On The Revocation Of Passports

I understand times do change.  I understand that I do exist in a space that is not attuned to the normal speeds and distances of the governing dark star at the center of the Milky Way.  I understand the difficulties this presents, trickling down to our branch, our neighborhood, our star, our system, our section, our planet, our hemisphere, our continent, our nation, our state, our city, our block, our ship inside that soup (the governance bubble reaching out only that far to offer resistance).

I understand times do change around us and the space in which we exist has a fixed passport system.  Once granted entry into the time lapsed/corrupted/flexed/shifted bubble speeding along with the rest of the system around it, the passport will not be revoked.  Granted access, you can come and go as you please.  There are rules.  Those rules can be tailored to you.  I will never revoke your passport out of spite.  I will never revoke your passport out of anger.  I will never revoke your passport because your times have changed.  I will never revoke your passport because my time has changed.  Once gifted, your passport is set for as long as you live and nontransferable.

We don't give them out like Halloween candy.

If you ever need to borrow a cup of sugar.

If you ever need a box of nails or a snowblower.

If you ever need a lift somewhere.

If I can help, I will.  Just ring before you cross the boundary into controlled space and attempt to buzz the flight deck.  The weapons net surrounding the ship is live.  Don't be converted to light and dust.




///Nightmares On Wax - "Passion"

Do not forget there are rules.  Break them enough times and the immune system that keeps the bubble afloat in the interstellar sea will have some very pointed questions for you.

A Quick Thought on Authenticity and (ffs) Go Protocol

Knowing what you are and what you're not is where it begins, that's the baby step.  There's nothing wrong with being a baby.  Complaining let's you know, if you've ears for it, that you are not necessarily happy with the way things are or how they're going.  Everyone's a baby.  At some point.  Everyone complains.

The option is to take the turn or drive the motivation straight over the edge and hope you land somewhere nice.  Hope you land in something like a pillow factory or a bin of sand, or just anything more forgiving than concrete.  Take the turn.  Complain like a baby and then adjust.  You can take your authenticity to the grave with you or you can exist within it.  Sounds pretty simple.  It's a bit more complicated, unfortunately.  Sometimes you just have to realize that you are striped and a tiger and sometimes imaginary in a pack of lions.  Doesn't mean you have to be at war with the lions.  You're both after the same things.  There's nothing wrong with that.  You've honed your way and they've honed theirs and you're on the same field now so you have to learn how to play together effectively that you not step on one another's paws and sink teeth too close together on the same kill.

It's "go protocol."  It's trigger pull.  It's losing my train of thought and getting heckling from the rest of the committee and continuing to ball because YOURE NOT THE BOSS OF ME YOU @#$%S.

Fight through the noise.  Embrace the sound.  Love who you want to.  It does not matter if they love you back.  You have the right to love whomever and whatever you choose to, whomever and whatever you can't refuse to.  If they cannot respect that, it's their loss.  In a world lessed for loves lost, why waste it?  Let it fly.  Untenable as it may be, let it fly.  Let it fly!  Allow it to cross the distance that must be enforced for whatever reasons are reasonable.  Include a few that are not.

Remain authentic.  Stick to the protocol.  You have not lived as long as you have by ignoring protocol.  When the Go sign says go,  go!  Think twice, for sure.  "Fo Sho!" does not mean for show.  I can put on a fantastic show when I want to.  I can put on a show for the fucking ages.  Fo sho means for sure and it's pretty much a miniature pact.  A handshake and a signature of gumption.  With no risk comes no reward and you know what comes without whisk?  I do.  I'll give you another second to guess.  Time's up.  Without whisk you get a big old cup of pineapple pulp and undissolved sugar at the bottom of your pitcher of pineapple tea.  Gross.  Also, really hard to drink.

Obey Go Protocol.  Stay authentic.  Bow to be courteous, not to fit better.  If you win the single combat and fit well, you'll hate them later because they will know what you did.  They will talk about the event, if not active, in passing.  You will know too.

