. One chapter at a time. The thing is, I can't even press myself into that old trap (I did once and it worked out well until a stretch of weeks where work overtook time available to chop a story into chapters and commit to staying put at the pen and paper to force out entire chapters, because, let's face it, not all chapters are created equal, so some days I could sit down and bang out a magnificently lengthy, but appropriately so, chapter and others days I couldn't because I had to go to bed at some point or stop to get ready for work, and things simply would not resume the same flow and grip it had when I left it and I ship wrecked myself repeatedly between the start of one and its end.
An organizational thing. Maybe show and tell is not the right motivator. It's hard to systematize it. I guess, part of it is that I don't trust myself to continue. I'm sure I could learn, at least I think I am sure that I need to force myself to learn. Learn the low lines, the high latency, and it's benefits. Put less pressure on myself and shift that strength of worry and fear of failed completion into something more positive, more enduring than the eye crossing, tongue chewing, wind sprint of watch hands across freed hours to produce things less panicked, scattered, and hit and miss spiny. Actually, as I'm talking this over, I think the best commitment to make may not be a serial one, but a commitment to development with fewer showings. Going farther down the rabbit hole is by necessity a thing that divorces a person from constant communication and seeing little dividends every day in views is encouraging. Encouragement is fairly impossible to come by. I envy the people that can get it often. So, in doing this I would be giving myself fewer opportunities to enjoy the little pats on the back, but I would also be putting myself in a position to work longer and more thoroughly on everything.
It's not a question of motivation anymore. At first it was. At first it was overcoming the fear of being connected to the things I do that I am passionate about that people might not agree with or could say "wow, you're terrible." I'm comfortable with that now. Have been for a while. Motivation came up when I lapsed for months and swore off all communication because I didn't feel like it. I couldn't feel it. I lost touch with the worlds in my mind and couldn't care to find them again, until things fell apart and I realized they are one of the few steady states, though changing, one of the few places where I feel myself all of the time. Anywhere can be learned to be home, but within my head everywhere is always home and it's like pulling up a chair with old friends I love and love to hate who know me and talk to me about things and we mull things over and they ask me about you and everyone else and they love and kill and do things I wish I could do and sometimes I do things they wish they could do and it's a back and forth that's so much a part of me I completely took it for granted for a while until I was utterly miserable and realized what was missing. It's not a question of motivation anymore. I have to engage it deeper and add taking care not to let the reduction of constant connection to a couple times a couple months get to me (it's not like I connect with people everyday this side of the bridge). Then again there will still be this in between to keep me company so it's not all bad. Not even half bad. Just not the conclusion I would have drawn this time last year.
Consider it a year end retooling of the factory. The final sessions of congress in a year that's not quite closed yet in my head.
Which takes me up to the ice-stache. So I'm walking home and it's a good 25 minute walk if I'm not running on most of my cylinders and my nose is running. Which is fine. You get used to it. Working in a cooler for hours a day, you can't rub your nose every single time it runs. By the end of the day you would have a red coke nose-ish hole in your face where your nostrils should be and then when you got home you'd have to deal with that junk all night only to go back to work in the cooler to repeat the process and get so nicked up about it that you end up putting a hole in the wall (that you'd have to fix) or putting a fist sized dent in your locker (that would probably get you suspended for a week and assigned to anger management when you got back [not that a week off from that crap would be a terrible thing, but I sat through anger management classes three times before and it's more of a pain than nursing busted knuckles and wrecked up wrist bones). You get used to it in the Winter.
The best thing about letting your nose run though, is that if you don't want to be talked to while you're out and about, letting your nose run is the best way to do it. People either assume you are a badass who does not give a fuck or are too retarded to realize your nose is running and therefore would not acknowledge, understand, or participate in a conflict along understood, predictable, or reasonable manner. Not to say that you wouldn't still get mugged by a coke head or someone not looking for reasonable conflict that sticks to standard rules of engagement. Which is why you can't just let your nose run. You have to make sure you are outside long enough for the snot and the condensation of your breathing against your upper lip and stache crystallize into ice and grow into a full on mustache of icicles. Then you are not just careless, retarded, devil-may-care, but you are also tough enough to be outdoors for long periods of time, possibly under dressed, with people and places you need to be that demand you be there regardless of the mode of transportation and that, potentially, these people will be looking for you if you don't show up when you said you would, and maybe you won't respond to threats and maybe you're late and have already had it up to your eyes with the weather, and walking untold distances, that you will absolutely blow up at the drop of a half smoked cigarette or suspicious footstep or even a "hey you" if you are kind enough to respond at all. So ice-stache it up. Worst comes to worst someone might yap at the back of your head, but all you have to do is turn around with your viking face on for a second and who wants to deal with that at any time of day? And then keep walking, because the only thing more certain to produce a fight, than engaging idle talk, is staring at groups of individuals when the only thing at stake is their bogus sense of pride. And after all, it is half past two A.M. and you still have a ways to go.
Hotwheels are amazing, by the way. Walking through stores and seeing the blue displays doesn't really bring me back to any particular period in my life, but I love cars. I dream about cars. Next to viking ice-staches, cars are awesome and every time I see them I want to know what exactly, which car exactly, is being modeled to scale and whether or not I can add it to my garage someday. Half the time it turns out to be some dopey made up car with ugly body work and funky orange tinted windows for some reason and chrome wheels in enormous flared wheel arches that pretty much touch the apex of the A pillar and the whole thing makes you scratch your head and wonder who thought it was a good idea.
Then every now and then, the thing that makes you stop and look every damn time, you stumble across a model of a DMC-12 DeLorean, or a Boss Mustang, or a bright blue and white Yenko Camaro, and you know you'll never make enough money to own them. You see a 240z in that hotwheels orange and blue blister pack and your eyes go wide because someone thought that fair lady from the 80s deserved to be forever immortalized on some lucky kids shelf and if you had a little less sense, maybe yours. You could have them all, and it's not at all about saving them because they might be worth something later, it's just to have them all in your fantasy garage made real, in a way, and be able to stroke the body work and see the curves from every angle you will never get to see them in person, quite possibly for as long as you live. It could be there, just for you, for a scant two bucks. That Ferrari GTO, right there at your fingertips, right there. You can feel the speed and feel the air slipping by the rear views and splitting away clean across the spoiler. I don't know when I'm going to outgrow hotwheels. Quite possibly never.
