How much of your hand should you show? Once you have worked to find your voice, how afraid are you that it will be duplicated? What if the person you want to collaborate with, the person who has the ends in hand, can duplicate your means if you have to go through them to gain exposure?
Eventually you can cut them out. Eventually you will not have to worry about intellectual theft. You'll always be one step ahead by default. What if the person you have chosen to work with is capable of pirating everything you have created prior and your only proof is a series of time stamps? What if you have the capabilities and where-with-all and all out gall and disregard to forge time stamps too? What if the skillsets you have used to survive for so long, all thirty years of you, forced you to develop the skills you needed to make any claim of origin moot? You can design locks and you also have a very fine set of lock picks. The line between used and new blurs to infinity.
Collaboration is a minefield. When an artist opens their book to you, enjoy it. Do not see it as a requisite. See it as a privilege. See it as a pact of ultimate trust. Closer than sex. Closer than that bullshit conversation heart to heart over a beer or nine. Closer than that time they drove you home drunk when you were too drunk to drive and they almost crashed, killing the two people in the backseat not buckled up. Closer than that girl you've been talking to and haven't closed the deal on. Closer than that friend that dropped you off at the emergency room when you died for twenty seconds and had to be resuscitated with a balled up fist to your chest. Closer than that secret your dad told you when you finally got a couple drinks in him when he hit fifty and waxed nostalgic. Closer than that blank spot in your memory everyone else knows. It's a minefield.
If I show you how the sausage is made, do you see dollars or do you see a way to be a better you? Do you see a way out or do you see a way in? Will you steal or will you harmonize and create?
Every creator has the hang up of collaboration. How many collaborations have started and failed? How many flash in the pan, in the searing oil, spill over for an instant, lick the flame and light the entire venture ablaze? Every time someone asks me to collaborate, I am reluctant. It never ends well. It never ends well! IT NEVER ENDS WELL! It is to a point that I know it is me. I know I am at fault. I go on tears. I have vision. I am the spark. I am the fire. I am the galaxy. I am the clouds. I am the sky. I am the grass. I am the atom. I am the brick. I am the pipe. I am the fist. I am the womb. I am the rain and the sword. The broom and the dust. The wall and the fist. The string and the mattress. The thimble and the apple crushed during lunch breaks. I am the napkin and the grease. The spear and the beast. The insect eaten bone and the loam.
There is never any commitment. No real sticktoitiveness. I churn and it burns and they push thumb to index and make empty promises and break appointments that actually matter and it goes round and round until it hits the drain. That's not the end. I go into the waste lines, shrink myself down and dive in, like that mini sub movie we all know that I can't remember. Sealab? Fantastic Voyage! And I dive through the septic system after I get no response long enough and search it out and try to revive it and report back and the reports come thinner from the surface until it's a science fiction movie with a starship in The Dark Between the Stars and I'm hoping I can land somewhere and I do not want to do it again.
Forgive my apprehension because I will not forgive your abandonment. Not again. You say you want to collaborate. I say prove it. You say you want to work with me, show me something I have not seen. Give me a reason to believe in you because your word is worth dog ____. Hell, help me be a person better than myself right now and I will trade you. If you call yourself an asshole and behave like one, the book of life will not open for you. Fear is not stopping me, hate is not stopping me. Waste is. Time is. Trust is. Anyone can shout into a hole in the ground. Anyone can shout into a knot in a tree. Anyone can program a machine. Anyone can build one. Craft is another being altogether.
Another state. If you are searching for your voice, say so. If you are searching for your base, say so. If you need guidance, say so. Make it clear. As it stands, you have nothing to offer me. Nothing within your catalog will help me refine, reinvent, understand, or see myself anew. What you ask of me is to help you. Help you do what? Why should I care? Why should I turn myself on the spit so you can eat while I listen to what a self starter and go getter you are on and on through the nights? Show me something. Show me you have learned something. If you show me that you have learned something beyond your current state, I will engage you like you have a soul. I will answer your questions and accept your challenges. Keep coasting. I will leave you behind. Challenge me and I will fight. Challenge me hollow and I will go through the motions right along with you and play down.