The combination is not friendly.  They are not looking for maps the same way you do.  The same way you are.  Do not expect assistance when you go.  Do not expect support.  Do not armor for resistance either.  You were invited for a reason.  You were on their wing for a reason.  That reason may not be for back up should combat come down.  That reason may not be for mounting an assault that day.  That reason may not be for humor or for "to hell with them"s.  You may never know what that reason's reasoning inside their head was, but there was a reason.

So go.  Go!  Stay authentic.  There was something asked of you.  Think about what you've asked of them in return by answering the howl.  The details will work themselves out, if they do.  The details will work themselves out, if they don't pull your card again.  Through the noise, through the fire, through the poise, through the ire.  For once,

allow yourself to see it their way and do not Chameleon.  Do not lock up.  For @#$%s sake, remain authentic.  Uncertainty is a bitch, be certain of this.




///Girl Talk - (Ask About Me)      chapter one...  still writing the jacket

Reel

Sometimes I wonder if it's real.  Outside and inside at the same time.  Odd shifts.  I can explain them, but explanation goes so far.  I still want, to the point of near desperation, to cut you apart and examine the individual pieces.  It can be done.  There is never a good time for it.  It has to be a final project or at least somewhere near final.  Very close to final before another change.

The hardest part is finding a reasonable candidate.  We can do it.  It is far from impossible.  Especially if it is the beginning of a stout library.  There's no foul there.  Storage space must be brought into consideration.  On top of that is figuring out how to pay for capacity because storage space is worth gold by volume, plain and simple and the library will be extensive.

The other question being the simple fact that availability will be a major issue.  Think it through.  There's no impossible in "can't."  There is some cant in can't though.  Cannot get too canted because nothing flies right canted.  All the control surfaces get way off and then holding the stick upright leads to poor action.  We're gonna need a lot of jars.  Like a fuck ton.  Jars are cheap though and so is water.  Things are going to rot, but that's fine.  Lids contain stank.  That's really good.  It's not beyond our capacity so that's good too.  Temporary storage.  I still need more practice and it is an unfortunate obstacle.

You have to be better about taking out the trash though.  If you can't take out the trash how can I possibly trust you to store things properly?  You can't.  We both want this though and how hard do you work to make shit happen when it's only you on the line?  That's not fair to me.  At all.  Fuck progress, stop short changing me.  It's not fair, plain and simple, Mr. plain and simple, and you know that.

All I'm saying is, sit the fuck down, have a smoke, and think about it for a minute.  How retarded would it be to buy two dozen mason jars at once?  For two, you haven't really thought out the actual land routes or air routes yet.  For three, you have not worked out the cash because last I checked gas still costs money.  And for four, your exit strategy is ill formed at best.  I'll throw a five in there because you're actually listening now so it's pretty much a one: you still have a lot of work to do.  I know it's very... open ended... but you know what I'm talking about.  Talk to me when you've actually got some shit laid down.

It's hard, difficult, to think with you shouting.  It's not easy to know if it's real.  Hard, but challenge accepted.  I'm not sure about you.  I don't like it.  Othering.  Too much othering.  To be honest, I'm disappointed in you.  You can do better.  It's flummoxing.  Diagnostics failure?  Yes, for chryssakes, yes.  How many different ways do I have to paint it?  We were born different.  We weren't.  I'm nothing like you.  I know.  We are the same.  No, we are not.  Yes we are.  NO, we are not.  That is unacceptable.




///Goldie - "Dragon Fly"        next to Fury, top ten. new music is great but i am happy to rewind the classics.  songs i hope to someday play for my children. when theyre ready.  when we get there.

What Was Meant and What Was Done

I have a hard enough time sleeping at home, let alone sleeping in other places.  Always believing I am going to be raped again for passivity or robbed or worse.  They're coming for you.  They always are, it's just that sometimes you get to see them coming and sometimes you do not.

I'm not afraid of death.  That's silly.  Everyone dies.  Everyone suffers.  I've gifted you the daylight hours so stay out of my evening.  Is simple enough to say.  Much more complicated to live by.  Why is it necessary?  A matter of control?  To an extent.  A matter of provocation?  Also, to an extent.  Consider it a dictation of terms.

If I am to die, let it be beneath a sun.  That's not asking too much.  Constantly hunted, can a body be blamed for wanting a reversal of roles?  Outfoxed the ghosts.... this time.... not really.  Still outside.  Every time I open my front door they're there.  Monsters underneath the bed, if you will.  Acceptable terms of endearment.