So that's it for now. That and there will never be that party that makes me feel my age. At least not in a physical sense where a person is like "oh my god, this hangover is too much. I can't drink like I used to." I already had that sense of that party where I was like "wow my beard is way thicker than the pubes any of these people have ever experienced in their lifetime if they never shaved them at any point between the time of their birth until now" and my beard wasn't even that thick. I definitely had it in terms of "wow the music I remember fondly in the club is all music by artists that stopped making music before these people owned their first discman. Oh wait, they've never even held a discman before. The hell am I doing here?" I also definitely had it in terms of overhearing fights and thinking "really, is it really that serious? Don't they have bills to pay or something?" But in terms of raw "too old to throw down..." never gonna happen. This old panther still has moves that'll make your mullet spin. That's from venture brothers. The best cartoon action series, possibly ever.
Let's work on it as we wrap this year up and catch up with the rest of the Earth. Orbit adjustments aboard the good ship.
///no song today. just some thought.
///just kidding. music is life.
///Paul Murphy - "Soul Call" This jazzy jem from Paul Murphy always makes me happy to be alive to hear it. It was a dead heat between this and Aphex Twin's Girl/Boy Song. Maybe next time around.
An organizational thing. Maybe show and tell is not the right motivator. It's hard to systematize it. I guess, part of it is that I don't trust myself to continue. I'm sure I could learn, at least I think I am sure that I need to force myself to learn. Learn the low lines, the high latency, and it's benefits. Put less pressure on myself and shift that strength of worry and fear of failed completion into something more positive, more enduring than the eye crossing, tongue chewing, wind sprint of watch hands across freed hours to produce things less panicked, scattered, and hit and miss spiny. Actually, as I'm talking this over, I think the best commitment to make may not be a serial one, but a commitment to development with fewer showings. Going farther down the rabbit hole is by necessity a thing that divorces a person from constant communication and seeing little dividends every day in views is encouraging. Encouragement is fairly impossible to come by. I envy the people that can get it often. So, in doing this I would be giving myself fewer opportunities to enjoy the little pats on the back, but I would also be putting myself in a position to work longer and more thoroughly on everything.
It's not a question of motivation anymore. At first it was. At first it was overcoming the fear of being connected to the things I do that I am passionate about that people might not agree with or could say "wow, you're terrible." I'm comfortable with that now. Have been for a while. Motivation came up when I lapsed for months and swore off all communication because I didn't feel like it. I couldn't feel it. I lost touch with the worlds in my mind and couldn't care to find them again, until things fell apart and I realized they are one of the few steady states, though changing, one of the few places where I feel myself all of the time. Anywhere can be learned to be home, but within my head everywhere is always home and it's like pulling up a chair with old friends I love and love to hate who know me and talk to me about things and we mull things over and they ask me about you and everyone else and they love and kill and do things I wish I could do and sometimes I do things they wish they could do and it's a back and forth that's so much a part of me I completely took it for granted for a while until I was utterly miserable and realized what was missing. It's not a question of motivation anymore. I have to engage it deeper and add taking care not to let the reduction of constant connection to a couple times a couple months get to me (it's not like I connect with people everyday this side of the bridge). Then again there will still be this in between to keep me company so it's not all bad. Not even half bad. Just not the conclusion I would have drawn this time last year.
Consider it a year end retooling of the factory. The final sessions of congress in a year that's not quite closed yet in my head.
Which takes me up to the ice-stache. So I'm walking home and it's a good 25 minute walk if I'm not running on most of my cylinders and my nose is running. Which is fine. You get used to it. Working in a cooler for hours a day, you can't rub your nose every single time it runs. By the end of the day you would have a red coke nose-ish hole in your face where your nostrils should be and then when you got home you'd have to deal with that junk all night only to go back to work in the cooler to repeat the process and get so nicked up about it that you end up putting a hole in the wall (that you'd have to fix) or putting a fist sized dent in your locker (that would probably get you suspended for a week and assigned to anger management when you got back [not that a week off from that crap would be a terrible thing, but I sat through anger management classes three times before and it's more of a pain than nursing busted knuckles and wrecked up wrist bones). You get used to it in the Winter.
The best thing about letting your nose run though, is that if you don't want to be talked to while you're out and about, letting your nose run is the best way to do it. People either assume you are a badass who does not give a fuck or are too retarded to realize your nose is running and therefore would not acknowledge, understand, or participate in a conflict along understood, predictable, or reasonable manner. Not to say that you wouldn't still get mugged by a coke head or someone not looking for reasonable conflict that sticks to standard rules of engagement. Which is why you can't just let your nose run. You have to make sure you are outside long enough for the snot and the condensation of your breathing against your upper lip and stache crystallize into ice and grow into a full on mustache of icicles. Then you are not just careless, retarded, devil-may-care, but you are also tough enough to be outdoors for long periods of time, possibly under dressed, with people and places you need to be that demand you be there regardless of the mode of transportation and that, potentially, these people will be looking for you if you don't show up when you said you would, and maybe you won't respond to threats and maybe you're late and have already had it up to your eyes with the weather, and walking untold distances, that you will absolutely blow up at the drop of a half smoked cigarette or suspicious footstep or even a "hey you" if you are kind enough to respond at all. So ice-stache it up. Worst comes to worst someone might yap at the back of your head, but all you have to do is turn around with your viking face on for a second and who wants to deal with that at any time of day? And then keep walking, because the only thing more certain to produce a fight, than engaging idle talk, is staring at groups of individuals when the only thing at stake is their bogus sense of pride. And after all, it is half past two A.M. and you still have a ways to go.
Hotwheels are amazing, by the way. Walking through stores and seeing the blue displays doesn't really bring me back to any particular period in my life, but I love cars. I dream about cars. Next to viking ice-staches, cars are awesome and every time I see them I want to know what exactly, which car exactly, is being modeled to scale and whether or not I can add it to my garage someday. Half the time it turns out to be some dopey made up car with ugly body work and funky orange tinted windows for some reason and chrome wheels in enormous flared wheel arches that pretty much touch the apex of the A pillar and the whole thing makes you scratch your head and wonder who thought it was a good idea.