Hell, I'll help you bury it. Our collaboration. I don't take it lightly. I do not like feeling used. I know I am not disposable. It is fun to feel like or be an inspiration or muse or riff target or mirror or foundry, however in collaboration I demand more, expect more, I want to be inspired, mused, riff against, see a reflection in you, and forge new alloys and atoms through you. As I gift you, give me something to work with. Turn my gears. Blow my turbines. Feed my generator, as I shovel coal into your own.
Do not make me regret this. Not again. Never again. Do not waste my time.
///Mazzy Star - "Look On Down From The Bridge" rainy winter. the river never froze. it is strange to be disappointed in the spring. it is immensely frustrating when i can't talk art with you; when everything turns toward monetization and consumers. screw that, can we look at a sky and say it's nice without you turning it into coin?
Clean with alcohol only. Do not attempt to replace blown fuses. Do not remove access panels. Return to certified mechanic for regular maintenance. Made in the USA.
Showing posts with label ugly people. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ugly people. Show all posts
9/3/15
Nearing the End of the First Week With a Fractured Jaw
The fracture or break is very high up the ramus and very close to my ear. Every time I poke it hard enough I can hear and feel it flex a little so I try not to touch it or shift my jaw left or right when I do yawn with my teeth locked together. Of course I didn't go see a doctor. I have no health insurance. What's the doctor going to do? Wire my teeth together and tell me to get plenty of rest and not move my jaw. I can do that without the wires and the $5000 bill. Sure there may be other fractures along the side of the jaw bone, but inspection says they're only fractures if they do exist and not clean breaks. Thanks to wisdom teeth that were never removed growing up because they were so badly impacted the surgery was out of the question for one reason or another by the time I was screened for them, the inside of my cheek took some thick lacerations at the point of impact. I think one or two of molar roots may have cracked causing swelling and pain in the angle. Time will tell. Hell, if my wisdom teeth on that side die and eventually fall out, I'm all for it. Who am I going to be kissing in the next two- three years anyway.
The first week of a liquid diet and I'm down 17 pounds. I'm not fat, but I always feel fat, so it's helping my body image issues a great deal, oddly enough. I keep thinking over the evening last Saturday. After a great pow-wow with a buddy and his friend who had to leave a little earlier we decided to head out and grab some ice cream and, I was thinking, a pack of smokes on the side for me, happy to be alive and a little agitated, but more than anything else, happy to be out for a walk in the deep night air with a gorgeous moon. Hopping along, we came across a bunch of teens loitering in a schools front yard and a police van telling them to disperse and we walked on, exchanging glances. They were obviously doing it wrong. Mulling in the shadows instead of out beneath the street lights on your way to get some tasty ice cream and smokes and then hop back home to finish the night off with a few beers and your friend.
They were doing it wrong and it was funny and in my happiness and joy with the night and my pal and the prospect of ice cream, I shouted to them so, with a few more curse words and some gestures, but simply poking fun at how they choose to spend their time when they could be walking to get ice cream instead of haunting a schools front lawn. They shouted back and I shouted back, because there's so much more to life than trying to intimidate people all of the time. There's friendship, and the moon, and ice cream, and cigarettes, and the fun a Saturday unperturbed by anyone who dares believe they can rain on my happy day with a friend I haven't seen in far too long. Who cares if a couple of happy travelers don't clutch their purses or speak in hushed voices as they pass you by. You're a bunch of kids on a schools closed front lawn trying to intimidate and strike fear into the "mean streets of Pittsburgh" from the shadows. Ooga booga! It was hilarious.
Those boys took it the wrong way and decided to follow and encircle us. "All of this happiness must be stomped out!" is what I think they said collectively. I had no desire to fight. Those roads are way behind me and ice cream was ahead of me and the police were just up the block a moment ago. I do not live in a world where I will trade ice cream for police questioning. Ever! I figured there'd be some yelling and shoving and they'd go on their merry and moody and belligerent way after pushing us around and we'd continue on ours and get those evening treats and continue our happy Saturday. It wasn't to be. I was hit from a blind angle right in the left corner of my jawbone just beneath my ear and dropped like a bag of rocks for a few seconds. My friend, struck too, was lucky enough to get hit from a direction his head was more or less facing and did not suffer more than cosmetic damage in a black eye and a cut or two.