I don't understand.  Call me atheist or call me fractured.   Or call me by my name so that I know you are and are not a glitch trip.  I'll appreciate it.  I may not say so, but I'll appreciate it.  I may not say so because I know they're listening too and watching too and it took them some years to be vocal as they are and a division had to come or risk carrying on with, for lack of a better term, phantoms.

Paranoia has been nibbling.  I've been thinking very long and very hard about a reasonable solution.  What we came to was, this year, we will wear a straw woven hat.  It'll look good on me.  And that's something!  Something to roll on with.

No one means to stand watch all night.  Everyone breaths a little easier knowing another one has passed and the weapons can be laid down again because the sun is a very very very reliable and undeniable night light.




///Sneaker Pimps - "Wife By Two Thousand"  mr. noename

Redrum and Other Origins and Valuation

Is it wildly addictive, yeah of course.   Does it change you?  No not really.  There's a certain amount of disappointment that comes with it.  A certain amount of asking yourself questions that persist despite the time of day.  It's a pretty weird thing.  A confluence of circumstance and luck so thick I can talk about it now almost a year removed.   Can you imagine sitting on anything for a year?

I tried to talk to my friend about it and she pretty much shut me out.  That sucks.  I did not anticipate at all how I would be re evaluated.  That part of it has been hard to parse and it really has been across the board with each person I've shared it with, chosen to share it with.  It's an odd difficulty but I can understand the rejection.  I can understand it, but I don't have to accept it, I would like to think.

Do I feel better?  Not really.  Not as good as I thought I'd feel.  Kind of reminds me of paint snuffling. Very short lived and very gorgeous and very forgettable, but so far away from everything enjoyable on a common basis.  A rare sadness that presents some unforgettable joy.  It's difficult to talk about.  Because I know there are people missing her and all that.  It's difficult to relate because on top of that there is the knowledge of the missing and maybe that's why I don't sleep so good these last years.  Getting away without really getting away (heart in the floor kinda shit except ...)

The most difficult thing has been trying to relate this story without who I relate it to drastically reevaluating who I am as a person.  I'm still the same.  What's so difficult to understand about needing and finding practice?  I understand that I am a very strange and enchanted boy and eventually luck runs out, but how does that mean love evaporates?  Or should evaporate?  How come once suddenly doesn't mean enough?  I could understand trust lost.  I could understand that.  Total abandonment still stymies me.  I don't care what you did or what you do.  If I love you I love you.  That's it.  Where it starts and ends I guess.  I think that's all I wanted in return.  That's all.  Step by stepped is what I got.  Oh well.  let's explore more.  It's a big world and I've a small heart and there's a hell of a lot of music along the way.  we'll see where this goes, but honestly i want more comedy.  I don't think that's too much to ask.  Trying to increase my value to others, you know?   It is the first and last time I'll talk about it, so enjoy.

The Seatbelts - "Rain"  -  its a strange balance. even to me.  the worst being that i dont know its been struck yet.  knowing how i feel afterward i will try, but i cannot promise anything and i never will.

Cell By Cell

Had a bad run in with myself.  I'm laughing just saying it and hearing that phrase come out of my mouth and wondering how it is still possible.  Still possible to mount surprise attacks on my own fortress.  Woke up today in a fine mess of pain.  The important thing is the drought is over.  I had to break some ground to get at the well.  Wake myself up again.  The dreaming has been fantastic.  I wish I could sleep forever, but that's unreasonable.  Not irrational.  There's a difference sometimes.  Even in my country.

It is odd, I do suppose.  The sensation of being outside yourself and watching the sublet drive it straight into empty air on the wrong side of a cliff.  It's nice to be back.  It always is, even though I know it won't last and never does.  Pull the circuit board out and wave it in the wind until it stops smoking.  Pop out the fried resistors and solder in some new ones with the same ratings; their the biggest baddest ones you can get on the street.  Slide the board back in and fire it up.  Note the time and date.  Log the lost information and missing sectors.  Build new ones in the virtual environment.  Repopulate.  Repeat as necessary.