Then every now and then, the thing that makes you stop and look every damn time, you stumble across a model of a DMC-12 DeLorean, or a Boss Mustang, or a bright blue and white Yenko Camaro, and you know you'll never make enough money to own them. You see a 240z in that hotwheels orange and blue blister pack and your eyes go wide because someone thought that fair lady from the 80s deserved to be forever immortalized on some lucky kids shelf and if you had a little less sense, maybe yours. You could have them all, and it's not at all about saving them because they might be worth something later, it's just to have them all in your fantasy garage made real, in a way, and be able to stroke the body work and see the curves from every angle you will never get to see them in person, quite possibly for as long as you live. It could be there, just for you, for a scant two bucks. That Ferrari GTO, right there at your fingertips, right there. You can feel the speed and feel the air slipping by the rear views and splitting away clean across the spoiler. I don't know when I'm going to outgrow hotwheels. Quite possibly never.
So that's it for now. That and there will never be that party that makes me feel my age. At least not in a physical sense where a person is like "oh my god, this hangover is too much. I can't drink like I used to." I already had that sense of that party where I was like "wow my beard is way thicker than the pubes any of these people have ever experienced in their lifetime if they never shaved them at any point between the time of their birth until now" and my beard wasn't even that thick. I definitely had it in terms of "wow the music I remember fondly in the club is all music by artists that stopped making music before these people owned their first discman. Oh wait, they've never even held a discman before. The hell am I doing here?" I also definitely had it in terms of overhearing fights and thinking "really, is it really that serious? Don't they have bills to pay or something?" But in terms of raw "too old to throw down..." never gonna happen. This old panther still has moves that'll make your mullet spin. That's from venture brothers. The best cartoon action series, possibly ever.
Let's work on it as we wrap this year up and catch up with the rest of the Earth. Orbit adjustments aboard the good ship.
///no song today. just some thought.
///just kidding. music is life.
///Paul Murphy - "Soul Call" This jazzy jem from Paul Murphy always makes me happy to be alive to hear it. It was a dead heat between this and Aphex Twin's Girl/Boy Song. Maybe next time around.
12/13/11
Have and Half Knots, Making Dead Lines, and Explosive Decompression
So I think I am finally approaching upper lower class. Inching toward car ownership and consistent internet access that doesn't cut off if I watch ten feature length pornographic movies in one month. It only took a year to save up the money for both, but I'm not mad because that was roughly the time span I estimated so many moons ago. Not that I'm some kind of social climber, but it certainly makes life a lot easier for me (being that at least half of my waking time is dependent on connectivity). If I think about it the only reason why I have a job, let alone two, is because of the internet. A major factor in my escape from New York was the internet. My creative outlets, well three out of the five, are internet dependent. Not originally, but since I opened myself up to being read, along with the good and bad that comes from it, that is what they've become. A pair still remain personal and internet independent, and they are my babies, whom I coddle and pet unceasingly. So I'm not quite a "have", but I am the possessor of many knotted ends.
Everyone likes to sew things up. Who doesn't. From the youngest age you can remember some of the most satisfying moments are the moments when you connect one and one and get to bask in the glory of your hard earned, bent spined, but elegant in that way, two. Whatever operand falls between the two slivers of symbols matters little. All that matters is you put in the hard think and the finger fumbles and drew something out of two separate things that ended up being beautiful, simply, the answer. Not just an answer, but the only answer possible within the frames of the rules of everything else that described the world around you. That is clutch. That is what I want to be able to do, but instead of sewing my things up I have ended up with knot after knot, with some fine stitch work in between.
It's not failure. Every time you tried to tie your laces and ended up knotting the threads when you were little, you did not just sit down and cry. Well maybe sometimes I did. Eventually, though, I ended up going outside to play regardless because the fact of the matter was that I was not concerned so much with the ending. I was not so much concerned with the fact that eventually I would have to take the shoes off, as much as I knew, no matter what I did after the episode of frustration, the things were going to do what they were designed to do, and that was stay put. So although I am a possessor of more knots than neat and fixed loops, and although I will sit and cry about it for a while, I know that I can still go out and get it done with the best of them. The difference being when I get home and the game is over I have to cut the laces apart and rethread them.
Making deadlines is hard, in that way. Not that I have to start over every week, but the things people take for granted are things I have to redo every week and make them work like new all over again. I would be more upset about it, if I had not had to live with it for so long. It's the standard. Part of the allure of medication is that it offers the promise of a consistent starting point. It simplifies, to the detriment of other experiences. I alternately accept and reject that promise. It depends on how frustrated I get tying knots when I know and tell my fingers how to do things better and they refuse to respond. When I know and tell my fingers how to do things better and they answer and accept and then absent themselves from the chain of command altogether because it turns out I did not have the con to begin with.
Making deadlines is hard, but having deadlines helps the continuity. I think that's why I hate days off so much. Days off are like being thrust into the airlock of my ship half suited, half relaxed, half giddy just to be there without having a reason, and then the count begins for the hatch release and I realize it is for real. I realize there was something I set out to do when I entered and soon I will be sucking vacuum if I don't get it together and I have to fumble and scramble to abort the entire venture because my helmet is still sitting right where I left it, in the lounge, and there is no way I'm going to manage to make something meaningful out of the next ten seconds (ten hours) besides flailing for molecules.
That analogy was a stretch, but that's what it feels like. Trying to get things done without a hard plan is difficult. Days off are always unplanned. Uncharted and unplannable. The hardest thing about it is going without contact. When I'm down on the surface among people I know what's real for the most part. Well, for the some part. When all I have is time spent with myselves it's a dicey affair. Tremendous amounts of necessary dialog and balance checking and enforcing limitations. I wonder sometimes why I sleep so much. What is wrong with me? And the answer often comes back that I cannot afford not to. A little escapist as the life across the bridge is so damn rich and half the time I am awake I want to go back there, but also because it's so certain there. A is A. B is B. C is C. And D is D. Every time. Not like here. Here person A is sometimes Z. And B is an irrational number. And C is A, but only when Z is B.
