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Showing posts with label the mechanism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the mechanism. Show all posts
8/23/15
That Instant
you are not a mad dog about anything, but you want to bite down as hard as you can until your teeth break or push against something until your muscular-skeletal system fails. When you want to taste it and get it all inside your nasal cavities via burst vessels and you know the only reasonable path is sitting still.
7/10/15
Stay Positive, Opposite Day, Detours, and Paper
How funny would it be to wake up in your own car in the middle of the early morning after accidentally blowing your steering wheel airbag into your face the night before tinkering with the switches and wiring around the wheel?
The thought crossed my mind, walking home from the local store to buy smokes and chips. Almost as good as chips and ice cream. When I feel horrible, I prefer cigarettes because they make me feel a little less horrible without making me wish I felt an unsustainable joy derived from ice creams sweet and cooling goodness. If only anyone could always be that smooth, creamy, and soothing all the way down to the belly. The thought crossed my mind after walking away from my truck to go buy some comfit after I noticed my fuel gauge was malfunctioning and realizing the problem's solution was going to cost me at least $120 and 10 to 20 hours of labor at worst and 20 to 40 hours of labor, learning, trial and error, and no dollars at best.
I kept chuckling thinking about how angry I felt. I kept chuckling thinking about reaching under the seat for my hatchet, letting out a bloody war cry, and smashing the wheel to pieces. Only then, ditching the hatchet, pulling and tearing wires out of it with my bare hands until the airbag exploded and shoved one of my closed fistful of wires straight into my face and I basically ended up knocking myself out cold with a rocket powered fist to the dome. Then waking up the next day with a deployed airbag, swollen knuckles, one hell of a headache, and one hell of a fist shaped bruise between my eyes.
Part of the reason for the rage is that I finished fixing another small problem with a steep learning curve and dozens of hours of labor and learning rolled inside only days before. The truck is not falling apart around me, though it feels that way sometimes. The problems are routine problems and I wish I could take it in for routine maintenance instead of d.i.y. desperation weekends. The other part of the reason for the anger is that if I were paid more in line with my actual skills and level of higher learning, I could shrug, say "okay", and rent a car tomorrow while my truck sat in a shop for an afternoon.
Living near the bottom of the middle class is deceptive. Bottom of the middle class, top of the lower class. Living in the region can be deceptive if you have some imagination, some confidence, some helpful friends, and some ingenuity. I have a one bedroom apartment with a closet bath/shower and mini kitchen. If I take away all of the furniture a friend gave, all of the furniture I built, and all of the furniture I found on curbs or being given away by strangers, I have cinder blocks, two folding chairs, one of those university lobby lounge chairs, a sheet of particle board, and an end table. Remove every worldly possession, so to speak, and there'd be a truck parked outside, a few pots and pans and plates, a desktop and pair of monitors, a console, a found tv, a few books and magazines, some shoes and goodwill clothes and multipack tees, some mechanical gadgets, some home and auto repair tools, and a printer and phone.
Imagination allows me to see what can be and holds the hand of ingenuity to find ways to make it happen. Call it humility or call it living within your means or call it mining gold or a hobby, thrift stores are one of the keys to forgetting that you are part of the working poor. The cream of the lower class. Keeping good friendships is a huge part of the puzzle. Without them, my life easily fits inside a 10' by 10' cell with a hole in the ground to eliminate and a spigot somewhere to drink and bathe. Part of the anger stems from those parameters.
I have been heavily detoured. Charging along the roads as quickly as possible in an effort to get back on some kind of track while wasting as few years as possible is frightening. I ask myself what will happen if I miss a black on orange florescent sign letting me know my next turn is coming three turns from now and the sign at the third turn was never erected so commit this one to memory. First and final warning. The reason why it does not feel fair to me is because it is not fair.
I continue to consider the many branches not followed that have lead here, fighting for time to write. I began to believe my father was trying to teach me a lesson about his pain all along and I am finally beginning to understand it, but I will not be able to understand until I am 48 or 50 or whatever his age was when I stopped talking to him. Before that thought grew too large, I remembered he hasn't the subtlety or emotional imagination to allow him to pull that off. I can see where some of his resentment stemmed from. Losing all of the prime years of life and talent at the cutting edge of art, design, and martial arts bad-ass-ery to childcare. Who wouldn't be a lot angry all of the time. Though extremely dissimilar in their divination (did you see what I did there), the results are similar. Cut away opportunities, trim an effective gesture here, clip a nudge there, ....
... I don't know. I do not know why I never got the same support. It would not have taken much. Some days I am alright never knowing. Some days it all comes to a head staring at your broken fuel gauge and doing the right thing and getting the hell out of the car without slamming the door and spinning 180 degrees to put your fist through the window and slash your own tires. The world could've been miles from now.
I could be writing about my third year working as a librarian somewhere and moaning about coding database systems and dealing with angry patrons and making time for dates between writing short stories and working on my two part novel about warfare and keeping up to date on my space opera hopeful crown jewel I'm still searching out an editor for, however the third poetry anthology is going pretty great. I'm tearing out the kitchen in parts on my down time when I get tired of writing and it should be finished in another week or two.
Today felt like opposite day. Loading my truck up with bale after bale of carpet, a refridgerator door, water logged drywall, a cane and broken umbrella, armfuls of empty paint cans, a screen door, and three dozen other pieces of jetsam from the home I'm renovating's previous occupants, it was opposite day. What I was doing should be my hobby. I should be putting that sweat and blood and cuss into my own home, not someone else's. When I go home I should be thinking about what I am going to tear down and visit the hardware store to work on next. When I go home I should not be thinking about what I can write next that can be packed into the time it takes to shut my body down to hit the hammers and brushes and trash bags and saws again.
As much as I love working with my hands, I could find a way to work with my body in the face of an occupation that demanded I not.
"You're poor! You're poor! You're poor! You're poor! Do not be deceived; you're poor!"
Independent life is a horror show and funhouse of mirrors broken and whole. I am staying positive.
What brought me back to a semblance of balance is remembering that the day is still young. Independent life is 5 years old. Five. Five years ago you started stepping outside of your cell. A year or two later you walked down a hallway and into a cafeteria. A few months later you learned there was a yard and no time restrictions. A few months later you found a gate into another yard. It's getting larger and larger as long as you do not screw it all up and have your privileges revoked. All of the time you lost will be compounded by the time you spent finding a way back out.
No one pays you what you're worth unless you have the paper to create the market. Or the portfolio and charisma, in lieu of paper. Portfolio and charisma is an absolute "and" statement. The one and not the other turns into a luck base number system. I will never know my actual value. Maybe that is the worst of it? I will never know if I am being over paid or under paid, valued appropriately or not. The optimist inside, the petitioner, tells me that if and only if we suffer for as much time as we spent pursuing the degree, our penance will be met with paper if and only if we are gracious through our turbulent era. The eros inside whispers about penance through joyful degradation, The musician adds another kick drum, knocking over cymbal stands. The child snaps crayons in half so both hands can draw at once inside the same lines.
It is difficult not to fantasize about getting my degree in the mail, tearing it in half, driving to their house, and suffocating them to death in turn, each by half, with a wad of paper. That would be thoroughly satisfying.
What are you supposed to do when the toys you want to play with are above the grade you are licensed for? What are you supposed to do when what you are allowed to do you can do very well, but the ceiling is opaque and the sounds coming through it are not in a language you can or maybe will ever understand? Maybe I am paid exactly what I am worth. If I have reached my ceiling and given no indication that I am prepared for or understand in the slightest or am equipped for beyond that ceiling, I am paid exactly what I am worth.
That's frightening. Also true. Harrowing.
Sometimes I understand that I'm getting too fixated on true freedom. I get a taste of working something I can enjoy to support the writing habit and expect everything else to fall in line. There's a luck element to it, that I cannot unlock through work or optimism or faith or trust. That operates on its own time table. If I do win the lottery, I will take out full page ads in major cities for the hell of it, but only once.
Part of me continues to say it is not supposed to be this hard to make massive uncertainty and day to day, week to week, at best month to month living a thing of the past. My state is, however, that fragile. At the ripe old age of at least 1/3 dead the best I can do for myself is knowing I have at least a month to figure out a new lowline. Fear the high lines because you know a low line is around the corner... ....what to do when you are following low lines? High lines have to be engaged. My spider sense is not tingling. Shake the wrong tree and a warship mine may fall out of it, let alone a tank or soldier sized one. The other story of America. Every body wants to be a cat. If you have enough money you can do whatever you want to. Not that much money. I mean enough money to swap cars, or pick up and move, or add and subtract clothing, or change lighting, or paint colors, flip what you walk on, change shoes when you feel like it, add and subtract channels, modify whatever you want to when the moment strikes you, eat out, order drinks for other people, pay for other peoples gas, buy extra fresh fruit. It's nice.
I am still going to try to brew my own beer this summer. Do not give me that horseshit "God works in mysterious ways" because chance does too. The only thing better than chance is ingenuity, and the only thing more important and better than ingenuity is imagination.
I am trying to stay positive with some success. Frustration and rage are part of being us. Born here? Sure. From here? No. I've missed you. Don't lose touch. If you ever need to talk, do not forget my ear. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.I love you.Iluvu.Ilvu.Iu.U.I.
We'll get this thing sorted out. We have a lot of time ahead of us, like it or not, we do.
Do not quit.
You have the rest of your life to make that decision.
It is opposite day, okay?
It is not wasted time.
Opposite day.
Time becomes more valuable as it accumulates.
Okay. I am
with you. Agreeing to never throw hands up in frustration. Agreeing to ride it as long as there is still track in front. Agreeing to dance as long as there is a beat to dance to, be it from within or without. I am okay with you as long as your are
okay. With me.
///Aesop Rock - (Gun for the Whole Family) ~ i've missed you for a very long time. things got bad. things were getting bad. i had to remember that they weren't as bad as they'd been. we're working toward a utopia of coexistence. we're not there yet, but damn sure we're going to keep on trying while helping lay the ground works and maps and blue prints for the next iteration of our being.
/
//
///Alanis Morissette - (Thank You) ~ passive mobile adaptable armor.
The thought crossed my mind, walking home from the local store to buy smokes and chips. Almost as good as chips and ice cream. When I feel horrible, I prefer cigarettes because they make me feel a little less horrible without making me wish I felt an unsustainable joy derived from ice creams sweet and cooling goodness. If only anyone could always be that smooth, creamy, and soothing all the way down to the belly. The thought crossed my mind after walking away from my truck to go buy some comfit after I noticed my fuel gauge was malfunctioning and realizing the problem's solution was going to cost me at least $120 and 10 to 20 hours of labor at worst and 20 to 40 hours of labor, learning, trial and error, and no dollars at best.
I kept chuckling thinking about how angry I felt. I kept chuckling thinking about reaching under the seat for my hatchet, letting out a bloody war cry, and smashing the wheel to pieces. Only then, ditching the hatchet, pulling and tearing wires out of it with my bare hands until the airbag exploded and shoved one of my closed fistful of wires straight into my face and I basically ended up knocking myself out cold with a rocket powered fist to the dome. Then waking up the next day with a deployed airbag, swollen knuckles, one hell of a headache, and one hell of a fist shaped bruise between my eyes.
Part of the reason for the rage is that I finished fixing another small problem with a steep learning curve and dozens of hours of labor and learning rolled inside only days before. The truck is not falling apart around me, though it feels that way sometimes. The problems are routine problems and I wish I could take it in for routine maintenance instead of d.i.y. desperation weekends. The other part of the reason for the anger is that if I were paid more in line with my actual skills and level of higher learning, I could shrug, say "okay", and rent a car tomorrow while my truck sat in a shop for an afternoon.
Living near the bottom of the middle class is deceptive. Bottom of the middle class, top of the lower class. Living in the region can be deceptive if you have some imagination, some confidence, some helpful friends, and some ingenuity. I have a one bedroom apartment with a closet bath/shower and mini kitchen. If I take away all of the furniture a friend gave, all of the furniture I built, and all of the furniture I found on curbs or being given away by strangers, I have cinder blocks, two folding chairs, one of those university lobby lounge chairs, a sheet of particle board, and an end table. Remove every worldly possession, so to speak, and there'd be a truck parked outside, a few pots and pans and plates, a desktop and pair of monitors, a console, a found tv, a few books and magazines, some shoes and goodwill clothes and multipack tees, some mechanical gadgets, some home and auto repair tools, and a printer and phone.
Imagination allows me to see what can be and holds the hand of ingenuity to find ways to make it happen. Call it humility or call it living within your means or call it mining gold or a hobby, thrift stores are one of the keys to forgetting that you are part of the working poor. The cream of the lower class. Keeping good friendships is a huge part of the puzzle. Without them, my life easily fits inside a 10' by 10' cell with a hole in the ground to eliminate and a spigot somewhere to drink and bathe. Part of the anger stems from those parameters.
I have been heavily detoured. Charging along the roads as quickly as possible in an effort to get back on some kind of track while wasting as few years as possible is frightening. I ask myself what will happen if I miss a black on orange florescent sign letting me know my next turn is coming three turns from now and the sign at the third turn was never erected so commit this one to memory. First and final warning. The reason why it does not feel fair to me is because it is not fair.
I continue to consider the many branches not followed that have lead here, fighting for time to write. I began to believe my father was trying to teach me a lesson about his pain all along and I am finally beginning to understand it, but I will not be able to understand until I am 48 or 50 or whatever his age was when I stopped talking to him. Before that thought grew too large, I remembered he hasn't the subtlety or emotional imagination to allow him to pull that off. I can see where some of his resentment stemmed from. Losing all of the prime years of life and talent at the cutting edge of art, design, and martial arts bad-ass-ery to childcare. Who wouldn't be a lot angry all of the time. Though extremely dissimilar in their divination (did you see what I did there), the results are similar. Cut away opportunities, trim an effective gesture here, clip a nudge there, ....
... I don't know. I do not know why I never got the same support. It would not have taken much. Some days I am alright never knowing. Some days it all comes to a head staring at your broken fuel gauge and doing the right thing and getting the hell out of the car without slamming the door and spinning 180 degrees to put your fist through the window and slash your own tires. The world could've been miles from now.