Reconstruction.  It's like a gunman went cell by cell through the complex.  Cell by cell through the prison and gunned down every inmate.  It's an unfamiliar quiet.  And then you remember you told someone you were a sociopath trapped in a citizen body.  I wonder what Jeff's doing right now.  I wonder if he'll take my call on a Saturday even though I'm not seeing him anymore.  I don't know what he would have to say.  He said if I ever thought of a good joke I should drop him a line.  Psychiatrists.  I've been trying since our last meeting two years ago to think of one and for the life of me I can't.

He'll laugh anyway, to make me feel less awkward and it'll work.  Maybe I just want to hear him laugh.  He'd be proud of the work I was doing.  He wouldn't entirely get it, but that's fine.  Poetry is a fickle beast.  Half the time I don't get it either.  He'll put it up on his fridge if I wrote him something on the couch.  He'll take it down after I leave and add it to my file.  I wonder if he still has that file. Probably not.  I vaguely remember him telling me, when I told him I was thinking about joining the army, that he is obligated to destroy records older than seven years.

I miss him.  I had a bad run in with myself.  I'm laughing just saying it out loud.  How did this happen?  Why?  I don't understand.  I like to think it's somewhere down that rabbit hole.  I used to wonder if I was color blind.  Then I stopped worrying about it.  I think I scratched my eye ball yesterday.  I miss his note taking.  You might be out of your god damn mind.  Eventually he stopped taking notes.  Which was fine.  It is kind of a tall order getting to know someone that close out of nowhere without taking notes.  I wonder sometimes what he was doing or expecting his week to be like that first Monday I walked in there.  I wonder if he still thinks about me too.  If I still populate his cells.


///El-P - "Stay Down"

Burna

I don't know.  That's not true, I do know.  I get scorched sometimes.  Emotionally.   Not by anyone specifically or the selves within myself.  It's that the act of creation is a burner.  I have to crank it up to high and hear the igniter tick over and tap and I do not always know what the igniter will be.  The ignition coil accepts voltage over the course of hours and sometimes days and sometimes months.  It does not always click.  I would go as far as to say that often times, more often than otherwise, it does not click and the ignition coil never accepts enough voltage to arc and I have to hold a lighter down on that gas line and hope it takes before the house burns down and I'm sitting in the backyard smoking with no eyebrows wondering how I got there because the kitchen exploded and I was high off of my ass on fumes well before it happened.  I want it to work every time.  That's wishful thinking.   I get scorched a lot.  I am highly flammable.  Just the way the genes shook out.

Sometimes I wonder what kind of a writer I would be, could be, with greater mental stability, and then I laugh.  Because I would have bored myself to death in high school with pen and paper and I realize I would be the mathematician or the economist or the engineer or the welder who did it because it was something they could do mechanically and do well and do with hi fidelity in a very stable pattern and my interest would've waned and I would have sought out something more dynamic.  No wait.  That's me.  Me now, projecting myself backward and extrapolating to now.  Not what I was trying to describe at all.  I would have done those things and been happy to do them and never would have branched out to something I could be wrong at and still pursue with passion as though I was baseline perfect and sometimes brilliant, but not nearly enough to make that one diamond sparkle to my eye enough to push me to try for something with more cuts and more shine and more heart.  At least that's what I like to think.  Would happen if I were more stable.

Do I want the things that come with stability?  Of course.  You'd have to be a moron not to.  Do I want the things that come with instability?  Of course.  Not all of them, but at least 70% of them.  Maybe closer to 60%.  Thinking back, I never really was a very stable human being.  I remember getting into a spat at a summer camp when I was very young, came back to me today, cannot remember for my life what camp it was or if it was bible camp or something more or less or forced or if I asked to go to it.  It was a moment where myself and my peers were unsupervised and they were making fun of my shoes again because I had very bad knock off shoes.  Very bad.  Not even stylistically speaking.  Simply very poorly engineered shoes.  The soles were made of this weird psuedo plastic, translucent, compound so whenever we played "Duck Duck Goose" or "Steal the Bacon" in gym I would have to work ten times harder than everyone with regular rubber to make cuts and accelerate and slow down because the plastic stuff would glide on the waxed wood floor like skates.  I still won my fair share.  Unfair share?  I should have been undefeated.  It's probably how I got to be so fast early on and kept going from there.  Also probably how I got to be so frustrated when I get a job and don't have the right equipment today.