Maybe that's why I like to work so much. Formulaic. Math in action. Inactivity through action. Long story shorter, I want to finish the gift for Christmas. A gift of intent. A gift of a promise that I won't stop fighting. Not yet anyway. So game on?
Yeah, I think so.
///luke slater - "Hectic Bag" ...start as you mean to grow on.
Everyone likes to sew things up. Who doesn't. From the youngest age you can remember some of the most satisfying moments are the moments when you connect one and one and get to bask in the glory of your hard earned, bent spined, but elegant in that way, two. Whatever operand falls between the two slivers of symbols matters little. All that matters is you put in the hard think and the finger fumbles and drew something out of two separate things that ended up being beautiful, simply, the answer. Not just an answer, but the only answer possible within the frames of the rules of everything else that described the world around you. That is clutch. That is what I want to be able to do, but instead of sewing my things up I have ended up with knot after knot, with some fine stitch work in between.
It's not failure. Every time you tried to tie your laces and ended up knotting the threads when you were little, you did not just sit down and cry. Well maybe sometimes I did. Eventually, though, I ended up going outside to play regardless because the fact of the matter was that I was not concerned so much with the ending. I was not so much concerned with the fact that eventually I would have to take the shoes off, as much as I knew, no matter what I did after the episode of frustration, the things were going to do what they were designed to do, and that was stay put. So although I am a possessor of more knots than neat and fixed loops, and although I will sit and cry about it for a while, I know that I can still go out and get it done with the best of them. The difference being when I get home and the game is over I have to cut the laces apart and rethread them.
Making deadlines is hard, in that way. Not that I have to start over every week, but the things people take for granted are things I have to redo every week and make them work like new all over again. I would be more upset about it, if I had not had to live with it for so long. It's the standard. Part of the allure of medication is that it offers the promise of a consistent starting point. It simplifies, to the detriment of other experiences. I alternately accept and reject that promise. It depends on how frustrated I get tying knots when I know and tell my fingers how to do things better and they refuse to respond. When I know and tell my fingers how to do things better and they answer and accept and then absent themselves from the chain of command altogether because it turns out I did not have the con to begin with.
Making deadlines is hard, but having deadlines helps the continuity. I think that's why I hate days off so much. Days off are like being thrust into the airlock of my ship half suited, half relaxed, half giddy just to be there without having a reason, and then the count begins for the hatch release and I realize it is for real. I realize there was something I set out to do when I entered and soon I will be sucking vacuum if I don't get it together and I have to fumble and scramble to abort the entire venture because my helmet is still sitting right where I left it, in the lounge, and there is no way I'm going to manage to make something meaningful out of the next ten seconds (ten hours) besides flailing for molecules.
That analogy was a stretch, but that's what it feels like. Trying to get things done without a hard plan is difficult. Days off are always unplanned. Uncharted and unplannable. The hardest thing about it is going without contact. When I'm down on the surface among people I know what's real for the most part. Well, for the some part. When all I have is time spent with myselves it's a dicey affair. Tremendous amounts of necessary dialog and balance checking and enforcing limitations. I wonder sometimes why I sleep so much. What is wrong with me? And the answer often comes back that I cannot afford not to. A little escapist as the life across the bridge is so damn rich and half the time I am awake I want to go back there, but also because it's so certain there. A is A. B is B. C is C. And D is D. Every time. Not like here. Here person A is sometimes Z. And B is an irrational number. And C is A, but only when Z is B.
Maybe that's why I like to work so much. Formulaic. Math in action. Inactivity through action. Long story shorter, I want to finish the gift for Christmas. A gift of intent. A gift of a promise that I won't stop fighting. Not yet anyway. So game on?
Yeah, I think so.
///luke slater - "Hectic Bag" ...start as you mean to grow on.
5/17/11
Think of the Capacitance, Reconnection, and No More Funny (for now)
I am way too neurotic to be funny. At least for now. Rage is too close to my funny bone, or maybe I just need to drink more and relax. It would be terrific if I was compartmentalized and organized enough to be funny on a whim, but unlike athletes and super brains my insides are all mashed up. It would be a lot like a professional football player who couldn't divide on the field violence and competitiveness from his private life. And then again, that's not really a good example because that happens all the time.
More like a race car driver who, sitting at a lunch table, grabs his plate of food, dumps all the food on the floor, and proceeds to use the plate like a steering wheel as he pilots his five hundred horse power table to victory lane while making car noises and leaning aggressively into the g forces of every nonexistent turn to keep his eye line level with the candy striped rumble strips. So in trying to be funny I stray hard into anger and then can't really get back out of it until I talk about it directly. So let's give it a rest for a little while till I can find the kid again and day dream in the grass and look at the stars without feeling loss.
I do want them dead and to watch them picked over by sand flies, but I've got decades to wait for that release and until then attempting escape by any means is setting myself up for thousands of crest falls. I spent a lot of time, hours, whilst pissing the nights away at a job that is barely wondering what I could do, how long it will take, before I can fully move on from them and the fallout of their actions and I think the answer is never, but once they're gone it'll at least be an exercise in dividing the distance to balance in half until it is, for practical purposes and functions, zero. I can live with that. I just have to not explode into embers of rageous delirium before then.
There's been some safe connection. With people again. Which has been pleasant. A first contact on hailing frequencies. It wasn't easy. I'm still, more or less, in the same orbit and unable to land yet, but am prepared to do so at the earliest convenience. Things just haven't been particularly funny of late. Or maybe they have. When I think about my job I think of how I have to talk myself up to it, talk myself into it, and talk myself safely out of it when my shift is over. It struck me as what some people porn probably have to do before the big scene involving a series of serial and parallel acts degrading enough to make them unconscionable to most human beings if they themselves had to be on the set to see the uncropped and unflattering angles or participate in any capacity. "Come on, you can do this. Just two more hours and it's over."