I didn't realize the discomfort I felt the following day was far more than a bruise on my cheek until the day after when the pain got worse and worse until I couldn't chew anything, much less open my mouth. I guess those boys won. My happiness silenced by a fractured jaw bone and quite possibly broken molars inside the bone itself (hoping that's not the case, but we'll know in another week or two or if the violence of them being forcefully shifted a few millimeters out of their homes has caused inflammation that will take some time to heal [or if infection is underway as we write *cue doom music*]).
I keep thinking through that fateful stretch of night. I keep asking myself why the hell would they do that? Keep telling myself it was entirely uncalled for. I know why I was sucker punched. Their fear. That moment when my friend was hit and they thought "now or never because if this other larger guy wasn't going to put up a fight before he just may A: decide to put up a fight now, B: shout or call for help, C: both a and b." I keep wondering why they didn't just yell back and go their separate way. There was no chance they considered he and I, a couple of drunk 30 year old men out on a walk together, to be a threat to them. Why would they do that? Why would they attack us so viciously?
And then it dawned on me. Thinking back 12 years. How righteously furious I was then for dozens of reasons, some complex some as simple as I wanted an excuse to pass on the hurt inside of me to anyone who gave me an excuse to. Ready to fight anyone and any inanimate object that didn't "respect" me no matter how pointless or stupid. I didn't want to rob you. I wanted to hurt you as badly as I could get away with. Year after year after year, getting more angry, more sensitive, more irrational, but always questioning it, breaking it apart, tearing down the engine, trying to figure out what the hell it was making this bomb of my body go tick tick tick. I still haven't figured it out exactly.
Through years of study, years of violence toward others sometimes warranted, often times not, culminating in things I will never be able to take back, I left those courses behind me. Thirty years old all I care about is writing, getting home in one piece, spending time with my cats, seeing my friends when I can, and taking care of the only body I have left until my brain breaks apart or my body just will not run anymore. I could care less who respects me and who doesn't. I could care less who breaks my jaw and who decides to be merciful. Save for a handful of very specific, very important, exceptions, if I ever get so mad that the only language I can speak is the original dialect, violence itself, I will speak through breaking my own skin and nerves, not someone else's. The simpler truth is that for most of those kids, they will never learn or even begin to learn how to learn that things could be different. Some of them will end up dead. Others will circle their private drains until their live's dwindle and die out.
Those idiots aren't there yet. It was stupid of me to believe a 12 year gap in understanding what a good night with a friend really is, and what it can mean in the face of a world, in the face of my world once dominated by violence. They didn't silence my happiness. If worst comes to worst and I can never quite use my jaw the way I could before that night again, I have always wanted to learn sign language.
Do I hate them for it? Of course. Would I like to find one of them, knock him senseless, wrap him duct tape and put him in the bed of my truck and take him home? Would I like to duct tape his arm to a sheet of plywood after gagging him with #0 steel wool and use my belt sander grind away the first knuckle of each digit of his immobilized hand and then shatter the wrist of his other? Would I like to drive down river and dump his body at a drainage gate? Of course. That would achieve nothing. I'd be happy for a while until the next week when the pain set in again and I would need to find another one and that life is not for me as long as I continue to refuse it and allow the rest of myself to flourish. Maybe they'll learn. Maybe a few of them will think about and ask themselves essential questions.
Happiness and love are precious and not to be squandered under all but the most extreme circumstances. Especially not in this world's economy.
///=sigh= I could really go for a slice of pizza right about now. I'll melt some ice cream instead.