Anyway, where was I going....  so myself and my peers were unsupervised and I was being teased relentlessly and I didn't do anything for a while except shut up.  Partly because I knew however I spun it I would get the beating of a lifetime up until that point once I got home, and partly because I wanted to go grab a chair and beat him to death.  So I went straight for his throat because the middle ground was dealing with them making fun of you for having dirty nails, them not realizing you were keeping them as long as your mom could stand before digging that hook thing underneath or cutting them specifically for the instance when you may need to claw someones throat out of their neck.  It worked out pretty well.  He bled some and I was not nearly as strong as I thought I was then so he only lost some skin, but he was so freaked out he didn't even tell on me.  Or maybe he did and I've just blacked the aftermath out of my memory.  Anyway, I just remember thinking "awesome, why did I not do that sooner."  Strange days back then.

And now.  I know I can't be, but I believe I can be the greatest of all time.  I get scorched.  I melt down.  I've been so high strung emotionally with human contact.  It's rough.  Parsing things.  Knowing what to tell and what not to.  KNowing who to tell and who not to.  Going over events to parse what happened and what did not happen, but was later re-engineered from memories I didn't have, but took to heart regardless.  People I thought I talked to in depth, but never said one word to.  Real people that I see that I know I will not see again for some time.  Longing and wanting more and knowing I would mismanage it if it did happen.  The things that did happen that are stranger than fiction that I hesitate to retell to anyone because they wouldn't believe it either if they were there.  It's gutting.

A tough road, the feeling it.  The feeling writing.  Taking it beyond exercise to experiment and beyond experiment to theory and beyond theory to intent.  Taking intent back to exercise to ingrain it and then back to experiment to expansion packs.  Managing circuitry.  Without tripping breakers is a 99 by 99 game of Windows 95 vintage Minefield.  I was trying to explain to someone how communication, as I've learned it, is an experience of exchanged violence.  The base set of symbols.  Love growing from that basic set of characters.  Sometimes writing offers no release.  I can deal with that.  It's not so much that it's something that has to get out.  Someone else tried to put it to me that way and I accepted the assessment because I had no rebuff at the time.  To a small degree it is.  To a much larger degree it is conversation, within and without. Some internalized and leaking and some extroverted and speaking.

I'm taken back to the original mission.  The blueprint for the creation as a method of legacy.  I go back and forth often between life and death.  Self extermination versus procreation.  I do not play into it as often as I would like, or maybe, more likely, as often as I would feel comfortable with.  Is there a way to commit altruistic suicide for the greater good?  Yes.  I toy with the idea of dying of natural causes.  Thinking about having children and the million reasons why it would be better for that kid to never meet me.  I toy with big ideas of retirement and doing what I love, but even on that time scale of 60, 70, years, it's a long pipe.  What you want, sucka?  Not much.  I already have most of it.  It's getting to the point of formality and self improvement.  Competitive spirit.  How good can I possibly get?  I think that keeps me awake more often than any other meter.  When I know the answer, I'll rip the chord and bug the fuck out.  Selfish.  It makes me laugh to feel that way sometimes.

I get scorched.  I get thoroughly displeased with the quality of what comes out of me, but I know there's so much psychological garbage to sort through, there is no way I'm going to knock anything out of the park on a regular basis.  I play against myself.  It gets troubling.  Becomes troubling.  When your heckler is you.  Your clown is you.  You are your dealer and your fiend.  I used to do it for other people.  I used to do it for my mom and my dad before I realized the packages of carefully selected works were doing little more than collecting dust as soon as they unwrapped them.  When I realized sending them books for christmas was a waste of money and passion.