The connection itself has been fantastic. To be spoken to as a person. A fantastic experience. Addressed as not a liability or wildcard or moron or ass or subordinate or fractured or toxified, but just as another person. It's a good feeling. To be treated without strings. Granted it takes a lot of effort to rejoin that sort of treatment, to flow back the channel and engage on the common field line. It's hard. People take that for granted. Of course there are ten paths and channels extending and entering throughput throughout the exchange, but to choose to engage is worth the effort. So if I ever break out into sweats while I'm talking to you, you now know why. Practice makes more practice.
The poetry has been slacking, but like I said before, I'm only two hands, one pair of eyes, and one mouth to handle my production cue and my hands have been busy at Bits for Flames recently trying to make sense of old rough drafts and fix continuities and cut into the cores of what was trying to be said and expressed and constructed. If I had to call my writing style anything I would call it some kind of impressionism and, while tickling my brain's predilection for flights of romantic picturesque fancy and curly serifed constructions, it doesn't readily lend itself to conflation and linearity. Editing. Frustrating. I spent two hours trying to press reason out of thematic cross signaling before shoving it out there anyway because sometimes I have to shove off of something for a while before I can come back and look at it and see what's not connecting. Maybe that's why I shove off of myself sometimes, but always come back to try and fix me later. I'm 9 today.
I think I'm going to plot out my birthdays through the year to my projected death at 70 in a freak race car driving accident.
I went to a job fair where a woman was telling me that I could be published without having read a single word I'd written or even glancing at my "child born in the heart of blighted Africa" thin resume. She made the comment after I told her I loved writing when she told me that the seminary she represented recently added a one unit course on publishing. I'm pretty sure she was mainly looking to add to her auto mailer sign up sheet. I didn't sign up. She kept telling me how great my personality was. I kept wanting to tell her I was mostly just happy to be in a place where people were happy to see me just because I was there, but I didn't. It was a fun conversation nonetheless. Beats out talking to myself in my kitchen about what the smell coming out of the kitchen sink u trap might have been.
I'm tired and hungry. Resisting the solid state. Meals have slipped again. I had them nice and spread out over 16 hours at reasonable intervals a month ago. They're now back to a huddled mass of desperate consumption over four hours. Whatever I thought I did to fix that has unfixed itself. The unfucked has refucked and I have to power up and use my guts and grit to push it apart again and once more become awesome, because let's face it, only you can make you awesome.
I've accomplished no further work on the paper robot, but it is still on my table alongside my drawing pad that has NOT gathered dust... ...yet and my notebook. I have pages and pages and pages of notes to go through. It's frustrating. My hobby is my work, but my work doesn't let me eat so I have to do fake work to get food tokens so I don't die and then when I come home to do my real work I am too exhausted to engage it fully. It's this odd lockup. Hobbies are supposed to leave you rejuvenated and expanded and more whole as a person and my hobby is awesomely fulfilling and makes me so post coitus contented that I don't want to do anything else, but it is also massively exhausting and time and energy consuming that I can't do it and then run off to fake work to get my damn food and rent tokens, which is why I need to outright buy property. At least that way the amount of money I would be required to earn to stay alive would be drastically reduced. Probably my number one reason to get back into school some day, but buying property will probably be cheaper in the long run. Which is why it is reason number one after the two hundred reasons why it will probably and in all honesty, with the kind of person wired the way that I am, should not happen. Stupid genes.
So here I am. Pinging you and pinging me. Still alive and happily so. The value of life is not the journey. I hope everyone who says things like that gets stabbed in the eye socket. I don't understand how anyone can go through life without creating something and then pursuing further creation. More than anything else that is who I am. Generator. Taking in raw material and constructing. There was something else on the tip of the ax pick of my brain. But I can't remember it. I'm going to go through some old notes and share them if they're interesting. I'm going to get my hands back into my dream housing and tear more words and motions and highs and visions from the fabric and sew them together for me and for you. I miss that. I've missed you in this urgent proofing against premature self destruction. We should hang out sometime.
///Elastica - "Connection" This concludes our broadcast day.
More like a race car driver who, sitting at a lunch table, grabs his plate of food, dumps all the food on the floor, and proceeds to use the plate like a steering wheel as he pilots his five hundred horse power table to victory lane while making car noises and leaning aggressively into the g forces of every nonexistent turn to keep his eye line level with the candy striped rumble strips. So in trying to be funny I stray hard into anger and then can't really get back out of it until I talk about it directly. So let's give it a rest for a little while till I can find the kid again and day dream in the grass and look at the stars without feeling loss.
I do want them dead and to watch them picked over by sand flies, but I've got decades to wait for that release and until then attempting escape by any means is setting myself up for thousands of crest falls. I spent a lot of time, hours, whilst pissing the nights away at a job that is barely wondering what I could do, how long it will take, before I can fully move on from them and the fallout of their actions and I think the answer is never, but once they're gone it'll at least be an exercise in dividing the distance to balance in half until it is, for practical purposes and functions, zero. I can live with that. I just have to not explode into embers of rageous delirium before then.
There's been some safe connection. With people again. Which has been pleasant. A first contact on hailing frequencies. It wasn't easy. I'm still, more or less, in the same orbit and unable to land yet, but am prepared to do so at the earliest convenience. Things just haven't been particularly funny of late. Or maybe they have. When I think about my job I think of how I have to talk myself up to it, talk myself into it, and talk myself safely out of it when my shift is over. It struck me as what some people porn probably have to do before the big scene involving a series of serial and parallel acts degrading enough to make them unconscionable to most human beings if they themselves had to be on the set to see the uncropped and unflattering angles or participate in any capacity. "Come on, you can do this. Just two more hours and it's over."
The connection itself has been fantastic. To be spoken to as a person. A fantastic experience. Addressed as not a liability or wildcard or moron or ass or subordinate or fractured or toxified, but just as another person. It's a good feeling. To be treated without strings. Granted it takes a lot of effort to rejoin that sort of treatment, to flow back the channel and engage on the common field line. It's hard. People take that for granted. Of course there are ten paths and channels extending and entering throughput throughout the exchange, but to choose to engage is worth the effort. So if I ever break out into sweats while I'm talking to you, you now know why. Practice makes more practice.