I could be writing about my third year working as a librarian somewhere and moaning about coding database systems and dealing with angry patrons and making time for dates between writing short stories and working on my two part novel about warfare and keeping up to date on my space opera hopeful crown jewel I'm still searching out an editor for, however the third poetry anthology is going pretty great. I'm tearing out the kitchen in parts on my down time when I get tired of writing and it should be finished in another week or two.
Today felt like opposite day. Loading my truck up with bale after bale of carpet, a refridgerator door, water logged drywall, a cane and broken umbrella, armfuls of empty paint cans, a screen door, and three dozen other pieces of jetsam from the home I'm renovating's previous occupants, it was opposite day. What I was doing should be my hobby. I should be putting that sweat and blood and cuss into my own home, not someone else's. When I go home I should be thinking about what I am going to tear down and visit the hardware store to work on next. When I go home I should not be thinking about what I can write next that can be packed into the time it takes to shut my body down to hit the hammers and brushes and trash bags and saws again.
As much as I love working with my hands, I could find a way to work with my body in the face of an occupation that demanded I not.
"You're poor! You're poor! You're poor! You're poor! Do not be deceived; you're poor!"
Independent life is a horror show and funhouse of mirrors broken and whole. I am staying positive.
What brought me back to a semblance of balance is remembering that the day is still young. Independent life is 5 years old. Five. Five years ago you started stepping outside of your cell. A year or two later you walked down a hallway and into a cafeteria. A few months later you learned there was a yard and no time restrictions. A few months later you found a gate into another yard. It's getting larger and larger as long as you do not screw it all up and have your privileges revoked. All of the time you lost will be compounded by the time you spent finding a way back out.
No one pays you what you're worth unless you have the paper to create the market. Or the portfolio and charisma, in lieu of paper. Portfolio and charisma is an absolute "and" statement. The one and not the other turns into a luck base number system. I will never know my actual value. Maybe that is the worst of it? I will never know if I am being over paid or under paid, valued appropriately or not. The optimist inside, the petitioner, tells me that if and only if we suffer for as much time as we spent pursuing the degree, our penance will be met with paper if and only if we are gracious through our turbulent era. The eros inside whispers about penance through joyful degradation, The musician adds another kick drum, knocking over cymbal stands. The child snaps crayons in half so both hands can draw at once inside the same lines.
It is difficult not to fantasize about getting my degree in the mail, tearing it in half, driving to their house, and suffocating them to death in turn, each by half, with a wad of paper. That would be thoroughly satisfying.
What are you supposed to do when the toys you want to play with are above the grade you are licensed for? What are you supposed to do when what you are allowed to do you can do very well, but the ceiling is opaque and the sounds coming through it are not in a language you can or maybe will ever understand? Maybe I am paid exactly what I am worth. If I have reached my ceiling and given no indication that I am prepared for or understand in the slightest or am equipped for beyond that ceiling, I am paid exactly what I am worth.
That's frightening. Also true. Harrowing.
Sometimes I understand that I'm getting too fixated on true freedom. I get a taste of working something I can enjoy to support the writing habit and expect everything else to fall in line. There's a luck element to it, that I cannot unlock through work or optimism or faith or trust. That operates on its own time table. If I do win the lottery, I will take out full page ads in major cities for the hell of it, but only once.
Part of me continues to say it is not supposed to be this hard to make massive uncertainty and day to day, week to week, at best month to month living a thing of the past. My state is, however, that fragile. At the ripe old age of at least 1/3 dead the best I can do for myself is knowing I have at least a month to figure out a new lowline. Fear the high lines because you know a low line is around the corner... ....what to do when you are following low lines? High lines have to be engaged. My spider sense is not tingling. Shake the wrong tree and a warship mine may fall out of it, let alone a tank or soldier sized one. The other story of America. Every body wants to be a cat. If you have enough money you can do whatever you want to. Not that much money. I mean enough money to swap cars, or pick up and move, or add and subtract clothing, or change lighting, or paint colors, flip what you walk on, change shoes when you feel like it, add and subtract channels, modify whatever you want to when the moment strikes you, eat out, order drinks for other people, pay for other peoples gas, buy extra fresh fruit. It's nice.
I am still going to try to brew my own beer this summer. Do not give me that horseshit "God works in mysterious ways" because chance does too. The only thing better than chance is ingenuity, and the only thing more important and better than ingenuity is imagination.
I am trying to stay positive with some success. Frustration and rage are part of being us. Born here? Sure. From here? No. I've missed you. Don't lose touch. If you ever need to talk, do not forget my ear. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.I love you.Iluvu.Ilvu.Iu.U.I.
We'll get this thing sorted out. We have a lot of time ahead of us, like it or not, we do.
Do not quit.
You have the rest of your life to make that decision.
It is opposite day, okay?
It is not wasted time.
Opposite day.
Time becomes more valuable as it accumulates.
Okay. I am
with you. Agreeing to never throw hands up in frustration. Agreeing to ride it as long as there is still track in front. Agreeing to dance as long as there is a beat to dance to, be it from within or without. I am okay with you as long as your are
okay. With me.
///Aesop Rock - (Gun for the Whole Family) ~ i've missed you for a very long time. things got bad. things were getting bad. i had to remember that they weren't as bad as they'd been. we're working toward a utopia of coexistence. we're not there yet, but damn sure we're going to keep on trying while helping lay the ground works and maps and blue prints for the next iteration of our being.
/
//
///Alanis Morissette - (Thank You) ~ passive mobile adaptable armor.
5/16/15
The Power of Discovery
Learning new things changes everything. Resets the clock. Burns a bible. Learning new things resets the clock and burns the bible containing everything there is and ever will be to know about living.
The power of discovery changes lives. Changes stations. Changes base mathematics. Changes chemical interactions. Discovery revises everything and rips the futures to shreds. Any futures. All futures. Discovery stops time and shatters it like plate sugar.
The power of discovery is never to be underestimated or unaccounted for. It is impossible to plan for, compensate for, adjust a reticle for. The longer you live, the higher the power of discovery's power rises. Perhaps.
Even so, the power of discovery will bring you back to life, no matter how dead in the pool you think you are. No matter how fluent and fluid and deft you think you are in the sea of automation. You are alive.
///Fatboy Slim - "Praise You"
The power of discovery changes lives. Changes stations. Changes base mathematics. Changes chemical interactions. Discovery revises everything and rips the futures to shreds. Any futures. All futures. Discovery stops time and shatters it like plate sugar.
The power of discovery is never to be underestimated or unaccounted for. It is impossible to plan for, compensate for, adjust a reticle for. The longer you live, the higher the power of discovery's power rises. Perhaps.
Even so, the power of discovery will bring you back to life, no matter how dead in the pool you think you are. No matter how fluent and fluid and deft you think you are in the sea of automation. You are alive.
///Fatboy Slim - "Praise You"
5/9/15
Less Than Stellar Habits
I've developed the habit of not breathing while I'm driving. Cruising down Allegheny boulevard beside the river with a ton of straightaways, I noticed it. My right hand resting on the stick shift started to go numb. That was when I realized I wasn't breathing. That was also when I sucked a breath in at 45 miles per hour on a two lane with a rumble strip. It's really hard not to process space and time as opportunities to wreck and die. I'm trying to unlearn it. Breathing is very important, especially while driving. I'm not scared of many things. I thought I'd conquered my fear of the road once I started whipping my horse, but I hadn't. I have been holding my breath since all this time whenever situations got even remotely hairy. It makes me a worse driver, not a more cautious one. Constant silent panic that locks up a body. The world is terrifying at speed. But I love speed. But it's terrifying. But it's gorgeous. Wrestling with circumfact.... am I going to die in a flaming ball of twisted metal? Ignore the landing lights. They are not landing lights! Oooh tunnel vision. Stick your head out of the window and suck it in. Canyon run. Someday soon. Don't go too heavy on the gas. I want driving to be fun again.
///Hotchip - "You Ride, We Ride, In My Ride"
///Hotchip - "You Ride, We Ride, In My Ride"
9/2/14
A Brief Return to B6
After the diagnosis there was a lot of disbelief before understanding that I am wired differently and there is nothing that can be done about it besides modification. Modifying my physiology and the chains that come with modifying. Keeping schedules and junk and folding money into paying for medications and things and paying for visits to psychiatrists. You can't spell psychiatrist without tryst.
I'm golden. Understanding how I'm different was very difficult. I still don't fully comprehend it. I'm not okay with being different. Expectations change a lot. Do you want an exception or not? Yes, we do, but we do not because we are efforting being a part of common society. Aye yo, check it out, here's the baseline: getting exceptions makes us softer and enables if what we want is to be fully assimilated. When we wreck it's hard to deal with because whatever it was we did made perfect sense to us. To you, it's grounds for divorce.
And yep, my phone is officially broken. The worst part about the diagnosis, the initial one, was my ignorance. Let's keep this tight and short, but not to the point of complications.
I hated my psychiatrist. I still do. I know we are long passed the point of forgetting, but I have not forgotten him. He has forgotten me though after I lost insurance. Everyone has to get paid. I refuse to check out. I was bold before then, I am more bold now. Capital lock.
Have you got my back? I've got yours. I tried to smash my skull apart on the side of the police car when I first got reigned in. When I realized I had to reign myself in the morning after and they explained what I tried to do when they were putting me inside the squad car. And it's alright now. I'm not angry or mad. They're different things. Mad is angry without reasoning. Mad dog. Shoot him down. Angry dog... alright, he has reason still. I am neither mad nor angry.
After the diagnosis I had no idea where I could possibly go. It was a true diagnosis and I have to lie out of the ass to avoid internment again. After the diagnosis and hearing what it would cost to make me better, literally hundreds of dollars per month (and hearing too that the trial period ends, hence the name "trial period" until they get the milligrams right) and knowing what I was bound to make... it's like being stuck with a home you can't actually pay for and you cannot move either. You cannot pull up sticks and pick a new lot. It was terrifying. I had no idea where I could possibly go, so I decided to move off grid. No meds. No pills. Just force. True force.
Sometimes thing come apart a lot. Sometimes control does not talk back to you no matter how many signals you send out, out of reflex. If I could afford it, I would go. Easily and quietly, I would go. Let's go though, and keep it brief.
Back to basics. I know I need help. It's part of what I am working for. Why I go to work everyday. Start your day group was nice. It was excellent. I do not want to go back there. I am damn near 30 years old and I do not belong there. I know who I am. I have to work harder and as time increases I know I have to work harder yet and I am okay with that. I'm not and will never be a made man. I am willing to work and that's something! Diagnosis is not, I will prove it to you, ever a death sentence.
///Minamina Goodsong - "First Movement"
I'm golden. Understanding how I'm different was very difficult. I still don't fully comprehend it. I'm not okay with being different. Expectations change a lot. Do you want an exception or not? Yes, we do, but we do not because we are efforting being a part of common society. Aye yo, check it out, here's the baseline: getting exceptions makes us softer and enables if what we want is to be fully assimilated. When we wreck it's hard to deal with because whatever it was we did made perfect sense to us. To you, it's grounds for divorce.
And yep, my phone is officially broken. The worst part about the diagnosis, the initial one, was my ignorance. Let's keep this tight and short, but not to the point of complications.
I hated my psychiatrist. I still do. I know we are long passed the point of forgetting, but I have not forgotten him. He has forgotten me though after I lost insurance. Everyone has to get paid. I refuse to check out. I was bold before then, I am more bold now. Capital lock.
Have you got my back? I've got yours. I tried to smash my skull apart on the side of the police car when I first got reigned in. When I realized I had to reign myself in the morning after and they explained what I tried to do when they were putting me inside the squad car. And it's alright now. I'm not angry or mad. They're different things. Mad is angry without reasoning. Mad dog. Shoot him down. Angry dog... alright, he has reason still. I am neither mad nor angry.
After the diagnosis I had no idea where I could possibly go. It was a true diagnosis and I have to lie out of the ass to avoid internment again. After the diagnosis and hearing what it would cost to make me better, literally hundreds of dollars per month (and hearing too that the trial period ends, hence the name "trial period" until they get the milligrams right) and knowing what I was bound to make... it's like being stuck with a home you can't actually pay for and you cannot move either. You cannot pull up sticks and pick a new lot. It was terrifying. I had no idea where I could possibly go, so I decided to move off grid. No meds. No pills. Just force. True force.
Sometimes thing come apart a lot. Sometimes control does not talk back to you no matter how many signals you send out, out of reflex. If I could afford it, I would go. Easily and quietly, I would go. Let's go though, and keep it brief.
Back to basics. I know I need help. It's part of what I am working for. Why I go to work everyday. Start your day group was nice. It was excellent. I do not want to go back there. I am damn near 30 years old and I do not belong there. I know who I am. I have to work harder and as time increases I know I have to work harder yet and I am okay with that. I'm not and will never be a made man. I am willing to work and that's something! Diagnosis is not, I will prove it to you, ever a death sentence.
///Minamina Goodsong - "First Movement"
3/17/14
Concepts and Compulsions (the third star on the right)
There was a definite shift from the factory perspective to the machine level perspective. I'm not sure exactly when it happened and I do think it was a shift in the correct direction. It was a shift that granted more personhood, more agency, more personality to what is continuing. Obviously the factory still exists and maybe not as obviously the dreaming door is still there near it's basement and used frequently, but not documented as thoroughly as I would like, but that's a matter of preference and amplitude.
The idea of them being up in an office having meetings without me and being forced to listen in to get news of what direction the committee was going grated on me pretty hard and I was getting very upset about not being included on their decisions so I am taking some agency back because I have to live here too and what they make affects me immediately as soon as it leaves the factory doors because I am the consumer primary and the keeper and owner. The deed's in my name. Just saying. I can't have them wrecking up the place and deciding when and where they want to work inside the building and the child is going to do what he will, and I can't keep stopping everything to go look for him (which is easy to say because he's right in front of me now and he won't hold my hand, but I've got his pinky and his pain tolerance is nowhere near mine and it doesn't need fixing or adjustment, it just needs held), but I will because I can't keep watch all of the time and he knows when to sneak out better than I know when to check on him.