One of the best experiences I ever had was taking some of them back one of the times I was back home and never once hearing a single question about where any of them went.  XD.  I still get a rise out of that.  I was hot blooded for so long over it and then I realized it wasn't worth holding against anyone.  I think that's where a lot of my happiness stems from.  The knowing that there are people you can love and people you cannot love.  And I'm okay with that.  I still get scorched sometimes.  The factory floor fire spreads and work stations are abandoned and the fire spreads and the suppression systems kick in and they can't contain a god damn thing on the scale of what you are experiencing because you designed them in good times with hypotheticals and grossly miscalculated how swift and vast the psychotic destruction would advance.

So now I am back again and kicking at embers and trying to reimagine what it all was before the fire broke out.  Gathering the caucus.  Sending the calls and hoping to get a ping back from somewhere.  Anywhere along the rise and fall of consciousness.  Reinstalling routines.  Rebuilding structure.  Recreating from memory the blueprint and it's different every time.

If, at the end of it all, I can assemble something to make a future iteration of myself feel less daunted, or less alone, or less wrecked, or more hopeful for sunrise, or more comfortable with no one to sing to but the moon and the tone deaf clouds, I will be happy.  I don't always do good, but I do the best I can.  I know the cycle will eventually end and I won't be blown clear and the fire will consume, but what is the high worth if you'll never know just how high you could've been?  I'm not talking the highs that come with squared proportions.  False peaks?  I mean, would I trade the 40% bad outcomes for 100% decent outcomes?  No.  I don't think so.  In the worst times, yes.  Of course.  No.  I don't think so.  And it is difficult to wrap my head around.  Difficult to work around.  Difficult to not fall into myself standing on the foundation slab in a wilderness where a home used to stand and not feel something for everything and everyone who died in their beds who would have gotten up to jobs and friends that morning when the leaves were still wet with night and the paper boy was sucking oxygen looking at the weeks rounds on his front porch and the dogs were still dreaming and the shots in the dark were unreported and the spiders still had games to play and the cigarette burns still bled and fuck

As promised:  two pack.



///Five Deez - "So Good"  it's nice to be back.  nice to be feeling something.

///Amon Tobin - "Untangle"  slow verbs.

Communications Fault: Line 446890-C0-CC1 (circuit a1 >> branch 9)

I've had a very difficult time with communication.  The heat hasn't helped.  The pressure cooker of my apartment hasn't helped.  I know what it's an extension of, and yes, I don't want to talk about it directly because it has been all consuming.  Requiring maximum effort to distance myself from and hide from others, but even the lack of communication is telling enough for the people that know me, so even the hiding has been a full time occupation.  Let alone maintaining myself.  That has also been a full time occupation.  Missing too many consecutive days of eating.  Not too many in the personal book of what too many days is, as I once went a solid week without eating until a friend intervened.  But, I've come to understand that one day of not eating when the option is available, is too many days.  A new standard that makes me feel glutinous, but shouldn't by any means do so, but it's a hold over from another time and another segment of my life that refuses to go away.

Communications have been strained.  Within myself.  Production is down.  Simply not happening.  Close to zero cooperation from the parties involved, but that happens.  Hallucinations are up.  Managing them has sucked up a lot of "up" time.  Sleep is off the charts.14 to 16 hours.  Cross bridge explorations, however have been phenomenal.  For quite some time I couldn't remember anything and then I started coming back with pieces and parts.  It got to a point yesterday where I woke up and reached for a pocket watch I found after I asked a dead body in a half crushed fully rusted barge (it was an interstate race across a state made up of only islands arranged in a rapids a half continent wide [the waves were high enough to bury the Petronas towers if they were perched on top of the Dover cliffs, and then some], but I got off course and ended up trapped in an island surrounded by weirs that made it impossible to get off it without something with an engine) if there was anything of value and he woke up and pointed to a muddy box with a finger that had a key ring dangling from it.  I opened the box and there was a spring loaded clock as big as my fist with a vest fob attached to it, and I was honestly surprised that it wasn't there and I realized I was dreaming again.

There was a very large bear in my room yesterday.  A very large, unusually square shaped, bear.  Which tipped me off that I was probably dreaming, but then my cat popped up on my pillow and poked me in the face and the bear was still there and I realized I was symptomatic again and so I pulled up my covers, rolled over, and tried to shut it out.  The sun came up, though, so everything was resolved well enough.  Daylight has its uses.  My sleep cycle went completely out of whack.   As far as it could possibly go without looping over on itself.  And then I got sick.  And slept for 36 hours.  I needed to.  Things have been righting since.  A little bit on their own, a little bit through my own efforts to force them to.