The first week of a liquid diet and I'm down 17 pounds. I'm not fat, but I always feel fat, so it's helping my body image issues a great deal, oddly enough. I keep thinking over the evening last Saturday. After a great pow-wow with a buddy and his friend who had to leave a little earlier we decided to head out and grab some ice cream and, I was thinking, a pack of smokes on the side for me, happy to be alive and a little agitated, but more than anything else, happy to be out for a walk in the deep night air with a gorgeous moon. Hopping along, we came across a bunch of teens loitering in a schools front yard and a police van telling them to disperse and we walked on, exchanging glances. They were obviously doing it wrong. Mulling in the shadows instead of out beneath the street lights on your way to get some tasty ice cream and smokes and then hop back home to finish the night off with a few beers and your friend.
They were doing it wrong and it was funny and in my happiness and joy with the night and my pal and the prospect of ice cream, I shouted to them so, with a few more curse words and some gestures, but simply poking fun at how they choose to spend their time when they could be walking to get ice cream instead of haunting a schools front lawn. They shouted back and I shouted back, because there's so much more to life than trying to intimidate people all of the time. There's friendship, and the moon, and ice cream, and cigarettes, and the fun a Saturday unperturbed by anyone who dares believe they can rain on my happy day with a friend I haven't seen in far too long. Who cares if a couple of happy travelers don't clutch their purses or speak in hushed voices as they pass you by. You're a bunch of kids on a schools closed front lawn trying to intimidate and strike fear into the "mean streets of Pittsburgh" from the shadows. Ooga booga! It was hilarious.
Those boys took it the wrong way and decided to follow and encircle us. "All of this happiness must be stomped out!" is what I think they said collectively. I had no desire to fight. Those roads are way behind me and ice cream was ahead of me and the police were just up the block a moment ago. I do not live in a world where I will trade ice cream for police questioning. Ever! I figured there'd be some yelling and shoving and they'd go on their merry and moody and belligerent way after pushing us around and we'd continue on ours and get those evening treats and continue our happy Saturday. It wasn't to be. I was hit from a blind angle right in the left corner of my jawbone just beneath my ear and dropped like a bag of rocks for a few seconds. My friend, struck too, was lucky enough to get hit from a direction his head was more or less facing and did not suffer more than cosmetic damage in a black eye and a cut or two.
I didn't realize the discomfort I felt the following day was far more than a bruise on my cheek until the day after when the pain got worse and worse until I couldn't chew anything, much less open my mouth. I guess those boys won. My happiness silenced by a fractured jaw bone and quite possibly broken molars inside the bone itself (hoping that's not the case, but we'll know in another week or two or if the violence of them being forcefully shifted a few millimeters out of their homes has caused inflammation that will take some time to heal [or if infection is underway as we write *cue doom music*]).
I keep thinking through that fateful stretch of night. I keep asking myself why the hell would they do that? Keep telling myself it was entirely uncalled for. I know why I was sucker punched. Their fear. That moment when my friend was hit and they thought "now or never because if this other larger guy wasn't going to put up a fight before he just may A: decide to put up a fight now, B: shout or call for help, C: both a and b." I keep wondering why they didn't just yell back and go their separate way. There was no chance they considered he and I, a couple of drunk 30 year old men out on a walk together, to be a threat to them. Why would they do that? Why would they attack us so viciously?
And then it dawned on me. Thinking back 12 years. How righteously furious I was then for dozens of reasons, some complex some as simple as I wanted an excuse to pass on the hurt inside of me to anyone who gave me an excuse to. Ready to fight anyone and any inanimate object that didn't "respect" me no matter how pointless or stupid. I didn't want to rob you. I wanted to hurt you as badly as I could get away with. Year after year after year, getting more angry, more sensitive, more irrational, but always questioning it, breaking it apart, tearing down the engine, trying to figure out what the hell it was making this bomb of my body go tick tick tick. I still haven't figured it out exactly.
Through years of study, years of violence toward others sometimes warranted, often times not, culminating in things I will never be able to take back, I left those courses behind me. Thirty years old all I care about is writing, getting home in one piece, spending time with my cats, seeing my friends when I can, and taking care of the only body I have left until my brain breaks apart or my body just will not run anymore. I could care less who respects me and who doesn't. I could care less who breaks my jaw and who decides to be merciful. Save for a handful of very specific, very important, exceptions, if I ever get so mad that the only language I can speak is the original dialect, violence itself, I will speak through breaking my own skin and nerves, not someone else's. The simpler truth is that for most of those kids, they will never learn or even begin to learn how to learn that things could be different. Some of them will end up dead. Others will circle their private drains until their live's dwindle and die out.