The poetry has been slacking, but like I said before, I'm only two hands, one pair of eyes, and one mouth to handle my production cue and my hands have been busy at Bits for Flames recently trying to make sense of old rough drafts and fix continuities and cut into the cores of what was trying to be said and expressed and constructed. If I had to call my writing style anything I would call it some kind of impressionism and, while tickling my brain's predilection for flights of romantic picturesque fancy and curly serifed constructions, it doesn't readily lend itself to conflation and linearity. Editing. Frustrating. I spent two hours trying to press reason out of thematic cross signaling before shoving it out there anyway because sometimes I have to shove off of something for a while before I can come back and look at it and see what's not connecting. Maybe that's why I shove off of myself sometimes, but always come back to try and fix me later. I'm 9 today.
I think I'm going to plot out my birthdays through the year to my projected death at 70 in a freak race car driving accident.
I went to a job fair where a woman was telling me that I could be published without having read a single word I'd written or even glancing at my "child born in the heart of blighted Africa" thin resume. She made the comment after I told her I loved writing when she told me that the seminary she represented recently added a one unit course on publishing. I'm pretty sure she was mainly looking to add to her auto mailer sign up sheet. I didn't sign up. She kept telling me how great my personality was. I kept wanting to tell her I was mostly just happy to be in a place where people were happy to see me just because I was there, but I didn't. It was a fun conversation nonetheless. Beats out talking to myself in my kitchen about what the smell coming out of the kitchen sink u trap might have been.
I'm tired and hungry. Resisting the solid state. Meals have slipped again. I had them nice and spread out over 16 hours at reasonable intervals a month ago. They're now back to a huddled mass of desperate consumption over four hours. Whatever I thought I did to fix that has unfixed itself. The unfucked has refucked and I have to power up and use my guts and grit to push it apart again and once more become awesome, because let's face it, only you can make you awesome.
I've accomplished no further work on the paper robot, but it is still on my table alongside my drawing pad that has NOT gathered dust... ...yet and my notebook. I have pages and pages and pages of notes to go through. It's frustrating. My hobby is my work, but my work doesn't let me eat so I have to do fake work to get food tokens so I don't die and then when I come home to do my real work I am too exhausted to engage it fully. It's this odd lockup. Hobbies are supposed to leave you rejuvenated and expanded and more whole as a person and my hobby is awesomely fulfilling and makes me so post coitus contented that I don't want to do anything else, but it is also massively exhausting and time and energy consuming that I can't do it and then run off to fake work to get my damn food and rent tokens, which is why I need to outright buy property. At least that way the amount of money I would be required to earn to stay alive would be drastically reduced. Probably my number one reason to get back into school some day, but buying property will probably be cheaper in the long run. Which is why it is reason number one after the two hundred reasons why it will probably and in all honesty, with the kind of person wired the way that I am, should not happen. Stupid genes.
So here I am. Pinging you and pinging me. Still alive and happily so. The value of life is not the journey. I hope everyone who says things like that gets stabbed in the eye socket. I don't understand how anyone can go through life without creating something and then pursuing further creation. More than anything else that is who I am. Generator. Taking in raw material and constructing. There was something else on the tip of the ax pick of my brain. But I can't remember it. I'm going to go through some old notes and share them if they're interesting. I'm going to get my hands back into my dream housing and tear more words and motions and highs and visions from the fabric and sew them together for me and for you. I miss that. I've missed you in this urgent proofing against premature self destruction. We should hang out sometime.
///Elastica - "Connection" This concludes our broadcast day.
3/30/11
Trying Hard
I'm sorry, I meant to meet up with you sooner, but there have been obstacles. Tough ones. Familiar ones. Unfamiliar ones. It's been very difficult to relate to other human beings on the simplest terms of things that should be universally understood except that when I make the calls to those things there is nothing more than empty drawers and dead lines. The ringing is back. I must have spent a solid twenty minutes looking for a telephone in my bedroom before it occurred to me that I keep my phone on silent. Then I went out into the hallway. As soon as I touched the door knob it stopped. As soon as I went back inside it started again so I went to bed. Then I woke up to the sound of my phone ringing with it's single beep (the beep it makes when it's set to silent). Fourteen times today and not once was it actually going off. And then the name calling started and stopped and started again. No one in my building knows my name. I know their voices though and no one in my building has a single one of those voices.
I've been trying to eat, but it's horrible. Ridiculous stomach clenching anxiety. And then the sounds my body makes while it's digesting. And then feeling like any second it's all going to come straight back up. It's hard to deal with. It felt like it was all control. All I had to do was keep my fingers on my head functions and the rest was easy and now even with that awareness the rest rips away like a table cloth in the hands of a retarded magician and sends it all to pieces on the floor. It was a nice sunny day. I tried to go outside. I really did. I got so far as putting on a sweater before I had to take it all off and start over again. I didn't do it right. And then it was dark outside, but the bus stops were all full of people and I can't go out like that. Not with them there.
What is there to be afraid of? What is there to be afraid of? I don't know, but it's fucking there. I've been trying to fight sleep, but it's the only place I know and feel secure in. When I'm sleeping I don't have to eat anything. I don't have to go outside like here. I don't have to hear my voice talk. I don't have to hear their voices talk. I don't have to hear at all. I don't have to rely on my stupid eyes. Just hearing the neighbors talking through the walls, apart from the untrue voices, made my head feel like it was busting like glass in a poorly packed cardboard box. Everything is people. I'm so fucking nerve wrecked at work because I have to keep checking to make sure I'm not being watched. I don't have anything to hide, but I'll be damned if they think they can hunt me like some oblivious dog. They think I don't know, but I do.
There were keys in my door locks earlier today. I thought my chest was going to cave in on itself listening to the locks open and the door swing, but I got up anyway to face it. There was nothing there. Not at my door or the neighbor's door. Still scared the living shit out of me. I don't understand where it's all coming from. I just want to go to bed and not have to be awake anymore. Whatever it is I want it to come kill me already. How long is this chase supposed to go before it's over?