I took the map of the warehouse and exploded it. Took the map of the iron works and exploded it into pieces and came up with a better way to organize and run diagnostics on its ability to function on it's own. Not off any grid, but function as a thing properly connected and fed by mainlines. The concept was lurking in the back of my mind and took a back seat to the foundry, the assembly line, but the stock house allowed far too much space for engineering weapons and tools that built better tools for building war machines. I'm still trying to get the spacing right. Getting to a point where we know what all of the parts are doing at all times is very difficult and throws error messages and blows out the lights sometimes. I would like to believe I am getting close to a master approach.
I've adopted a more mechanical concept. The electric layer and the machine layer. All into a sandwich. It's like a massive circuit board with steam punk getting the outside layer to talk to the inside layer. Communications are still a little bit shoddy, but I think I'm getting the response times right. Or at least more correct and that's more steps in a direction so I'm comfortable with not drowning. Control itself has not been an issue except in extreme cases or cases that I would call extreme sensory nodes. Times and instances of overwhelming input from the outside surface that over powered the gears ability to translate it into valid input to the inside surface. And then it just goes harmonic spitting back weird settings to the machine layer that does not know how to place it in three dimensions that makes sense to the surface and then the surface burps up colors and lights and structures and the entire layout of the city is completely off and the gps sends some bastard down a sidewalk that ends at a cornfield because that road was paved over fifteen years ago and broken up ten years ago and filled in and sodded and there've been 9 annual fairs there and the whole thing smells like carnies and animal poop vaguely to this day.
So now it's all a circuit and machine. Taking Occam to it to a degree. Keep it simple, stupid. It's not a committee, it's a group of parts, pieces, and controllers and they work together at all times. Yes, not all on the same page, but they are in constant communication despite what I thought before. They are in constant communication and the child is a hardware addition with poor pin alignment so as he comes and goes and is present or not, he may not always be detected by the system proper, but he cannot be confirmed or denied. I still do wonder where he goes when he does not register. I wonder if he is listening or not. Prick. WHERE ARE YOU?
Anyway, I can't allow myself to be consumed with his location. I can, but I would prefer not to. I do. We love it when he's around. God, what is he doing now? WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU, I KNOW YOU'RE LISTENING. I'll wait. It's all I can do. All any of us can do. I'll hunt him down. 'S'cool. But basically I took the time to rearrange components into a different, not necessarily new, configuration that allows for greater mobility and flexibility and diminishes destructive passion. Never again. Not yet, anyway. That plan is under double keyed authentication, minimum.
I've gotten away from paper again. I don't know how to feel about it because it's not pure laziness. It's a distaste for the purity to an extant and a feeling of reversion to another extant. I'm not sure where or if the two can be balanced or with what. You must commit to one or the other or both will suffer? No. There is dual dedication. I believe it is a problem of efficiencies and developing a left hand where the right hand has become the left and the left the right and I am partially consumed with teaching the right to do the things the off hand was forced to do. I am okay with that. That is a matter of more practice only, not malfunction. Or to put it another way, no abandonment of duties inside the factory. No idle mills, simply users unaccustomed to their new devices and methods.
I thought back to when I knew something was off with my upbringing. It happened back in elementary school when Mrs. Hymenlokuvar was rubbing my back in kindergarten when I ran from the station wagon, when I was sure it was okay to run after my mom and pop pulled away, all the way to my seat in the classroom. It is one of the few childhood (childhood referencing 2nd grade to birth) memories I can recall that did not end in violence. She rubbed my back for what felt like minutes, but was probably seconds. I remember her being very weirded out that I could show up for class at table three with a healthy sweat going. That was when I began to feel something was off. I liked it though, I remember that. I remember the soothing nature to it and how her hand felt like it was sucking heat off of me so I could run at a much better temperature and it felt terrific.
When I was sure something was off was when I ... was washing dishes at the sink on Taylor street and my parents were going at it about something I cannot remember. Something about Barnabus. Or was his name Barnaby. I don't know. He was the upstairs neighbor and we weren't allowed to play with his kids or something, what I do know, regardless of the details is hearing my dad say "he's listening to us" and then them two leaving the room. It was strange. I wanted to leave the kitchen too, but I had my assignment. Learning all of the creaks in the floor so you could get to the bathroom without disrupting them when you had to pee at night and couldn't hold it or when you wanted to talk to your sisters and you had a whole house to navigate in the dark without bumping into anything too loud.
There is some humor thinking back to how hard I idolized kids when I first broke in to college. "Oh my God, you assholes know everything!" It's a little bit of time compression helping that out. They didn't know everything. Not even close. Well traveled, well heeled? Sure. Capable, adaptable, thorough, and finicky? Sure. Closed and open minded by turns? Also, yes. As time grows longer and leaps of experience compress, it becomes increasingly clear that my peers are just that and no more. No apotheosis necessary. Appreciation yes. I am not just like you, but I will tell you what I fucking am. Closer to your know how than I have any business being given what we are and what you are and where we came from. Fuck you, that's "swagger" and tooth. What's four years to you? I know what it is to me. I wish I knew what it would be to me now eight years ago, though.
I'm a fine pilot, if I may say. I was considering running someone down walking on the side of Will Flynn motorway, but I didn't. Mostly because I was too far from home to be sure I could get home without being pulled over for questioning about the dent in my windshield and the spritz on my hood. Sometimes you have to make business decisions. Plus, I don't have money to get my windshield fixed. That's just silly money management policy!
I embraced metaphor with all my heart through highschool. I think that's when communication fault lines could not be written off anymore as being shy or quiet. I just didn't know how to say it. Didn't know an effective agent to be my stand in for the person between the person that says what I want to say for me. That position was vacant for so long.
Don't mind me if I get weak kneed with words. It's a joy I couldn't experience for a very long time and I am suspect to abuse it.
I wonder sometimes how my Myspace friend DCScompton is doing in Australia. I loved talking to him. Since the migration several years ago we lost touch and I look for him now and then to see if he's still kicking. I would love to move to Canberra. I don't think I would adjust well or I would slot in perfectly. America is not overrated at all, but I think we would have made excellent dual adventurers. I remember asking him about what the compton in his screen name was about and I've been miffed for years because I can't remember. He was a blast to read, but he jumped ship too and somewhere in migrating computers I lost the note that had the address of his page in it, among other things.
Wonder what my therapist is doing? I do too. Jeff is a good guy. He meant well. I do wonder how much of it was general altruism and how much was actual understanding. I never asked him how he was doing or about his family, but I think it was a lot of unspoken understanding that it was none of my business and absolutely off limits for reasons we both knew.
I don't worry about him, but I do wonder about what he kept off the table and why. Why didn't he offer too? Was it because I had to be there? And why did he turn me in that day? Was it concern or was it a matter more akin to protecting job security. I don't think he ever really trusted us. Which is fine. Understandable. I have to understand that we didn't really know each other know each other. He could have, though. I wouldn't have rejected it.
The tracking signal cuts both ways. A ping back is a ping back. Until the signal cuts out. The keys jingling on your pant loop let you know you are traversing reality and they also let reality know that you are crossing space and you have to be prepared to accept that your recognition is also the key not only to an ignition, but to a gate.
It's the third star on the right, straight on 'til morning, can't miss it.
///Steve Miller Band - "The Joker" some people call me a lot of things. there's power in knowing your own name.
The idea of them being up in an office having meetings without me and being forced to listen in to get news of what direction the committee was going grated on me pretty hard and I was getting very upset about not being included on their decisions so I am taking some agency back because I have to live here too and what they make affects me immediately as soon as it leaves the factory doors because I am the consumer primary and the keeper and owner. The deed's in my name. Just saying. I can't have them wrecking up the place and deciding when and where they want to work inside the building and the child is going to do what he will, and I can't keep stopping everything to go look for him (which is easy to say because he's right in front of me now and he won't hold my hand, but I've got his pinky and his pain tolerance is nowhere near mine and it doesn't need fixing or adjustment, it just needs held), but I will because I can't keep watch all of the time and he knows when to sneak out better than I know when to check on him.
I took the map of the warehouse and exploded it. Took the map of the iron works and exploded it into pieces and came up with a better way to organize and run diagnostics on its ability to function on it's own. Not off any grid, but function as a thing properly connected and fed by mainlines. The concept was lurking in the back of my mind and took a back seat to the foundry, the assembly line, but the stock house allowed far too much space for engineering weapons and tools that built better tools for building war machines. I'm still trying to get the spacing right. Getting to a point where we know what all of the parts are doing at all times is very difficult and throws error messages and blows out the lights sometimes. I would like to believe I am getting close to a master approach.
I've adopted a more mechanical concept. The electric layer and the machine layer. All into a sandwich. It's like a massive circuit board with steam punk getting the outside layer to talk to the inside layer. Communications are still a little bit shoddy, but I think I'm getting the response times right. Or at least more correct and that's more steps in a direction so I'm comfortable with not drowning. Control itself has not been an issue except in extreme cases or cases that I would call extreme sensory nodes. Times and instances of overwhelming input from the outside surface that over powered the gears ability to translate it into valid input to the inside surface. And then it just goes harmonic spitting back weird settings to the machine layer that does not know how to place it in three dimensions that makes sense to the surface and then the surface burps up colors and lights and structures and the entire layout of the city is completely off and the gps sends some bastard down a sidewalk that ends at a cornfield because that road was paved over fifteen years ago and broken up ten years ago and filled in and sodded and there've been 9 annual fairs there and the whole thing smells like carnies and animal poop vaguely to this day.
So now it's all a circuit and machine. Taking Occam to it to a degree. Keep it simple, stupid. It's not a committee, it's a group of parts, pieces, and controllers and they work together at all times. Yes, not all on the same page, but they are in constant communication despite what I thought before. They are in constant communication and the child is a hardware addition with poor pin alignment so as he comes and goes and is present or not, he may not always be detected by the system proper, but he cannot be confirmed or denied. I still do wonder where he goes when he does not register. I wonder if he is listening or not. Prick. WHERE ARE YOU?
Anyway, I can't allow myself to be consumed with his location. I can, but I would prefer not to. I do. We love it when he's around. God, what is he doing now? WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU, I KNOW YOU'RE LISTENING. I'll wait. It's all I can do. All any of us can do. I'll hunt him down. 'S'cool. But basically I took the time to rearrange components into a different, not necessarily new, configuration that allows for greater mobility and flexibility and diminishes destructive passion. Never again. Not yet, anyway. That plan is under double keyed authentication, minimum.
I've gotten away from paper again. I don't know how to feel about it because it's not pure laziness. It's a distaste for the purity to an extant and a feeling of reversion to another extant. I'm not sure where or if the two can be balanced or with what. You must commit to one or the other or both will suffer? No. There is dual dedication. I believe it is a problem of efficiencies and developing a left hand where the right hand has become the left and the left the right and I am partially consumed with teaching the right to do the things the off hand was forced to do. I am okay with that. That is a matter of more practice only, not malfunction. Or to put it another way, no abandonment of duties inside the factory. No idle mills, simply users unaccustomed to their new devices and methods.
I thought back to when I knew something was off with my upbringing. It happened back in elementary school when Mrs. Hymenlokuvar was rubbing my back in kindergarten when I ran from the station wagon, when I was sure it was okay to run after my mom and pop pulled away, all the way to my seat in the classroom. It is one of the few childhood (childhood referencing 2nd grade to birth) memories I can recall that did not end in violence. She rubbed my back for what felt like minutes, but was probably seconds. I remember her being very weirded out that I could show up for class at table three with a healthy sweat going. That was when I began to feel something was off. I liked it though, I remember that. I remember the soothing nature to it and how her hand felt like it was sucking heat off of me so I could run at a much better temperature and it felt terrific.
When I was sure something was off was when I ... was washing dishes at the sink on Taylor street and my parents were going at it about something I cannot remember. Something about Barnabus. Or was his name Barnaby. I don't know. He was the upstairs neighbor and we weren't allowed to play with his kids or something, what I do know, regardless of the details is hearing my dad say "he's listening to us" and then them two leaving the room. It was strange. I wanted to leave the kitchen too, but I had my assignment. Learning all of the creaks in the floor so you could get to the bathroom without disrupting them when you had to pee at night and couldn't hold it or when you wanted to talk to your sisters and you had a whole house to navigate in the dark without bumping into anything too loud.
There is some humor thinking back to how hard I idolized kids when I first broke in to college. "Oh my God, you assholes know everything!" It's a little bit of time compression helping that out. They didn't know everything. Not even close. Well traveled, well heeled? Sure. Capable, adaptable, thorough, and finicky? Sure. Closed and open minded by turns? Also, yes. As time grows longer and leaps of experience compress, it becomes increasingly clear that my peers are just that and no more. No apotheosis necessary. Appreciation yes. I am not just like you, but I will tell you what I fucking am. Closer to your know how than I have any business being given what we are and what you are and where we came from. Fuck you, that's "swagger" and tooth. What's four years to you? I know what it is to me. I wish I knew what it would be to me now eight years ago, though.
I'm a fine pilot, if I may say. I was considering running someone down walking on the side of Will Flynn motorway, but I didn't. Mostly because I was too far from home to be sure I could get home without being pulled over for questioning about the dent in my windshield and the spritz on my hood. Sometimes you have to make business decisions. Plus, I don't have money to get my windshield fixed. That's just silly money management policy!
I embraced metaphor with all my heart through highschool. I think that's when communication fault lines could not be written off anymore as being shy or quiet. I just didn't know how to say it. Didn't know an effective agent to be my stand in for the person between the person that says what I want to say for me. That position was vacant for so long.
Don't mind me if I get weak kneed with words. It's a joy I couldn't experience for a very long time and I am suspect to abuse it.
I wonder sometimes how my Myspace friend DCScompton is doing in Australia. I loved talking to him. Since the migration several years ago we lost touch and I look for him now and then to see if he's still kicking. I would love to move to Canberra. I don't think I would adjust well or I would slot in perfectly. America is not overrated at all, but I think we would have made excellent dual adventurers. I remember asking him about what the compton in his screen name was about and I've been miffed for years because I can't remember. He was a blast to read, but he jumped ship too and somewhere in migrating computers I lost the note that had the address of his page in it, among other things.