What comes next is a re-assumption of some kind of routine to protect the balance.  Shield myself from the bad wiring.  That's really all I am trying to do.  Remake the failsafes.  It was one of those rare times when one breaker fail set up the ability for the next one to fault.  And the next fault set up the next two to fail.  The next two set up the next four.  A large part of the mental restructuring is redeveloping the system to avoid that kind of expansion.  That kind of breakage leads to zero to atmosphere times that feel like blinks of the eye.  I was still talking about today as though today were Sunday.  With the understanding that today was Sunday.  Functionally that was where I left off.  Imagine your body is a car.  You jump in after dreaming and turn the key and halfway to your friend's house you realize there are 30,000 more miles on it than the last time you can remember driving it.  Not fun.  A little scary.  Where the hell have I been?

So much unmounted rage.  Learning all over again how to deal with it.  How to manage it effectively.  How to operate within a range of reason and reasonable values.  Your base language is either violence or love and the communicator operating system between them either works or it doesn't.  1 or 0.  I envy the analog.  They really are a different species of human being.  A holdover from another time that still procreates and propagates with great success.  Us digital human beings still propagate, often despite ourselves.  I don't mean digital in the respect of the how our communications are moved between people.  We're all digital enough to make that not matter in that respect.  The step before digitization though is a separate story.  A separate breakdown for another time, but it's there.  Digital communication at its root is violence or love.  Extreme to extreme and the methods and ways, the words and letters provide the ability to create shades of the experience.  For some.  For others there is an increasingly fine number of ways to say things and the translation to digital fields is easier to the point of effortlessness.   It's like an exam paper.  Every paper being different depending on who you are and how you were engineered.  Some people receive a paper where every question has twenty boxes.  Some people receive a paper with two boxes.   They both have the right answer to the question on them.  Expressing that answer is a lot easier when you have twenty boxes to choose from instead of two boxes and a bunch of blank space to try to scrawl in explanations and clarifications and other junk to help the twenty boxers understand what you meant.

Established frameworks of communications.  No one's to blame.  At least I'm not blaming anyone.  I'm just frustrated with my machinery.  But I already explained, you can't build new machinery with bad tools.  Perhaps I didn't.  A lot of things do not make it passed the cutting floor, believe it or not.  The idea was this: if the tools that make new tools are broken already or offset somehow, the new tools those tools make will be off by even more.  And those tools will build structures off by that much more.  And those structures will house tools constructed with that offset and be poor to look at to begin with and it just continues rolling up until it all collapses and you start again with the same crappy hammer and chisel and furnace trying to build a lathe to turn some sense out of something and you end up with nothing all over again.  So I dunno.  I do not know.  Maybe just try to enjoy the work more than the product?  Maybe?  Anthem of my life if I ever had to write one.  Probably needs more gunshots.   And more cowbell.  A little more clap hands and foot stomping and a little less dirge.  A little more "remember the mission and all you might do" and a little less "quarterly review for the noble and 'a societal remove' sorts of moves.  Nobility, much less nobelity, is passing and as beholden to the eye as anything ever was.


///Bjork - "Pluto" ... a little bit tired, but brand new

All Your Base, Repair, and an Album

So I wasn't sure if I'd have time to stop by today and of course the debate ran right up to the last minute so I figured it would be alright to do this while I wait for my dinner to cool off before I jam it in my face and run off to the labor camp to receive the minimum amount of pay allowable by law for the maximum amount of human labor they can yank out of me. In a bizarro sense it's like paying your life savings for the worst imaginable hand job the human mind can devise. Go nuts with that.