A friend of mine passed away recently. Maybe that's what's eating up my control. I hate myself for a lot of reasons, but mostly for not being more accessible. I don't know how to fix that. I can't make people want to spend time with me in the same way I want to spend time with them. Who want's to hang out with a fucking retarded person who can't talk straight and who, when he can put words together out of his mouth, can't relate complete ideas the few times there are complete ideas to relate? I wouldn't. It's not about being normal or not. It's just massively frustrating. I would ask what is wrong with me, but I already know what's fucking wrong with me. And I feel selfish for even wishing he'd gone farther out of his way to hang out. That's simply ridiculous. I am the seldom seen fucked up individual with the bad history and the not so great outlook and why the fuck am I licking my own perpetual gashes...I don't know. I want the spit to make me better, and it doesn't. I don't miss him so much as I miss the him that everyone else got to know and that fills me with so much fucking rage.
And I can't even grieve properly because trying to focus in on the meaning of his absence is like trying to fire a gun from the rocking deck of a vessel burning and sinking at a target so far distant I can barely see it clearly. I'm sorry. I just can't put it together. I'm slapping the god damn pieces back on and more fall off and the whole thing is functioning if only just. The closest thing to a functioning family and I'm so far out of the loop out of necessity. I'm just trying hard. I'm trying hard not to lose all grip, but it makes me so fucking tired. I still have so much left to do. I just have to gut it out. And if that means screaming into a balled up sweater for minutes or hours till the shit turns off then fine. If that means locking myself away safe for days or diving into the safety of unconsciousness for 13 hours then fine. Not fine. It's not okay. I'm sick of telling people it's fine. But, I have to wear that. I've already learned once that it's unreasonable to share this with people. I guess that's why I've been dodging you for so long. It takes a lot to get up everyday and it's completely unfair, just wrong, to spread the dysfunction. He should still be here. I guess, more than anything else, my life is committed to ending it's proliferation. I should not be here. And the means to that end is also this blueprint to understanding why that has to be so.
///Morcheeba - "Diggin' a Watery Grave" ...not all at once
I've been trying to eat, but it's horrible. Ridiculous stomach clenching anxiety. And then the sounds my body makes while it's digesting. And then feeling like any second it's all going to come straight back up. It's hard to deal with. It felt like it was all control. All I had to do was keep my fingers on my head functions and the rest was easy and now even with that awareness the rest rips away like a table cloth in the hands of a retarded magician and sends it all to pieces on the floor. It was a nice sunny day. I tried to go outside. I really did. I got so far as putting on a sweater before I had to take it all off and start over again. I didn't do it right. And then it was dark outside, but the bus stops were all full of people and I can't go out like that. Not with them there.
What is there to be afraid of? What is there to be afraid of? I don't know, but it's fucking there. I've been trying to fight sleep, but it's the only place I know and feel secure in. When I'm sleeping I don't have to eat anything. I don't have to go outside like here. I don't have to hear my voice talk. I don't have to hear their voices talk. I don't have to hear at all. I don't have to rely on my stupid eyes. Just hearing the neighbors talking through the walls, apart from the untrue voices, made my head feel like it was busting like glass in a poorly packed cardboard box. Everything is people. I'm so fucking nerve wrecked at work because I have to keep checking to make sure I'm not being watched. I don't have anything to hide, but I'll be damned if they think they can hunt me like some oblivious dog. They think I don't know, but I do.
There were keys in my door locks earlier today. I thought my chest was going to cave in on itself listening to the locks open and the door swing, but I got up anyway to face it. There was nothing there. Not at my door or the neighbor's door. Still scared the living shit out of me. I don't understand where it's all coming from. I just want to go to bed and not have to be awake anymore. Whatever it is I want it to come kill me already. How long is this chase supposed to go before it's over?
A friend of mine passed away recently. Maybe that's what's eating up my control. I hate myself for a lot of reasons, but mostly for not being more accessible. I don't know how to fix that. I can't make people want to spend time with me in the same way I want to spend time with them. Who want's to hang out with a fucking retarded person who can't talk straight and who, when he can put words together out of his mouth, can't relate complete ideas the few times there are complete ideas to relate? I wouldn't. It's not about being normal or not. It's just massively frustrating. I would ask what is wrong with me, but I already know what's fucking wrong with me. And I feel selfish for even wishing he'd gone farther out of his way to hang out. That's simply ridiculous. I am the seldom seen fucked up individual with the bad history and the not so great outlook and why the fuck am I licking my own perpetual gashes...I don't know. I want the spit to make me better, and it doesn't. I don't miss him so much as I miss the him that everyone else got to know and that fills me with so much fucking rage.
And I can't even grieve properly because trying to focus in on the meaning of his absence is like trying to fire a gun from the rocking deck of a vessel burning and sinking at a target so far distant I can barely see it clearly. I'm sorry. I just can't put it together. I'm slapping the god damn pieces back on and more fall off and the whole thing is functioning if only just. The closest thing to a functioning family and I'm so far out of the loop out of necessity. I'm just trying hard. I'm trying hard not to lose all grip, but it makes me so fucking tired. I still have so much left to do. I just have to gut it out. And if that means screaming into a balled up sweater for minutes or hours till the shit turns off then fine. If that means locking myself away safe for days or diving into the safety of unconsciousness for 13 hours then fine. Not fine. It's not okay. I'm sick of telling people it's fine. But, I have to wear that. I've already learned once that it's unreasonable to share this with people. I guess that's why I've been dodging you for so long. It takes a lot to get up everyday and it's completely unfair, just wrong, to spread the dysfunction. He should still be here. I guess, more than anything else, my life is committed to ending it's proliferation. I should not be here. And the means to that end is also this blueprint to understanding why that has to be so.
///Morcheeba - "Diggin' a Watery Grave" ...not all at once
10/6/10
Missing Parts and the Person I've Never Met
It's official. Well, let me start off by saying I got very little done while I was away. Now, let me continue by saying, it's official: industry week. Not that I'm trying to make up for anything, because there's nothing to be made up for. I set off toward the horizon with the hopes of finding something and I didn't find it. What's more is I lost a member of my party. So now I'm out almost a week's good night time hours and I failed to make the creative shift and a part of me is still out there in the field and I haven't seen him in days and I'm a little bit worried because I'm heading toward a break and I need to know where everyone is before things come apart because trying to find them afterward is like trying to pick through a trailer park after a hurricane looking for a wallet. I know he's probably fine out there by himself, but I'm not fine in here by myself.