Wonder what my therapist is doing? I do too. Jeff is a good guy. He meant well. I do wonder how much of it was general altruism and how much was actual understanding. I never asked him how he was doing or about his family, but I think it was a lot of unspoken understanding that it was none of my business and absolutely off limits for reasons we both knew.
I don't worry about him, but I do wonder about what he kept off the table and why. Why didn't he offer too? Was it because I had to be there? And why did he turn me in that day? Was it concern or was it a matter more akin to protecting job security. I don't think he ever really trusted us. Which is fine. Understandable. I have to understand that we didn't really know each other know each other. He could have, though. I wouldn't have rejected it.
The tracking signal cuts both ways. A ping back is a ping back. Until the signal cuts out. The keys jingling on your pant loop let you know you are traversing reality and they also let reality know that you are crossing space and you have to be prepared to accept that your recognition is also the key not only to an ignition, but to a gate.
It's the third star on the right, straight on 'til morning, can't miss it.
///Steve Miller Band - "The Joker" some people call me a lot of things. there's power in knowing your own name.
10/14/13
Coming Back
Your customer service representative will be with you in a moment. Please stand by. We are aware that you are having some problems with your account and we very much enjoy your business and you are a valued customer. Please hold while the next available representative ...
finishes their shit. I cant slam my phone on the coffee table hard enough without breaking it. I hate dealing with people. I love dealing with people. Nothing happened to me, everything happened to me.
Please hold. I don't know what songs you like, but here, have this one. It's an elevator and a stabilizer so enjoy it for a minute while we talk about your request and jump around it for a while and weasel. Okay, that's fine. I'm glad I chabbed up on something to munch. I'll hold. Please, continue. It's not like I had something to grind on today. Not at all. I'm just blowing in the wind, but okay. Please hold, please hold.
We are experiencing some technical difficulties, but here, this is the weather for the next nine days and 22 hours. Here's the news. In case you were wondering, nothing has changed so here's more of it. Smile a little? Here's more junk. Here's what time it is and here are some pundits and here is some humor. Here's some tosh and some cartman. Here's bart and toys turned into cartoons and cartoons turned into toys. Here's PBS and here's NOVA and here's are you being swerved.
Enjoy. Here's ducks and hitler and dams and bridges and pawn shops and tits and dicks and marriages and food and chores and nannies and dads and children and scooby fucking doo and courage and beers and beers and beers and liquor and shampoo and lipstick and gloss and appliances and payment plans and retirement and cars and shrimp and outings and beef and socks and shirts and underwear and
I can't take it anymore. I can't eat anything anymore. I used to starve myself because I was paranoid about my weight and now I can't eat anymore because everything is getting shoved down my throat. I can't do it. I can do it. Everytime they ask me if I want to go out to eat I just fucking can't and I don't know how to explain it. I can't eat anymore! Fuck. I'm sorry, I want to and would love to, but I cannot fucking afford it anymore and on top of that I cannot digest it. Fuck. Sorry. No. No mores. Can't do it.
Do you want to go to the bar? No! Do you want grab lunch? No! I'm buying some food at Burger King, do you want anything? No! No! No1 Stop asking. Please! At the same time, though, I run headlong into a problem. How will you see them when they're not eating or barring or ... it burns!!! It's not fair at all. I'm trooping it and trying to be friends and I'm literally getting eaten.
However, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I understand that. At what cost? At what fucking cost? I'm coming back and I know I love to laugh and I know things can be easy, but I want what I wants and it's not expensive at all and I don't get why everyone is charging so much sometimes when all I want is a scratch off. Jesus. If I can navigate a day, alright. Sweet. Stop stomping on me. I didn't want a fight, but hey, you got one on your hands now. It turns me inside out sometimes trying to break down differences in understanding. Yes, no one asked me to. I get that too.
But if we're going to live on the same planet we better be seeing something close to eye to eye because otherwise you or I got's to go. I've missed so many people for so long I just can't do it anymore. I've accidentally estranged and shoved away some people too. People that I couldn't afford to lose, but I was so wrapped up in being myself I forgot that the planet is a shared one. I forgot about their knuckles and their dreams and tore my skin up and I'm just now getting back.
Pluto is great. It's a fine place to stay. Unlike New York, you can actually Winter over there and not get sick of yourself and population. I don't care about being the first man on Venus or Titan, but I would volunteer to go if only to be alone and reasonably so. Not needing a reason to have to be there. Meltdown much? I know I have a brain made of glass. That's probably why she moved on. Falling asleep in class wasn't an action as much as a symptom. I wasn't born this morning, but I did stay up all night.
Shadow people. Courage the cowardly dog. My favorite color is still yellow. I'll get there. I'm coming back. Out of orbit and nothing but gravity. This is not my planet, but I live on it sometimes. This is not my jail, but I walk in it sometimes.
///DJ? Acucrack - "Time For You to Leave" ... turn the radio on, turn the radio off but you never never... I don't know if thems the lyrics but this song is close to my heart.
finishes their shit. I cant slam my phone on the coffee table hard enough without breaking it. I hate dealing with people. I love dealing with people. Nothing happened to me, everything happened to me.
Please hold. I don't know what songs you like, but here, have this one. It's an elevator and a stabilizer so enjoy it for a minute while we talk about your request and jump around it for a while and weasel. Okay, that's fine. I'm glad I chabbed up on something to munch. I'll hold. Please, continue. It's not like I had something to grind on today. Not at all. I'm just blowing in the wind, but okay. Please hold, please hold.
We are experiencing some technical difficulties, but here, this is the weather for the next nine days and 22 hours. Here's the news. In case you were wondering, nothing has changed so here's more of it. Smile a little? Here's more junk. Here's what time it is and here are some pundits and here is some humor. Here's some tosh and some cartman. Here's bart and toys turned into cartoons and cartoons turned into toys. Here's PBS and here's NOVA and here's are you being swerved.
Enjoy. Here's ducks and hitler and dams and bridges and pawn shops and tits and dicks and marriages and food and chores and nannies and dads and children and scooby fucking doo and courage and beers and beers and beers and liquor and shampoo and lipstick and gloss and appliances and payment plans and retirement and cars and shrimp and outings and beef and socks and shirts and underwear and
I can't take it anymore. I can't eat anything anymore. I used to starve myself because I was paranoid about my weight and now I can't eat anymore because everything is getting shoved down my throat. I can't do it. I can do it. Everytime they ask me if I want to go out to eat I just fucking can't and I don't know how to explain it. I can't eat anymore! Fuck. I'm sorry, I want to and would love to, but I cannot fucking afford it anymore and on top of that I cannot digest it. Fuck. Sorry. No. No mores. Can't do it.
Do you want to go to the bar? No! Do you want grab lunch? No! I'm buying some food at Burger King, do you want anything? No! No! No1 Stop asking. Please! At the same time, though, I run headlong into a problem. How will you see them when they're not eating or barring or ... it burns!!! It's not fair at all. I'm trooping it and trying to be friends and I'm literally getting eaten.
However, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I understand that. At what cost? At what fucking cost? I'm coming back and I know I love to laugh and I know things can be easy, but I want what I wants and it's not expensive at all and I don't get why everyone is charging so much sometimes when all I want is a scratch off. Jesus. If I can navigate a day, alright. Sweet. Stop stomping on me. I didn't want a fight, but hey, you got one on your hands now. It turns me inside out sometimes trying to break down differences in understanding. Yes, no one asked me to. I get that too.
But if we're going to live on the same planet we better be seeing something close to eye to eye because otherwise you or I got's to go. I've missed so many people for so long I just can't do it anymore. I've accidentally estranged and shoved away some people too. People that I couldn't afford to lose, but I was so wrapped up in being myself I forgot that the planet is a shared one. I forgot about their knuckles and their dreams and tore my skin up and I'm just now getting back.
Pluto is great. It's a fine place to stay. Unlike New York, you can actually Winter over there and not get sick of yourself and population. I don't care about being the first man on Venus or Titan, but I would volunteer to go if only to be alone and reasonably so. Not needing a reason to have to be there. Meltdown much? I know I have a brain made of glass. That's probably why she moved on. Falling asleep in class wasn't an action as much as a symptom. I wasn't born this morning, but I did stay up all night.
Shadow people. Courage the cowardly dog. My favorite color is still yellow. I'll get there. I'm coming back. Out of orbit and nothing but gravity. This is not my planet, but I live on it sometimes. This is not my jail, but I walk in it sometimes.
///DJ? Acucrack - "Time For You to Leave" ... turn the radio on, turn the radio off but you never never... I don't know if thems the lyrics but this song is close to my heart.
8/4/13
Change, Other Peoples Clothes, Top Down Sun Up, and Attack
I think that's how I got good at defense. Attacking is an entirely different bag. Attack, attack, attack! Get on it! I don't do call and response all that well. I do response. A lot of my growing up and formative whatevers was response, not call. I was raised not to call and it's been a hedge maze trying to get out of it. When I do call it's usually over top of what I was calling for and it's blunderbussy. Killing a fly with a hammer instead of a swatter and then I have to fix the hole in the wall left behind. It's been fun learning though, learning how to call the right way when calls need to be made and learning that response shouldn't be the only way to integrate myself into lives, because they have lives too and waiting until you're screaming and bleeding out of the eyes is no way to go about inserting yourself into conversation. I still need distance in a bad way, but a good way. It keeps them safe and it keeps me safe from misunderstandings and not so shuffle crowds and that's a good thing. The fewer the things flowing in the better I can handle, and then it's not a frag of choice. I hate getting hooked on forks. STOP GIVING ME CHOICES WITHOUT CHANCES TO BREAK UP BAD ONES! That's my only qualm with the United States of Aye Merica. The land of one time opportunity for too many of us. I'd swing less opportunity for more chances any day.
If I could go back in time I wouldn't punch myself in the face or shake myself by the shoulders. I'd kiss me. Hard and furious and little me would be like "what the fuck, man!" and then I'd tell him "it gets rougher, harder, longer, and more ridiculous. You're going to fire a staple through your hand by accident and it's going to suck, but you're going to try to get out of work early and it's going to be one of the worst days post parents that you'll hate. It'll heal up alright and nearly seamless and your boss will be proud of you for getting things done, but you're gonna wish you took more time on the project. Just sayin'. You're gonna hate it for about two minutes, but you're gonna kiss the blood and move on." Poof! Time traveling me peaces out and little me scratches his eyebrow and mumbles "no way."
I'm wearing other people clothes from goodwill. They're great! Half the stuff I have on makes me wonder what could provoke someone to give them up. I haven't bought myself a jacket in a long time. It's been years and I hadn't really thought about it until now. It was always my mother, well, not always. Sometimes my dad would pass me one. I still miss my Bell Atlantic jacket sometimes. That thing was the tits. Furry pockets, double layered body and a knit collar. Loved it. Don't love how I got it (from my father, I hate saying that, but it's true. I hate thinking about "I came from that"s cuz it makes me sick and it probably shouldn't, still heated, still gotdamn heated, it's not gonna die, but I actually want it to. If he wants to apologize, my terms are teeth. Not all of them. But give me one of your kanines and apology accepted. Until then, and only because you outright refused me.... twice, til death), but that jacket was everything you could want in a jacket. Nice and tough outer with ... aw, it's not leather... trying to think of the word... the outer was made of the stuff good work pants are made of. The cuffs were knit too, just like the collar. And you can't beat the Bell Atlantic logo on the chest. So good!
I'm wearing other peoples clothes and it feels nice. It feels right. It feels good to have new things that I bought on my own with my own tastes instead of for all kinds of purpose. Purposeless clothing rocks. Why do you have that jacket? No reasons beyond my own. It tickles me to say that. Everything has been so purpose driven toward survival and managing damage and matching in, but this time, this jacket isn't about matching in or history or family or learning how to run with the silverfish, it's just about wearing what I want to wear. The thing about goodwill though, the darker side, is wondering about if some of my stuff is going to end up at one when for one reason or another, cut short, or left standing still, my things get out of time. Is someone going to be eyeing my baseball jersey who also loves the number 78? I'm not mad about it, but I wish I could meet them so we could talk about our affinity for 78 and how it came about.
Top downing it. I tried to go ground up and I couldn't provoke myself to make the change to oemfail, so I'm taking it from the roof down and it hurts. Thematics don't work backwards no matter how hard you try to grow them that way. I do enjoy the brighter motif. I really do. We're gonna grow the font into a better color and adjust the images, but sometimes you just have to go into a room and sit down in it to begin to understand where it's coming from. The same thing goes for people. You'll never get a good read from afar. Top downing it because I've been boxed out and there is no other option. And I'm okay with that.
I don't like change. Change is stupidly difficult. Sometimes routine will betray you and catch you not paying attention and I think I like that worse. I can be manipulated and gulled and switch backed fairly easily, but I like to think of it as a trade off. A trade off I am willing to take. Unwillingly at times. Taking it though. Brighter and brighter. Years behind and still in meta jail with my fingers through the fence, but making keys.
///Mackelmore - "White Walls" .... lean back... the more I listen to his album the more I enjoy it
If I could go back in time I wouldn't punch myself in the face or shake myself by the shoulders. I'd kiss me. Hard and furious and little me would be like "what the fuck, man!" and then I'd tell him "it gets rougher, harder, longer, and more ridiculous. You're going to fire a staple through your hand by accident and it's going to suck, but you're going to try to get out of work early and it's going to be one of the worst days post parents that you'll hate. It'll heal up alright and nearly seamless and your boss will be proud of you for getting things done, but you're gonna wish you took more time on the project. Just sayin'. You're gonna hate it for about two minutes, but you're gonna kiss the blood and move on." Poof! Time traveling me peaces out and little me scratches his eyebrow and mumbles "no way."