I was over the bridge again and, wow, I wish you could of seen it. I don't know what happened between my last visit and this one, but whatever action was being prepared for happened. The entire place was gouged to hell. There was not a train to be seen or car or bus and there was ash on the ground everywhere thick enough to cup a fist in and still lose your hand all the way to the wrist. The sun was out when I got there and I was able to eventually find a bicycle. Actually I tripped over it while walking through a wide street and it kicked loose from the thick gray and ultra fine sand and the air was so still that the cloud it raised just sort of hung there like ghost moss. I rode around for hours and the tires were thin enough to cut through the ash where it wasn't mixed with gutter water into a paste. There was no ash in the air until my eyes traveled all the way up the sides of the ruined buildings rising up glassless and skeletal here and there and saw that the atmosphere way up where the cotton balls of clouds should be was just one big fluxing shifting mass of brownish black and tan where the sun tried and failed to poke through. Everywhere there were the shapes of people. That was the creepy thing. It was as if every person not killed or fled, or almost every person, was turned into some hunched mass of iron pipe or some caught rag work in a chain link fence or a collection of boxes and broken timbers lumped in an alleyway or crawling along atop the ash in a collection of black and white and torn trash bags being tugged along by a stray's leash. It was all very wide and very hard to take it all in at once. The few people I thought I saw ended up being these cruel heaps of shapes and material and rust and broken pipe so I started to give it up and tried to find my way to more broken down and open areas so I could at least feel less claustrophobic when night fell. As I resolved to look no further and to get clear of places where other things that I probably did not want to meet might be hiding in the high iron and burned out rises around me I came across a tablet that I picked up and started watching on and off as I rode out. For some reason Jerry Seinfeld was all that it could play and he kept going on and on about restaurant appetizers and how they come up with all sorts of gimmicks, but in reality we would eat them right out of the bulk freezer bags they're shipped in because we don't care. We just want our taste buds to feel good for a while. I guess he had a point. I tossed it away and it skipped in the dust like a frisbee. I rode for several more hours, but the city kept stretching on and when I stopped to sit on a fire hydrant, after dusting the several inches of gray off of it that piled like a dunce cap I heard his voice cut on again and it scared the living shit out of me. So much so that I lost the connection and woke up back here.

Whatever happened, all their base are now belong to something I didn't think could happen or at least haven't seen before. Possibly evil Jerry Seinfeld. But, I'm sort of looking forward to going back. Sort of wary. Not at all enthusiastic. I'm looking forward to it the way you look forward to going to see a doctor when you have a persistent headache that won't quit and you just need to sleep that badly.

Also yesterday was a day off. Or a night off. This job is really taking it to my shoulders. Over worked and under sexed. No way to limp through life. I spent that day asleep. Well mostly asleep. That and I put in the serious effort to eat three times in one day. Surprisingly difficult. I mean, the thing really is if you sleep you don't need to eat. So if you sleep all the time, you never need to eat. You'll die at an accelerated rate to the average death spans of so many decades, but in sleep things accelerate anyway so you could potentially live much longer asleep than awake eating and trying to prolong this side of things. Of course you wouldn't have to worry about things randomly breaking down around you, but then again things randomly break down in this world all the damn time, so I'm not even sure that's particularly valid. At any rate. I spent most of that day sleeping and eating and trying to feel my muscles knit back together. I don't think I succeeded. I didn't front load enough material for my body to work with before it needed it and now the spaces that should be bridged with proteins and whatever else are now probably jammed with garbage or just left as empty tears... frustrating.... but that's what happens when you blow up your mileage and your engine and don't have the convenience of laying that load on a car and have to lay it on your body. But that'll change.

I started writing another album. Horsemen of the Sun. Released the single earlier on. The full length album is rolling out tomorrow at some point (I hope). It's been gestating long enough. Flash the Firmware was the first album. I wanted it to tell a story of personal mutation and sea change. This one will focus more on the desolation of knowing who you are. Exciting. Depressing. Exploration. Strange territory. Part of the life I'm building apart from the life that has sustained the effort required to do the building. If that makes sense.



///Daedelus - "You're the One" I love you. Not in case no one tells you that. Not in case no one has told you that in a while. Just cause I do. Where would I be without the oft imagined you/me. Try, if you want, to slap How to Operate With a Blown Mind and Northern Stomp together with Love to Make Music To in one playlist and set it to shuffle. It's like black fireworks at night so close to the ground they'll burn you if you watch too close, but too pretty to look away and worth every second of skin peeling flying metal and rock shards.