I know exactly when it happened too. He just ran off like a scared horse and I tried to convince him to stay, but that was about as successful a conversation as trying to hang on to a wet dog's tail. Now the sun doesn't come up. I've been looking for him nonstop since Friday, but even that effort has been too big a strain and parts are starting to rattle off and cease to respond and it would normally be a good thing, but the problem is that the things falling apart are the safety switches and breakers and in his absence things are fusing that shouldn't fuse and power is rerouting to things that should not be powered on for extended periods of time and suggestions are turning into directives and the committee is taking sides and no one is telling me what the hell is going on and every time I shut down and restart new things are there that shouldn't be there and there's nightly work being done without authorization. I have to get him back.
But, anyway... I don't think that's what I meant to say. What I meant to say is that this week is a week of industry and productivity. The factory floor is bleak. It feels hollow. I can hear my footsteps echoing in there and I don't like being there with who's still here. I feel like I'm working on something I shouldn't be. Like I'm building weapons, and they're calling them toasters and oven parts and slides for cabinets, but I know what they are. But, I have nowhere else to work.
I fell asleep with the TV on the other day. My dreams were horrible. They started off well enough, but violence came with a fury so unexpected I fell out of bed and hit my head on the closet door. I crawled back under the covers anyway, but that didn't last.
Eventually I was sideways again with the lights off and the television on and half covered. I couldn't go back to sleep. There were things waiting for me there so I sort of just stared at the ceiling for a while. Then I held my hand up and blotted out the tv screen and admired my lines. I like them. Then it occurred to me how lovely the moment would have been if someone else were there. If someone else left the tv on and went out somewhere at 2 AM and didn't want to wake me and I thought about how sweet it was of that person to be so kind as to not wake me as they went and oddly enough I felt loved by the blank blue glow. I didn't go back to sleep after that. I didn't turn the tv off either.
///Amorphous Androgynous - "Goodbye Sky" dreaming at the edge of this world
8/20/09
you know what's weird
masturbating and having old bible hymns come to mind while youre doing it. thats whats weird. that and sex toys for guys. that and reviews for sex toys for guys... reviews that say things like "oh my god, my husband loves this, he cums in minutes." no offense to that guy, but sticking my member in a plastic sock with nubs on the inside dont zactly feel da same as that other thing i like to do... let alone using my hands. well... that and a pill for women to make them want to have sex more. does that count as date rape if you drug someone with a pill to make them want to have sex? is this a surprised rabbit !! or is it two exclamation points next to a quizzical rabbit !! ?? i mean if someone wants to have drinks to loosen up isnt it just better to skip the hangover give them a pill rolled up in a piece of cheese take them home and wait for them to turn on like a light switch? like a clap on. minus the clap. and clapping. maybe slapping. probably slapping. of hands. well thats fucking weird. that and religion. makes no sense. how is it that religious discussion seems to be on the reverse side of sexual discussion. religion is masturbation for the soul. masturbation is religion for the heart. and worship is just stupidity and insecurity rolled up into a tidy package called faith.
thats whats weird.
///yeong wook jo - "farewell, my lovely" i wish yeong would work for free so i could have him orchestrate the irreversible and gut twisting moments in my life. the man has an ear for beauty like you can only find in a family photo album that has pictures of you before you found out that not everyone's parents beat them hard enough to miss school.
thats whats weird.
///yeong wook jo - "farewell, my lovely" i wish yeong would work for free so i could have him orchestrate the irreversible and gut twisting moments in my life. the man has an ear for beauty like you can only find in a family photo album that has pictures of you before you found out that not everyone's parents beat them hard enough to miss school.
11/10/05
contentment 11/10/05
Subject : contentment.
Posted Date: : Nov 10, 2005 11:06 PM
so the outlook is bleak. true.
I still enjoy life. I'm not saying everything sucks bleh! all im saying is that with none of the usual things to really look forward to i just focus on the pleasures i do have... like masterbating. whether i have money or not i can still masterbate to my hearts content... and writing... i can still write whenever i want and im glad that i am a literate mutha fucka. so not having money isnt the end of the world. its just not the beginning of a new one.
and when the day ends and everything is over and done with... i'm okay with that.
11/5/05
a mutual slump
Subject : a mutual slump
Posted Date: : Nov 5, 2005 4:18 PM
I am very tired of not having money. Demoralizing, disheartening, and depressing is what it's like to have no money. You don't care about much of anything and you don't want to work at anything. But you do work, because that is the only way to get out of the slump of negative dollars.
What about life? I have no wealth, no steady state of capital. I have debt. gobs upon gobs of debt that only work will erase. I tell myself that I am tired of being poor, of being on the higher end of the have nots. I tell myself that my kids are going to have everything that I don't have, but that isn't true. It's just a wish. This is not an emo rant, this is just letting off some of the pressure that stacks up over the years when it becomes more and more clear that you are very likely not going to be "successful, grounded, rich, dateable, married, healthy, a grand parent, a good father, provider, on top, stable." The world isn't out to get me. It also is not out to make amends or make things better either.
Don't tell me life isn't bleak and then tell me I have no way to advance myself upward through the class ranks because its just who I've grown to be. You're lieing to yourself if you think everyone gets a fair crack at anything. Life doesn't suck all the time for anyone, but that does not mean life doesnt suck alot of the time for someone.
Difficult days. Not enough is going to change by the time I graduate and not enough minds will change about who I am, how I work, what I know, and what I believe to make a difference in the paths that have been laid out today. Life is like a box of slant rhymes. Or maybe its like a bowl of soup and some people get silver spoons while other people get stirring rods.
What is there to look forward to? The "mutual slump of body and soul"? New beginnings; don't get too excited about those. they always start right where you left off. There is one thing to look forward to and that is consistency.
They may not leave you, but if they do it'll be for similar reasons.
You'll work hard and it won't count for anything much.
No one will give you anything you haven't earned or won't pay for later.
You will always be the best company you'll know.
Beer will always taste like beer, weed will always get you high, and money will always feel like eels in your back pocket, foreign, uncomfortable, and itching to slip away.
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