I'm wearing other people clothes from goodwill. They're great! Half the stuff I have on makes me wonder what could provoke someone to give them up. I haven't bought myself a jacket in a long time. It's been years and I hadn't really thought about it until now. It was always my mother, well, not always. Sometimes my dad would pass me one. I still miss my Bell Atlantic jacket sometimes. That thing was the tits. Furry pockets, double layered body and a knit collar. Loved it. Don't love how I got it (from my father, I hate saying that, but it's true. I hate thinking about "I came from that"s cuz it makes me sick and it probably shouldn't, still heated, still gotdamn heated, it's not gonna die, but I actually want it to. If he wants to apologize, my terms are teeth. Not all of them. But give me one of your kanines and apology accepted. Until then, and only because you outright refused me.... twice, til death), but that jacket was everything you could want in a jacket. Nice and tough outer with ... aw, it's not leather... trying to think of the word... the outer was made of the stuff good work pants are made of. The cuffs were knit too, just like the collar. And you can't beat the Bell Atlantic logo on the chest. So good!
I'm wearing other peoples clothes and it feels nice. It feels right. It feels good to have new things that I bought on my own with my own tastes instead of for all kinds of purpose. Purposeless clothing rocks. Why do you have that jacket? No reasons beyond my own. It tickles me to say that. Everything has been so purpose driven toward survival and managing damage and matching in, but this time, this jacket isn't about matching in or history or family or learning how to run with the silverfish, it's just about wearing what I want to wear. The thing about goodwill though, the darker side, is wondering about if some of my stuff is going to end up at one when for one reason or another, cut short, or left standing still, my things get out of time. Is someone going to be eyeing my baseball jersey who also loves the number 78? I'm not mad about it, but I wish I could meet them so we could talk about our affinity for 78 and how it came about.
Top downing it. I tried to go ground up and I couldn't provoke myself to make the change to oemfail, so I'm taking it from the roof down and it hurts. Thematics don't work backwards no matter how hard you try to grow them that way. I do enjoy the brighter motif. I really do. We're gonna grow the font into a better color and adjust the images, but sometimes you just have to go into a room and sit down in it to begin to understand where it's coming from. The same thing goes for people. You'll never get a good read from afar. Top downing it because I've been boxed out and there is no other option. And I'm okay with that.
I don't like change. Change is stupidly difficult. Sometimes routine will betray you and catch you not paying attention and I think I like that worse. I can be manipulated and gulled and switch backed fairly easily, but I like to think of it as a trade off. A trade off I am willing to take. Unwillingly at times. Taking it though. Brighter and brighter. Years behind and still in meta jail with my fingers through the fence, but making keys.
///Mackelmore - "White Walls" .... lean back... the more I listen to his album the more I enjoy it
7/30/13
Growth Is Hard, the Burna
Growth is hard hard hard. I don't like change. Routine is a life saver. Regulation. Having to think about what to wear and what to eat and when and how much and how many layers and what's clean and what's not and the questions mount up so damn fast. Is there gas in the car, is there not, is there enough gas to get to a gas station, is there milk, are there eggs, did you put your socks on before you put shoes on, did you wear a belt, did you need to, are you wearing pants, is your shirt buttoned, tucked, or untucked and should it be. Did you brush your teeth, did you brush your beard, where are your sunglasses, do you need them, did you check the weather, where are your keys, are your cards in your wallet, did you get back to the people who left you messages, did they message you at all, what's your schedule like, do you have a schedule, where's your cereal, do you need more, what's for breakfast, what's for dinner, did you smoke yet, should you be, what's the month budget for it, did you budget, shouldn't you be quitting, did you make time to draw, did you make time to check up on the engine light, did you do laundry, is your stuff in the dryer, did you vacuum the rugs, have you brushed the cats, did you water the garden, where's the coolant you picked up, have you gathered the scattered spare change, where are your shoes, where are the good jeans, did you hang up your good tees, how are the ice trays, did you take out the trash, did you look into buying fans, where are the new fish hooks you bought, who keeps letting their dog poo at the corner of your house, have you checked the mail, where's the other set of keys, where's your good hat, have you changed your water filter, what's the beer situation, did you buy new brushes for work, have you paid your phone bill, when are you changing your tires, have you washed your hair, have you checked your piercings, did you wash your sheets, have you clipped your nails, did you tie your shoes, is there an undershirt beneath your top, have you looked into ... brain explosion.
Routine really is a life saver. I'd kill myself without it. Without routine it is impossible to identify brain shrapnel apart from reality. Impossible to separate the notes of a song from synapse misfires. I haven't been slipping too much and I'm proud of that. I've been doing a good job of managing schizophrenia and delusion. I've been sharp and on my feet enough to know when control was slipping and intelligent enough to understand when a decent time to step back and lock my body in arrived. I'm happy for that. I'm happy that I've been able to not just see my friends and old family, but divide those conversations from the larger dialogues with other people and keep them private. I am happy that the ones without names can be separated from the ones with.
I've been trying to keep ourselves busy in the factory and it's going good. The warehouse is buzzing and everyone's happy and still yapping at each other and it's fantastic. Everyone is accounted for, the first time in a long time. I can't sit on it though. They will start to wander away and then we won't be working together for half a damn.
I've been thinking over the last time I was in the hospital when they brought me in and made me intern myself as a bargain. That night still itches me. Still makes us furious. I didn't do anything wrong that day! I shut my mouth too, but they had us hooked up to a couple machines and I was lying through my teeth the whole time and to this day we're sure my heartbeat gave us up. I stood up and it jumped real hard from rest to joy panic and the doctor winced and I winced and started sweating and everyone started screaming in my ears and I tried to run, but the door was locked from the outside and that's just plain unfair and I got mad. Mad as hell.
Routine is a life saver, though. Do X at Y time. Z comes after. A comes first, followed by B. Sometimes D, but it's okay if C jumps in before D as long as A and B come before and X and Y follow. Without it, without that, things get jumbled and then dreamland starts to bleed into reality and then things I shouldn't say and people who have no business in my circles start to have conversations with people they have no business meeting and then those people start to get mad at us because we've been talking about them behind their backs and once that check is cashed there's no going back on it. Then I get burned because they make me pay and there's no way to explain to them because as hard as I try to explain it to them they don't hear me and I've already gone too far and that's far enough.
Growth is hard. It hurts. Learning what you can and can't do. What I can and cannot do. What is and is not acceptable. More than anything else I want to meet someone who can sit down with me and them and have a good long coffee conversation. I know they're not real, I know they are real. I have to constantly monitor sounds. I have to consistently monitor their footsteps so I know when and whom I'm looking at. It's not fair. It's not fucking fair! I want you in my world. I want you in my shoes so you can understand the kind of ... it's not fucking fair.
I play music so loud so I don't have to hear. I hope I go deaf. I wouldn't mind still having eyes because I love to look at nature. I love looking at nature. Sometimes we hate what I see because they are there always now and it's terrifying and it's gorgeous. Seeing where they've been and we talk about it across fields. Are you hiding from me? You with the- I hate it. I hate it! Are you alone? Did you come alone? No! Not ever! I'm never alone! Do you know what that's like??? Do you know what that's like?????? Get away from me! Stop lying!! Stop lying in my ear!! Just go away!!! It never happens. It never happens like I want it to and I try not to take it out on us. Not to take it out on you. Growth is hard. My dad used to assure me it was just angels and devils talking to me and if I chose the path of loving Jesus I would be able to sort them out and I would know which ones it was because "the Bible tells me so." Goodnight and good luck.
Managing is harder. It's difficult boxing that part of me away. Walling and fencing it off so I can still be a part of the rest of 'merica. Hard not to play into their hands. The whole thing burns to malfeasance. Reciprocal engine with no off button. The only thing you can do is try to avoid putting gas in it. I want new genes. I want new genes. I want new programming. I've been doing good. Little star. Little little skittish star, but I've been doing good. Been doing good with putting words the right way and conversations the right way, and containing, but it's exhausting and it hurts us on the inside parts. It hurts a lot. I want to be alone so badly and I don't know how to get there. I don't know how to get back to good sleep.
It's not about my parents or the violence pushed way too far or relationships with friends or dating or god or medicine. Battling. Don't celebrate the battles, celebrate the war. I want nature to stop talking to me. A billion dollars for silence. A trillion dollars for blindness. That's the wager. Just give me one less eye and blown out ears. Still no guts to do it myself. Take it away from me. Just shut up! Shut the fuck up! Growth is hard! Being adult. Sometimes I wake up and I know I'm still stunted, but inside a giant robot that has capabilities far beyond what my head is prepared to command. I didn't want it, but I know I have to deal with it, continue to learn how to use it to become a part of the rest of the structures or destroy it so it doesn't damage the space it occupies and the rest occupying the same space. It hurts. It hurts a lot. It's confusing to us. I've been doing good though. I want to keep it going. I want to blend in better. I am working on growth, but it's hard as hell.
///Bjork - "Pluto" ... a little bit tired, but brand new...
Routine really is a life saver. I'd kill myself without it. Without routine it is impossible to identify brain shrapnel apart from reality. Impossible to separate the notes of a song from synapse misfires. I haven't been slipping too much and I'm proud of that. I've been doing a good job of managing schizophrenia and delusion. I've been sharp and on my feet enough to know when control was slipping and intelligent enough to understand when a decent time to step back and lock my body in arrived. I'm happy for that. I'm happy that I've been able to not just see my friends and old family, but divide those conversations from the larger dialogues with other people and keep them private. I am happy that the ones without names can be separated from the ones with.
I've been trying to keep ourselves busy in the factory and it's going good. The warehouse is buzzing and everyone's happy and still yapping at each other and it's fantastic. Everyone is accounted for, the first time in a long time. I can't sit on it though. They will start to wander away and then we won't be working together for half a damn.
I've been thinking over the last time I was in the hospital when they brought me in and made me intern myself as a bargain. That night still itches me. Still makes us furious. I didn't do anything wrong that day! I shut my mouth too, but they had us hooked up to a couple machines and I was lying through my teeth the whole time and to this day we're sure my heartbeat gave us up. I stood up and it jumped real hard from rest to joy panic and the doctor winced and I winced and started sweating and everyone started screaming in my ears and I tried to run, but the door was locked from the outside and that's just plain unfair and I got mad. Mad as hell.
Routine is a life saver, though. Do X at Y time. Z comes after. A comes first, followed by B. Sometimes D, but it's okay if C jumps in before D as long as A and B come before and X and Y follow. Without it, without that, things get jumbled and then dreamland starts to bleed into reality and then things I shouldn't say and people who have no business in my circles start to have conversations with people they have no business meeting and then those people start to get mad at us because we've been talking about them behind their backs and once that check is cashed there's no going back on it. Then I get burned because they make me pay and there's no way to explain to them because as hard as I try to explain it to them they don't hear me and I've already gone too far and that's far enough.
Growth is hard. It hurts. Learning what you can and can't do. What I can and cannot do. What is and is not acceptable. More than anything else I want to meet someone who can sit down with me and them and have a good long coffee conversation. I know they're not real, I know they are real. I have to constantly monitor sounds. I have to consistently monitor their footsteps so I know when and whom I'm looking at. It's not fair. It's not fucking fair! I want you in my world. I want you in my shoes so you can understand the kind of ... it's not fucking fair.
I play music so loud so I don't have to hear. I hope I go deaf. I wouldn't mind still having eyes because I love to look at nature. I love looking at nature. Sometimes we hate what I see because they are there always now and it's terrifying and it's gorgeous. Seeing where they've been and we talk about it across fields. Are you hiding from me? You with the- I hate it. I hate it! Are you alone? Did you come alone? No! Not ever! I'm never alone! Do you know what that's like??? Do you know what that's like?????? Get away from me! Stop lying!! Stop lying in my ear!! Just go away!!! It never happens. It never happens like I want it to and I try not to take it out on us. Not to take it out on you. Growth is hard. My dad used to assure me it was just angels and devils talking to me and if I chose the path of loving Jesus I would be able to sort them out and I would know which ones it was because "the Bible tells me so." Goodnight and good luck.
Managing is harder. It's difficult boxing that part of me away. Walling and fencing it off so I can still be a part of the rest of 'merica. Hard not to play into their hands. The whole thing burns to malfeasance. Reciprocal engine with no off button. The only thing you can do is try to avoid putting gas in it. I want new genes. I want new genes. I want new programming. I've been doing good. Little star. Little little skittish star, but I've been doing good. Been doing good with putting words the right way and conversations the right way, and containing, but it's exhausting and it hurts us on the inside parts. It hurts a lot. I want to be alone so badly and I don't know how to get there. I don't know how to get back to good sleep.
It's not about my parents or the violence pushed way too far or relationships with friends or dating or god or medicine. Battling. Don't celebrate the battles, celebrate the war. I want nature to stop talking to me. A billion dollars for silence. A trillion dollars for blindness. That's the wager. Just give me one less eye and blown out ears. Still no guts to do it myself. Take it away from me. Just shut up! Shut the fuck up! Growth is hard! Being adult. Sometimes I wake up and I know I'm still stunted, but inside a giant robot that has capabilities far beyond what my head is prepared to command. I didn't want it, but I know I have to deal with it, continue to learn how to use it to become a part of the rest of the structures or destroy it so it doesn't damage the space it occupies and the rest occupying the same space. It hurts. It hurts a lot. It's confusing to us. I've been doing good though. I want to keep it going. I want to blend in better. I am working on growth, but it's hard as hell.
///Bjork - "Pluto" ... a little bit tired, but brand new...
1/30/13
The Year End Look (part two)
Two thousand twelve was a banger. A lot of truly excellent things happened. Some truly awful things happened. Mistakes were made and successes enjoyed. I thought after the debacle of 2010 I would not be surprised by whatever could come next and 2011 actually ended up being fairly swell. 2012 was jam packed with more change than I could see coming. I'm pretty sure I didn't write any fiction in 2012. I don't know why. 2012 was a war with the clock. I think that's why. I did sort of rediscover a pair of old friendships that I thought were pretty much blown to flaming kingdom come and that was nice. My memory fails me pretty regularly. Too many blows to the head (chemical and otherwise). Speaking of chemicals, I still haven't gone to get help. I don't know that I ever will. I don't know that I'll ever be able to on my own.
I'm trying to think of what the overarching lesson of 2012 was. Nothing particular comes up. 2012 was very much a blur. I became a car owner. That's nice. I also became quite broke keeping that car on the road and functioning. I became a paper towel owner. That was pretty huge. Do you know how hard it is to justify paper towels? Pretty damn hard. Mostly I was using my dirty laundry to clean up floor spills. Dish rags to clean up counter top spills. Worked perfectly, really. It's not like I was going to wipe up spilled floor milk and then put the shirt right back on. I also became a soap and toilet paper stockpiler. I used to buy it in four packs and then string it out as far as it would go and then find alternatives already in my apartment when they ran out. That's not what grown ups do. I got car insurance for the first time. My car is better insured than I am now. I think I did that one wrong.
You know what? I've got it. Twenty twelve was about taking steps toward being an adult. Meshing with other adults. Not that I succeeded with the meshing at all. I tried to pay for cat litter with sex. That didn't work out too well. Especially when I found out there was no cat litter to begin with. I have to stop being so easily convinced in twenty thirteen. I am on the tail end of my twenty seventh iteration. Can't make rookie mistakes like that or I'll end up smoking bath salts and living in the woods. Which doesn't sound particularly bad on the surface, but try finding a hot shower off of an interstate and you'll end up with a hobo pissing on your back while you sing Disney anthems in the pre dawn light of another Thursday, wondering if the pair of pants you named after your dead dog will ever find their way back to your cardboard shanty town. That's what 2012 was. A lot of learning how to do grown up things.
Not just that. My literary voice changed so much through 2012. My whimsical spirit did not die well and I think I want to make the effort to rediscover it. So much of my life became brutally concrete. There was no time to write down extensive dream logs and what explorations I could do and enjoy across the dream bridge were lost. There was a massive task lock. Huge gridlock between where I was and where I was going mentally that suffocated and snuffed out so much of what I wanted to achieve. Obviously, everyone wants to be loved. On some level. A lot of that need was torn out of me. It's still there, latent and active by turns and expressed and expressible and not in different forms.
I had a final falling out with my birth parents. Good riddance. Things were going quite well until they demanded a response and I gave them the one I'd been holding back for years (which was a fairly simple death threat). Which spiraled out of control and had to be reigned back in to an even simpler "Hi, you've hurt me for the last time and I'm not going to give you the opportunity to ever hurt me again." Which went over slightly better. So I do have that peace of mind to look forward to. The emails have stopped and that's what I wanted. BKB (bitches know better) than to ever try to contact me again. Some things can be forgiven. Some things can only be atoned for. Some things can only be paid for, and the checks they wrote on my skin in bruises and welts and blood and on my mind in so many lines of unforgettable screams and shouts can only be paid for. It was good though. A link so thoroughly destroyed that I will never have to worry about it threading itself around my neck again.
I did find love again, briefly, in twenty twelve. Online. I also found that most of the people in BDSM chat rooms are full of themselves and fake. But I don't even have to go to any other online dating sites to know that it's probably not unique to my bag. Back to love and friendships. I'm fairly certain I may have lost a friend I really wanted to keep, but who knows, maybe it'll come back around in thirteen. 2012 saw a pretty severe drop in production in general. Adult problems. Remember that three banger I put out of its misery early last year? That came back to haunt me when one of them got a job at a store I used to frequent (they had good prices, can't argue with that). Well, that cut my neighborhood in half. Can't go to that side of town anymore without looking over my shoulder, or occasionally ducking down in my car at red lights. Like I said, mistakes were made.
My only new years resolution this year is to not get concussed. I think that might be aiming too high. Too many bar fights happened last year. Between the life drama and tracking myself down rage blew off me like sunspot flares. Yes, you can punch anything with a face, but can and should are two very different things. I'm not saying I'm going to be a saint, but I am saying the world is only so big and eventually someone is going to recognize you when you least expect it and remember that thing you did the weekend before to one of their friends and they'll even the score and then it's all bad news bears from there.
Style wise, I was lost as 2012 tailed out. Spun out. Ate the guardrail and burned it's way to the bottom of a ravine. Shifting identity. Events and exchanges, human exchanges external to my brain pan, brought up so many questions I hope to answer to myself in the coming year. The identity I believed I had was drastically revised. Am I still a writer? Am I a poet? Am I a songstress? Maybe just a bard? I don't know. I've given up on trying to calculate how many hours I've gone in and what mastery means. Mastery means nothing. Exposure means nothing. The new foundation is framed quite simply as passion. I have a passion for words on paper. Whatever that makes me to you, I'm down. To me, I'm a kid with a pen. That's all. Calling yourself a writer or not, calling someone else by the same, is like having embossed ink on a business card. Doesn't mean a damn thing beyond image. Do I still want a house in the middle of nowhere to invite people to that I might cut them up, eat the good parts, and burn the rest of their remains? Yeah. That's kind of the ultimate goal. That and having a place to write that I only have to pay taxes on. That'll work. A wonderful desert compound. Somewhere near the border.
Twenty twelve taught me that I'm nowhere close to where a lot of my peers are fiscally, mentally, and emotionally. My concerns are still fringe. My furniture still sparse. My needs are still fairly small and my dreams equal and as difficult to access. I always thought I'd die in Pittsburgh, but maybe that's not good enough. Last year made me question my capabilities, but not in the way some people down grade themselves. I'm not a smart cookie. I'm not brilliant. I'm not particularly resourceful. I can, however, create to no end, my only limitation being the cards I have to play with..
It was a strange year. There were many tears in 2012. Some earned, many not. Many involuntary and inappropriate to the subject. That's not going to change. I'm crying right now typing this and it's silly. My weight keeps fluctuating wildly between 155 and 185. Every month. It makes no sense.
Gather. Fads go out of style. I've had a few of my own. I realized through the year that they were constructs to help me express concepts that come to me and help me live from week to week and month to month, but also help me relate. Junior psychologist over here. There was some real damage in 2012 and I don't know that 2013 will be that much better, but I like to believe it will be. Maybe we'll get back on the pills this year. Just to see. Just to see and stop talking about talking about doing it. Twelve was also a year of addictions. I don't know how to fix that. They were all, largely, necessary. But at least I know the side effects will or won't do what they do. Maybe that's the big thing standing guard these days. This turned pretty dark in a flash. I used to think I would be a great candidate for surviving the zombie apocalypse, and then I realized I would probably risk everything for a pack of smokes and dozen cans of spray paint. Unless I have my desert compound by then (I'll pass the time writing poetry and taking head shot breaks with a .50 cal and whiskey on the rocks).
The major issue I want to resolve this year, given last year, is my writing. Let's do better. Let's be better for us. Shooting for late forties. I want to at least make it to being a weird uncle.
What did 2012 teach me? What was the takeaway? Christmas lights are awesome. People can't be programmed. My morals and principles don't translate by default and no one else's do either. God is still a work of fiction. I am still figuring myself out and trying not to implode. At least not completely. Still so far away, only because I have to be. I am my own best company and my own worst friend. The things I don't own are things I should not have yet. The relationships I don't have are relationships I'm not and may never be ready for. The spaces I occupy, I am grateful for and will continue to be. The spaces I do not are spaces I have given back to the ones who belong there and will use beyond my ability to and that's okay. Twenty twelve was strange. Twenty thirteen is a big old bag of TBD, but I wish it was a big old bag of LSD. You can't go through life asleep, but a boy can dream.
///TRACK NOT FOUND - year end playlist up next
defining moments of a finest hour? yeah, something like that.
I'm trying to think of what the overarching lesson of 2012 was. Nothing particular comes up. 2012 was very much a blur. I became a car owner. That's nice. I also became quite broke keeping that car on the road and functioning. I became a paper towel owner. That was pretty huge. Do you know how hard it is to justify paper towels? Pretty damn hard. Mostly I was using my dirty laundry to clean up floor spills. Dish rags to clean up counter top spills. Worked perfectly, really. It's not like I was going to wipe up spilled floor milk and then put the shirt right back on. I also became a soap and toilet paper stockpiler. I used to buy it in four packs and then string it out as far as it would go and then find alternatives already in my apartment when they ran out. That's not what grown ups do. I got car insurance for the first time. My car is better insured than I am now. I think I did that one wrong.
You know what? I've got it. Twenty twelve was about taking steps toward being an adult. Meshing with other adults. Not that I succeeded with the meshing at all. I tried to pay for cat litter with sex. That didn't work out too well. Especially when I found out there was no cat litter to begin with. I have to stop being so easily convinced in twenty thirteen. I am on the tail end of my twenty seventh iteration. Can't make rookie mistakes like that or I'll end up smoking bath salts and living in the woods. Which doesn't sound particularly bad on the surface, but try finding a hot shower off of an interstate and you'll end up with a hobo pissing on your back while you sing Disney anthems in the pre dawn light of another Thursday, wondering if the pair of pants you named after your dead dog will ever find their way back to your cardboard shanty town. That's what 2012 was. A lot of learning how to do grown up things.
Not just that. My literary voice changed so much through 2012. My whimsical spirit did not die well and I think I want to make the effort to rediscover it. So much of my life became brutally concrete. There was no time to write down extensive dream logs and what explorations I could do and enjoy across the dream bridge were lost. There was a massive task lock. Huge gridlock between where I was and where I was going mentally that suffocated and snuffed out so much of what I wanted to achieve. Obviously, everyone wants to be loved. On some level. A lot of that need was torn out of me. It's still there, latent and active by turns and expressed and expressible and not in different forms.
I had a final falling out with my birth parents. Good riddance. Things were going quite well until they demanded a response and I gave them the one I'd been holding back for years (which was a fairly simple death threat). Which spiraled out of control and had to be reigned back in to an even simpler "Hi, you've hurt me for the last time and I'm not going to give you the opportunity to ever hurt me again." Which went over slightly better. So I do have that peace of mind to look forward to. The emails have stopped and that's what I wanted. BKB (bitches know better) than to ever try to contact me again. Some things can be forgiven. Some things can only be atoned for. Some things can only be paid for, and the checks they wrote on my skin in bruises and welts and blood and on my mind in so many lines of unforgettable screams and shouts can only be paid for. It was good though. A link so thoroughly destroyed that I will never have to worry about it threading itself around my neck again.
I did find love again, briefly, in twenty twelve. Online. I also found that most of the people in BDSM chat rooms are full of themselves and fake. But I don't even have to go to any other online dating sites to know that it's probably not unique to my bag. Back to love and friendships. I'm fairly certain I may have lost a friend I really wanted to keep, but who knows, maybe it'll come back around in thirteen. 2012 saw a pretty severe drop in production in general. Adult problems. Remember that three banger I put out of its misery early last year? That came back to haunt me when one of them got a job at a store I used to frequent (they had good prices, can't argue with that). Well, that cut my neighborhood in half. Can't go to that side of town anymore without looking over my shoulder, or occasionally ducking down in my car at red lights. Like I said, mistakes were made.
My only new years resolution this year is to not get concussed. I think that might be aiming too high. Too many bar fights happened last year. Between the life drama and tracking myself down rage blew off me like sunspot flares. Yes, you can punch anything with a face, but can and should are two very different things. I'm not saying I'm going to be a saint, but I am saying the world is only so big and eventually someone is going to recognize you when you least expect it and remember that thing you did the weekend before to one of their friends and they'll even the score and then it's all bad news bears from there.
Style wise, I was lost as 2012 tailed out. Spun out. Ate the guardrail and burned it's way to the bottom of a ravine. Shifting identity. Events and exchanges, human exchanges external to my brain pan, brought up so many questions I hope to answer to myself in the coming year. The identity I believed I had was drastically revised. Am I still a writer? Am I a poet? Am I a songstress? Maybe just a bard? I don't know. I've given up on trying to calculate how many hours I've gone in and what mastery means. Mastery means nothing. Exposure means nothing. The new foundation is framed quite simply as passion. I have a passion for words on paper. Whatever that makes me to you, I'm down. To me, I'm a kid with a pen. That's all. Calling yourself a writer or not, calling someone else by the same, is like having embossed ink on a business card. Doesn't mean a damn thing beyond image. Do I still want a house in the middle of nowhere to invite people to that I might cut them up, eat the good parts, and burn the rest of their remains? Yeah. That's kind of the ultimate goal. That and having a place to write that I only have to pay taxes on. That'll work. A wonderful desert compound. Somewhere near the border.
Twenty twelve taught me that I'm nowhere close to where a lot of my peers are fiscally, mentally, and emotionally. My concerns are still fringe. My furniture still sparse. My needs are still fairly small and my dreams equal and as difficult to access. I always thought I'd die in Pittsburgh, but maybe that's not good enough. Last year made me question my capabilities, but not in the way some people down grade themselves. I'm not a smart cookie. I'm not brilliant. I'm not particularly resourceful. I can, however, create to no end, my only limitation being the cards I have to play with..
It was a strange year. There were many tears in 2012. Some earned, many not. Many involuntary and inappropriate to the subject. That's not going to change. I'm crying right now typing this and it's silly. My weight keeps fluctuating wildly between 155 and 185. Every month. It makes no sense.
Gather. Fads go out of style. I've had a few of my own. I realized through the year that they were constructs to help me express concepts that come to me and help me live from week to week and month to month, but also help me relate. Junior psychologist over here. There was some real damage in 2012 and I don't know that 2013 will be that much better, but I like to believe it will be. Maybe we'll get back on the pills this year. Just to see. Just to see and stop talking about talking about doing it. Twelve was also a year of addictions. I don't know how to fix that. They were all, largely, necessary. But at least I know the side effects will or won't do what they do. Maybe that's the big thing standing guard these days. This turned pretty dark in a flash. I used to think I would be a great candidate for surviving the zombie apocalypse, and then I realized I would probably risk everything for a pack of smokes and dozen cans of spray paint. Unless I have my desert compound by then (I'll pass the time writing poetry and taking head shot breaks with a .50 cal and whiskey on the rocks).
The major issue I want to resolve this year, given last year, is my writing. Let's do better. Let's be better for us. Shooting for late forties. I want to at least make it to being a weird uncle.
What did 2012 teach me? What was the takeaway? Christmas lights are awesome. People can't be programmed. My morals and principles don't translate by default and no one else's do either. God is still a work of fiction. I am still figuring myself out and trying not to implode. At least not completely. Still so far away, only because I have to be. I am my own best company and my own worst friend. The things I don't own are things I should not have yet. The relationships I don't have are relationships I'm not and may never be ready for. The spaces I occupy, I am grateful for and will continue to be. The spaces I do not are spaces I have given back to the ones who belong there and will use beyond my ability to and that's okay. Twenty twelve was strange. Twenty thirteen is a big old bag of TBD, but I wish it was a big old bag of LSD. You can't go through life asleep, but a boy can dream.
///TRACK NOT FOUND - year end playlist up next
defining moments of a finest hour? yeah, something like that.
11/27/12
Astral Pain, Curbing Self Absorption, and Re-engagement
A gorgeous thing happens when you wake up and step outside and the world has a luster to it that isn't glass eyed. The bricks are warm though the air is skin tight cold. The sun is not screaming, but humming. The clouds are waiting instead of watching and the trees are content to not say a word as you go about your day. And it's cool. The voices are not so loud and the stars at night are not calling you home. All they say as you hunt in the dark is "we're happy out here as long as you're happy down there, but feel free to visit when you're ready," and it's good. It's great. The weapons are collecting dust and the hands are busy again at other operations and no one else has to die and it's a great feeling. The jail yard feels bigger than it ever has and seeing your breath is so welcome a change you damn near want to cry because Summer hurt you so bad, and you've been waiting so long to see snow again and for a while there you didn't think you'd make it that long. A strange and gorgeous thing. The quietude. The death of everything and the ashes blowing through the grass. Everything slowing down to a speed your eyes can process again. Gorgeous. Everything returning to a temperature more fit for your fusion heart. The astral pain subsiding.
One of the immediate difficulties plaguing the writing has been an exorbitant amount of self absorption. Getting beyond it has been difficult. Spitting out all of the junk on top of the processes. Kicking out the bad and pointless information, the information occupying a lot of cycles and routines. Brain space and resources. Resources that can't be repurposed or freed up until the train is run through the tracks and their opened again. A necessary thing. There's a lot on the burners. In fact the kitchen was pretty much on fire. Nothing edible was made. Did manage to make some wicked cool... I don't know. Lost my train of thought. Started thinking about huffing paint again, but I'm not too thrilled with the results. At least, not thrilled enough to go out of my way. What was I talking about?
Oh yeah, so I've been fairly disappointed with all of the sentences starting with "I" and so many of the themes being things dear to my heart, but unable to touch the rest of the world my head lives in. It got boring. You wait and you wait and you wait for the bulb to go off and then you look at the picture and it's another damned self portrait. You keep calling up your imaginary friends and they answer the phone and you sit down to talk about what you and he talked about and then you hold it up when you're done and it's another god damned self portrait. I started asking myself how the hell it kept happening. What the hell was I doing wrong? The arrow finally pierced my thigh. Not really. I just talked and talked and talked until I had nothing left to talk about and I could remember again the things they said too.
They never left. I was so torn up and wrecked and lost all at once I ended up circling the woods for weeks before something looked familiar again. I'm reckoning loss again. Reckoning with. Minor and major losses of people. Losing people again. Dealing with dead channels that I thought would live forever and asking myself what I did wrong and realizing at this point the answer is nothing. Sometimes there's no explanation. I'm pretty sure I came to that conclusion before. Years ago. The conclusion about a general lack of causality in the humanverse. Sometimes there is no explanation and I was okay with it then. I'm learning to be okay with it now all over again. People out grow you. You out grow people. Sometimes friends stay and sometimes friends go, sometimes you get to stay in touch and sometimes you don't. Sometimes you dance. They never left.
Curbing self absorption. Curing self absorption, was a difficult task and not entirely done. I still have to get back inside the heads of the people and places populating my dreams. Pierce the fog of internal war. It's still there, but I have become so unbelievably conscious of it's necessity and it's force of presence that I can begin to work around and work through it. Begin to retool things that have sat in draft for months. That's important to me. It's important to them too. So many storylines continue on in the background and it's fantastic to be able to sit down and leave myself behind to engage them and when I can't do that the storylines continue to their conclusion and when I finally do look at them again everyone is gone and I can't remember what we were doing there in the first place or where they may have mentioned they were going next. However, I understand now
that I was standing far too close to the bars and the picket planks to enjoy the space I've earned. Far too close to the window and hating the feeling of my nose there pressed to see the AUs. I have to tell you that I love you so much, these days. I forget to do that too much. Too often. A return to the observational side of things and less the actor. Returning to the maps and the center of the yard where the fences are so far I can barely see them. It's terribly easy to fall into yourself when you can feel your hands burning inside the diamonds of that twisted wire.
I am re-engaging. Decoupled for so long. It's easy to believe that is all there is for you. Because it is. If you want more you have to wrestle it away from what has already been determined, if that makes sense. And I'm trying, have been, and finally succeeding a little bit. Trying not to over celebrate. I know the next turn is right around the corner and part of living with paranoid schizophrenia is guarding against yourself. I accept that. I don't particularly enjoy it. I definitely woke up the other day unable to speak because I screamed my lungs out as hard as they would go. That was a funny one to explain when I went to my temp job and rasped like a 90 year old chain smoker who couldn't break a decibel if his life depended on it. "I just want you to be okay." I just wanted you to stop asking about it. I think I'm raving a little bit so
I'll bring this thing to a close for now and shove off from here, wherever here is, later on. The astral pain has subsided. Self absorption has been curbed, but not cured. I am getting back in touch with the outer planes. I am re-engaging with life, though some parts of life will be or already have disengaged with me. Most importantly Winter is here. It feels like a lifetime went by in the months between this time last year and now. Twisting in the breeze.
///Lionrock - "The Guide" ... the nineties killed it for electronic music. in a good way.
One of the immediate difficulties plaguing the writing has been an exorbitant amount of self absorption. Getting beyond it has been difficult. Spitting out all of the junk on top of the processes. Kicking out the bad and pointless information, the information occupying a lot of cycles and routines. Brain space and resources. Resources that can't be repurposed or freed up until the train is run through the tracks and their opened again. A necessary thing. There's a lot on the burners. In fact the kitchen was pretty much on fire. Nothing edible was made. Did manage to make some wicked cool... I don't know. Lost my train of thought. Started thinking about huffing paint again, but I'm not too thrilled with the results. At least, not thrilled enough to go out of my way. What was I talking about?
Oh yeah, so I've been fairly disappointed with all of the sentences starting with "I" and so many of the themes being things dear to my heart, but unable to touch the rest of the world my head lives in. It got boring. You wait and you wait and you wait for the bulb to go off and then you look at the picture and it's another damned self portrait. You keep calling up your imaginary friends and they answer the phone and you sit down to talk about what you and he talked about and then you hold it up when you're done and it's another god damned self portrait. I started asking myself how the hell it kept happening. What the hell was I doing wrong? The arrow finally pierced my thigh. Not really. I just talked and talked and talked until I had nothing left to talk about and I could remember again the things they said too.
They never left. I was so torn up and wrecked and lost all at once I ended up circling the woods for weeks before something looked familiar again. I'm reckoning loss again. Reckoning with. Minor and major losses of people. Losing people again. Dealing with dead channels that I thought would live forever and asking myself what I did wrong and realizing at this point the answer is nothing. Sometimes there's no explanation. I'm pretty sure I came to that conclusion before. Years ago. The conclusion about a general lack of causality in the humanverse. Sometimes there is no explanation and I was okay with it then. I'm learning to be okay with it now all over again. People out grow you. You out grow people. Sometimes friends stay and sometimes friends go, sometimes you get to stay in touch and sometimes you don't. Sometimes you dance. They never left.
Curbing self absorption. Curing self absorption, was a difficult task and not entirely done. I still have to get back inside the heads of the people and places populating my dreams. Pierce the fog of internal war. It's still there, but I have become so unbelievably conscious of it's necessity and it's force of presence that I can begin to work around and work through it. Begin to retool things that have sat in draft for months. That's important to me. It's important to them too. So many storylines continue on in the background and it's fantastic to be able to sit down and leave myself behind to engage them and when I can't do that the storylines continue to their conclusion and when I finally do look at them again everyone is gone and I can't remember what we were doing there in the first place or where they may have mentioned they were going next. However, I understand now
that I was standing far too close to the bars and the picket planks to enjoy the space I've earned. Far too close to the window and hating the feeling of my nose there pressed to see the AUs. I have to tell you that I love you so much, these days. I forget to do that too much. Too often. A return to the observational side of things and less the actor. Returning to the maps and the center of the yard where the fences are so far I can barely see them. It's terribly easy to fall into yourself when you can feel your hands burning inside the diamonds of that twisted wire.
I am re-engaging. Decoupled for so long. It's easy to believe that is all there is for you. Because it is. If you want more you have to wrestle it away from what has already been determined, if that makes sense. And I'm trying, have been, and finally succeeding a little bit. Trying not to over celebrate. I know the next turn is right around the corner and part of living with paranoid schizophrenia is guarding against yourself. I accept that. I don't particularly enjoy it. I definitely woke up the other day unable to speak because I screamed my lungs out as hard as they would go. That was a funny one to explain when I went to my temp job and rasped like a 90 year old chain smoker who couldn't break a decibel if his life depended on it. "I just want you to be okay." I just wanted you to stop asking about it. I think I'm raving a little bit so
I'll bring this thing to a close for now and shove off from here, wherever here is, later on. The astral pain has subsided. Self absorption has been curbed, but not cured. I am getting back in touch with the outer planes. I am re-engaging with life, though some parts of life will be or already have disengaged with me. Most importantly Winter is here. It feels like a lifetime went by in the months between this time last year and now. Twisting in the breeze.
///Lionrock - "The Guide" ... the nineties killed it for electronic music. in a good way.
10/4/12
Dogging It and the Winter Manifesto
Yep, I have been dogging it, for lack of artistic direction. I've become consumed with the immediate and unable to find the magic, the whimsy. The press of culture has been stifling. The pressure of fitting into some kind of God damned role has been palpable, or I should say, more palpable than in past weeks and months and years even. I keep looking up and asking myself if this is all there is and I have been pounding my fist on the table with six empty chairs around it and rattling nothing more than my own glass.
There is no such thing as a dry spell. I know it is all still there, still pouring, still palpitating. What I want to get at, however, is after the flow. I am storing metaphor and analogy and analysis, but not having tapped the vein I want I have limbs dying for overdose and infection. "Eating heroin is one thing, but injecting it is another." Probably the funniest thing I heard this year. The funniest admonishment. It burns my ass sometimes to hear people complain about things that are fairly simply resolved. Hilarious in some ways. Met up with a friend of mine at the local hole and he told me about another friend who had a fiberglass, nuclear white, road bike.
Turned out the guy was high as fuck on mescaline and out for a joy ride and he rode with him up to his place and the guy just housed the hill there. Should I feel bad for feeling inspired?
I've (enter apostrophetics) been dogging it none the less. I can't describe the feeling. If you've ever read the phantom tollbooth you know what the love affair of language can be like. Sometimes she wears lace. Sometimes he wears the same lace the last time you had to suck him off for a solid hour because he lied about not jerking off before he came over and you found out second hand from his other friend he was banging beers back with before he decided to ring you up and now your neck hurts when you tip your head backward to drink water the morning after.
The point is, he doesn't realize you would be more than happy to throttle his neck the same and watch his eyes start to pop out until they turned back and up into his eyelids and the tears ran down your hands because that's what gets you off.
And that just turned way angry and too honest. I don't know. I can't speak to human engineering because I don't know enough, but I absolutely believe that engineering can be trumped by training. The problem and the pitfall is the belief and extrapolation from that idea that training can be unlearned. Somehow the incorporation, the building of the structure can be as easily or possibly as difficulty and painstakingly deconstructed. The question arises: if you have 24 years of programming and construction and habituation built into your psyche, how many years will it take to reprogram, reconstruct, repurpose, and rehabilitate those patterns into new ones? If it takes, just drawing cards from my own deck of experience, twenty minutes to demolish a level 3 Revell GT 500 painstakingly constructed over two weeks, it should be fairly easy. That's my deck.
It's been hard. Real hard. Violently hard. Violently happy. To the point where people know me well enough that I have to actively push away opportunities to ...I'm not a destroyer. But I know I am. I know I can be a creator too. I used to be. I used to create willy nilly and I still do, but the work goes into that. The creating. The destruction comes naturally. I'm not a big guy by any stretch, but I never thought five years ago I would ever be comfortable popping someone's eye with my thumb. Yeah, it was salty. Not good salty either. Like, I do not know how to describe it. It was like the saline was an afterthought. I did not realize, at all, how much energy I was burning to be, but I've felt the exhaustion of it, of late. It's been taxing. Who to tell what and how much. I'm rambling.
I know. I have been dogging it. Not on the low roads though. I'm kind of surprised some times how easy it's been. Violence as language. I think the Auralport has been a lot of language as violence. Which is a start, but not enough of a start. There's no point in conquest you can't talk about. No entryway. No friends. I just laughed saying that out loud. I am not an animal. I build models with tweezers. Still do. I suppose that is not making me any less creepy. I have fallen off. Maybe fallen in to. Something. Fighting fair is a sad man's game.
I am not an animal, but I am trying to work my way back to the human side of the master equation.
And so I present to you the Winter manifesto:
Do good. Do not just be better within yourself, because that is not enough. Be better within, and for, others sake. Do not just see stars, but see horses and do not steal them, only enjoy their being and watch and maybe tip a hat to that wilderness, but do not beg to be the center. Do not fight this winter, for any reason. Physically. Because you have one body and one set of knuckles and you have enough years on them to make making it past forty a probability instead of a certainty. Lose no more fractions of teeth. Put together your works and compose for compositions sake alone because recognition is fool's gold and the short path to the quitter's raga. Be bright and not literally, but for light's sake. Be motivated and train and not for the sake of preparations for conflict, however, be prepared to defend yourself, and only in defense cause a mother fu$$ing ruckus. Finish the twenty thousand words to your book you left hanging two years ago. No Damoclesean swords. Less reference. Clearer analogy. And I don't know how much further I should take it because I've already stepped into the boundary between what I know I can do and what I know I know I may not be able to do.
The Winter manifesto is this: take it head on and do not fear the cool.
The trees talk to me in summer, at night when the moon is out. I am looking forward to their silence and the peace of the death of the ground beneath my feet. I am looking forward to reclaiming the night that I leased to the summer and all her passerby and the bullshit.
I survived another season. I know the next two will be beautiful.
Redesigns coming soon.
///Sneaker Pimps - "How Do" I grew up on sneaker pimps. through the conflict years. them, massive attack, and floyd, and disco. and the orb.
There is no such thing as a dry spell. I know it is all still there, still pouring, still palpitating. What I want to get at, however, is after the flow. I am storing metaphor and analogy and analysis, but not having tapped the vein I want I have limbs dying for overdose and infection. "Eating heroin is one thing, but injecting it is another." Probably the funniest thing I heard this year. The funniest admonishment. It burns my ass sometimes to hear people complain about things that are fairly simply resolved. Hilarious in some ways. Met up with a friend of mine at the local hole and he told me about another friend who had a fiberglass, nuclear white, road bike.
Turned out the guy was high as fuck on mescaline and out for a joy ride and he rode with him up to his place and the guy just housed the hill there. Should I feel bad for feeling inspired?
I've (enter apostrophetics) been dogging it none the less. I can't describe the feeling. If you've ever read the phantom tollbooth you know what the love affair of language can be like. Sometimes she wears lace. Sometimes he wears the same lace the last time you had to suck him off for a solid hour because he lied about not jerking off before he came over and you found out second hand from his other friend he was banging beers back with before he decided to ring you up and now your neck hurts when you tip your head backward to drink water the morning after.
The point is, he doesn't realize you would be more than happy to throttle his neck the same and watch his eyes start to pop out until they turned back and up into his eyelids and the tears ran down your hands because that's what gets you off.
And that just turned way angry and too honest. I don't know. I can't speak to human engineering because I don't know enough, but I absolutely believe that engineering can be trumped by training. The problem and the pitfall is the belief and extrapolation from that idea that training can be unlearned. Somehow the incorporation, the building of the structure can be as easily or possibly as difficulty and painstakingly deconstructed. The question arises: if you have 24 years of programming and construction and habituation built into your psyche, how many years will it take to reprogram, reconstruct, repurpose, and rehabilitate those patterns into new ones? If it takes, just drawing cards from my own deck of experience, twenty minutes to demolish a level 3 Revell GT 500 painstakingly constructed over two weeks, it should be fairly easy. That's my deck.
It's been hard. Real hard. Violently hard. Violently happy. To the point where people know me well enough that I have to actively push away opportunities to ...I'm not a destroyer. But I know I am. I know I can be a creator too. I used to be. I used to create willy nilly and I still do, but the work goes into that. The creating. The destruction comes naturally. I'm not a big guy by any stretch, but I never thought five years ago I would ever be comfortable popping someone's eye with my thumb. Yeah, it was salty. Not good salty either. Like, I do not know how to describe it. It was like the saline was an afterthought. I did not realize, at all, how much energy I was burning to be, but I've felt the exhaustion of it, of late. It's been taxing. Who to tell what and how much. I'm rambling.
I know. I have been dogging it. Not on the low roads though. I'm kind of surprised some times how easy it's been. Violence as language. I think the Auralport has been a lot of language as violence. Which is a start, but not enough of a start. There's no point in conquest you can't talk about. No entryway. No friends. I just laughed saying that out loud. I am not an animal. I build models with tweezers. Still do. I suppose that is not making me any less creepy. I have fallen off. Maybe fallen in to. Something. Fighting fair is a sad man's game.
I am not an animal, but I am trying to work my way back to the human side of the master equation.
And so I present to you the Winter manifesto:
Do good. Do not just be better within yourself, because that is not enough. Be better within, and for, others sake. Do not just see stars, but see horses and do not steal them, only enjoy their being and watch and maybe tip a hat to that wilderness, but do not beg to be the center. Do not fight this winter, for any reason. Physically. Because you have one body and one set of knuckles and you have enough years on them to make making it past forty a probability instead of a certainty. Lose no more fractions of teeth. Put together your works and compose for compositions sake alone because recognition is fool's gold and the short path to the quitter's raga. Be bright and not literally, but for light's sake. Be motivated and train and not for the sake of preparations for conflict, however, be prepared to defend yourself, and only in defense cause a mother fu$$ing ruckus. Finish the twenty thousand words to your book you left hanging two years ago. No Damoclesean swords. Less reference. Clearer analogy. And I don't know how much further I should take it because I've already stepped into the boundary between what I know I can do and what I know I know I may not be able to do.
The Winter manifesto is this: take it head on and do not fear the cool.
The trees talk to me in summer, at night when the moon is out. I am looking forward to their silence and the peace of the death of the ground beneath my feet. I am looking forward to reclaiming the night that I leased to the summer and all her passerby and the bullshit.
I survived another season. I know the next two will be beautiful.
Redesigns coming soon.
///Sneaker Pimps - "How Do" I grew up on sneaker pimps. through the conflict years. them, massive attack, and floyd, and disco. and the orb.
6/12/11
Brush Your Teeth and Father's Day
I realized today that I don't run out of tooth paste as often as I should. I have been running out of soap on a regular basis. Which is a good thing. Spray paint doesn't wash clothing. Infield sand for some reason stains clothing. Maybe it's because it's some kind of clay. I don't really know. I discovered something today, but I can't really remember what it was so I'm pretty sure that doesn't count as an actual discovery. If the only thing remaining is the place holder that says something happened is there and not the actual thing.
I had this great idea for a series of father's day cards. Basically the idea behind the inspiration was regret. The cards would express the difficult to otherwise express regrets some fathers must feel about their children and then there would be a series of cards that express the pains some children must feel toward their fathers. But it would do it in a very cartoonish Aesop's fables sort of theme. Maybe I'll sketch some up and show you instead of telling you about something that is largely visual.
I splurged on spray paint today. I'm going to get big pieces of poster board later. It's not really poster board. It's cardboard that they wrap pallets of warehoused goods in to protect them from stuff. I have anger issues. Like, the next time I see you I'm gonna twist a beer can in half and paint your face with both hands anger issues. I swear I'm a nice person. I just don't like people that are not nice too.
The entire concept of father's day is silly at best. To be indebted to a human being is a fairly miserable experience. To be indebted to a human being and forced, or at least expected, to sing their praises, even once a year, every year, year after year is amazingly centric and unreal. I suppose there is a difference if it is something that you actually want to do. It reminds me of singing god save the queen when you're locked up in London tower. Or god save the Bushes when you're sitting in a cell in the heat of Texas awaiting trial. Or god bless the driver that smashed my legs to splinters, because without them I would never learn to appreciate life's other gifts. I don't need to be stabbed to appreciate what life is like having not been stabbed in the chest. I do appreciate my physical handicap free life and live it as hard as I can, rain or shine. I can appreciate what life without a father would be like. As far as I can envision it, it probably would have been pretty awesome. I'm pretty sure I don't know exactly what I'm talking about. Slant rhyme logic.
I do know that all I want in the shortest term is for father's day to pass without harassment, guilt tripping, or indictment. That would be swell for once. A dawn of a new era of leave me the fuck alone because I'm done with you fucking with my body and my mind. Hopefully some people can respect that. Pushing back out to a safe distance in full afterburn. It's odd. Well not odd. Normal. If anything, just normal. As normal as things get around here in this region of space. Accepting known threats in favor of unknown ones. I still think about Jee. I still worry from time to time, but less frequently than on the hour, that I will die alone in a vacuum. Not that I believe it to be any less undesirable. Corporeal claustrophobia. The panic. And then the reeducation toward the necessity of a thing. Goodbye cruel world. Hello cruel space. I gotta do better at myself.
I think I might be a stronger person. I'm not really sure. More concrete perhaps. More defined, but stronger possibly closer to not. Different certainly. A realignment of the arbitrary rule set the preserves my sanity and integrity as much as possible. I brush my teeth. I wash. I go to a job. I create. All good things. Things a person should be able to do to warrant a continuation of. An extension of. I'm not doing bad things I don't think. Hell, I fucking brush my teeth. That should count for something. Like some sort of minimum civilized score.
I hit 7 the other day. Haven't churned out 7 pieces in a while. Some were campy, but a handful hit the notes I wanted to hit. Got some software to play notes on my computer using my qwerty board. Might actually be able to make some music in Acid pro. Worked through all of the interactive help segments too. Now I just need to learn how music works. Got an ebook on electronic music years ago. One of those Routledge books. Might actually try and get a physical instrument once I work my way through it. I was very excited when I first got it, but then I also had papers due every week so I didn't have much spare time to read and learn it. Not anymore. Well I still have it. But the free time issue is less of an issue. I've taken a little more to reading in the spare minutes while I'm waiting for things to complete so I can move on to what the days hold next. It's probably a good use of time as I'm trying against my better judgement to try and get a second job. My head will probably collapse in on itself when I do, but I have to try if I'm ever going to successfully fight my way across the bullshit obstacles standing between me and becoming more.
Which I guess brings me back to father's day and moving on. Forgive and forget and all that nonsense. What my mind runs over and over and over when I'm at work. One of the things. Is that when each way forward only exists because of the history. Because of the things done and done to you in the past. It's difficult to move forward without being constantly reminded that the path, whatever path, available is only so because of your points of departure. I guess what I'm trying to say is it's hard to ignore the fucked up nature of a situation when the limited set of solutions only exist because fucked up shit happened in the first place. But I give it a go every day.
It's funny sometimes listening to playoff sports. Listening to them talk about how elimination games are must wins, and this game and that game are must wins. Every day of my life is a must win. Come play with me.
///Moby - "Flower" Work hymns. We all have them. I think an instrument is probably gonna be one of the better ways for me to deal with the now. The diversified fractal now. How I'm gonna get one I have no idea just yet. But till then I plan on dreaming as much as possible. And continuing to brush my teeth for gold stars.
I had this great idea for a series of father's day cards. Basically the idea behind the inspiration was regret. The cards would express the difficult to otherwise express regrets some fathers must feel about their children and then there would be a series of cards that express the pains some children must feel toward their fathers. But it would do it in a very cartoonish Aesop's fables sort of theme. Maybe I'll sketch some up and show you instead of telling you about something that is largely visual.
I splurged on spray paint today. I'm going to get big pieces of poster board later. It's not really poster board. It's cardboard that they wrap pallets of warehoused goods in to protect them from stuff. I have anger issues. Like, the next time I see you I'm gonna twist a beer can in half and paint your face with both hands anger issues. I swear I'm a nice person. I just don't like people that are not nice too.
The entire concept of father's day is silly at best. To be indebted to a human being is a fairly miserable experience. To be indebted to a human being and forced, or at least expected, to sing their praises, even once a year, every year, year after year is amazingly centric and unreal. I suppose there is a difference if it is something that you actually want to do. It reminds me of singing god save the queen when you're locked up in London tower. Or god save the Bushes when you're sitting in a cell in the heat of Texas awaiting trial. Or god bless the driver that smashed my legs to splinters, because without them I would never learn to appreciate life's other gifts. I don't need to be stabbed to appreciate what life is like having not been stabbed in the chest. I do appreciate my physical handicap free life and live it as hard as I can, rain or shine. I can appreciate what life without a father would be like. As far as I can envision it, it probably would have been pretty awesome. I'm pretty sure I don't know exactly what I'm talking about. Slant rhyme logic.
I do know that all I want in the shortest term is for father's day to pass without harassment, guilt tripping, or indictment. That would be swell for once. A dawn of a new era of leave me the fuck alone because I'm done with you fucking with my body and my mind. Hopefully some people can respect that. Pushing back out to a safe distance in full afterburn. It's odd. Well not odd. Normal. If anything, just normal. As normal as things get around here in this region of space. Accepting known threats in favor of unknown ones. I still think about Jee. I still worry from time to time, but less frequently than on the hour, that I will die alone in a vacuum. Not that I believe it to be any less undesirable. Corporeal claustrophobia. The panic. And then the reeducation toward the necessity of a thing. Goodbye cruel world. Hello cruel space. I gotta do better at myself.
I think I might be a stronger person. I'm not really sure. More concrete perhaps. More defined, but stronger possibly closer to not. Different certainly. A realignment of the arbitrary rule set the preserves my sanity and integrity as much as possible. I brush my teeth. I wash. I go to a job. I create. All good things. Things a person should be able to do to warrant a continuation of. An extension of. I'm not doing bad things I don't think. Hell, I fucking brush my teeth. That should count for something. Like some sort of minimum civilized score.
I hit 7 the other day. Haven't churned out 7 pieces in a while. Some were campy, but a handful hit the notes I wanted to hit. Got some software to play notes on my computer using my qwerty board. Might actually be able to make some music in Acid pro. Worked through all of the interactive help segments too. Now I just need to learn how music works. Got an ebook on electronic music years ago. One of those Routledge books. Might actually try and get a physical instrument once I work my way through it. I was very excited when I first got it, but then I also had papers due every week so I didn't have much spare time to read and learn it. Not anymore. Well I still have it. But the free time issue is less of an issue. I've taken a little more to reading in the spare minutes while I'm waiting for things to complete so I can move on to what the days hold next. It's probably a good use of time as I'm trying against my better judgement to try and get a second job. My head will probably collapse in on itself when I do, but I have to try if I'm ever going to successfully fight my way across the bullshit obstacles standing between me and becoming more.
Which I guess brings me back to father's day and moving on. Forgive and forget and all that nonsense. What my mind runs over and over and over when I'm at work. One of the things. Is that when each way forward only exists because of the history. Because of the things done and done to you in the past. It's difficult to move forward without being constantly reminded that the path, whatever path, available is only so because of your points of departure. I guess what I'm trying to say is it's hard to ignore the fucked up nature of a situation when the limited set of solutions only exist because fucked up shit happened in the first place. But I give it a go every day.
It's funny sometimes listening to playoff sports. Listening to them talk about how elimination games are must wins, and this game and that game are must wins. Every day of my life is a must win. Come play with me.
///Moby - "Flower" Work hymns. We all have them. I think an instrument is probably gonna be one of the better ways for me to deal with the now. The diversified fractal now. How I'm gonna get one I have no idea just yet. But till then I plan on dreaming as much as possible. And continuing to brush my teeth for gold stars.
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
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