Those idiots aren't there yet. It was stupid of me to believe a 12 year gap in understanding what a good night with a friend really is, and what it can mean in the face of a world, in the face of my world once dominated by violence. They didn't silence my happiness. If worst comes to worst and I can never quite use my jaw the way I could before that night again, I have always wanted to learn sign language.
Do I hate them for it? Of course. Would I like to find one of them, knock him senseless, wrap him duct tape and put him in the bed of my truck and take him home? Would I like to duct tape his arm to a sheet of plywood after gagging him with #0 steel wool and use my belt sander grind away the first knuckle of each digit of his immobilized hand and then shatter the wrist of his other? Would I like to drive down river and dump his body at a drainage gate? Of course. That would achieve nothing. I'd be happy for a while until the next week when the pain set in again and I would need to find another one and that life is not for me as long as I continue to refuse it and allow the rest of myself to flourish. Maybe they'll learn. Maybe a few of them will think about and ask themselves essential questions.
Happiness and love are precious and not to be squandered under all but the most extreme circumstances. Especially not in this world's economy.
///=sigh= I could really go for a slice of pizza right about now. I'll melt some ice cream instead.
1/17/15
The Unwritten Beard Manifesto and Subsequent Referendum That Never Happened
Here's why:
I'm not against shaving. I just hate it. I say that shaving is for pussies. Its a joke that cuts both ways. If you don't see the humor in it, you're an idiot. If you don't see the humor in it, allow me to clarify. Shaving is for pussies, as in weak people that feel they have to present a certain image of themselves to be attractive. Beards are awesome. Lady, if you've got a mustache, the only thing weirder is shaving every morning. Everyone sees your five o'clock shadow. I dunno, bleach it or something maybe? Okay, fine. Shave it. Laser it. Laser the hell out of your face. It's a complicated issue, I know. Shaving is for pussies, as in pelvic areas, as in the vulva, is a joke. It's sarcasm. Can you imagine walking around with razor burn on your crotch all day, everyday, with the most confining underwear known to mankind? I can. I once completely botched a ball shaving job with an electric razor and didn't realize it until my scrotum was on fire in a pair of fine mesh black panties while sitting at a bus stop in the middle of summer. It was ten o'clock in the morning. It was one of the worst days I've ever experienced hygienically speaking. Oddly enough, when I do it right I can shave my crotch with great ease and never have the problems induced when shaving my face. If I had pubic hair for a beard I could shave every day, easy as pie. However, I could never grow a beard because I would have pubes on my face and a full forest in my pants and that's just asking for all sorts of smelly sweaty awfulness down there and who wants a pube face? I mean, than I would absolutely have to shave every day and that's just a hassle on another scale. Shaving is not for pussies. Trimming perhaps, but not baby smooth shaving. That's just weird and hazardous to your health and safety. Beards are awesome. They keep the wind off of your face in Winter. They shimmer in Summer. They're low maintenance. They let the world know you are a sexy beast. They let the world know you are not a child anymore. They make a statement. They give you a chin if you don't have one. They give you something to play with and tug on and snuffle into. I'm not against shaving. I just hate it. I hate it like I hate Nazis. Okay, I hate Nazis more. Slightly more. There should be an extra notch above hate so that I can hate Nazis more, but there isn't so I have to hate shaving slightly less than I hate Nazis. So I don't actually hate shaving. I just strongly strongly strongly dislike it. Why set your face on fire everyday? I don't like anyone enough to go in for that no matter how much they like a smooth cheek. How's that working out for you now? What do you mean you don't want to nuzzle my horribly broken out, bleeding ingrown haired face? Wasn't that what you wanted? Aw, go to hell! You don't know what you want. I want a nice thick beard, thank you ma'am. Shaving is not for pussies, its simply not for me. No need to spark a revolution. Grow a beard or do not. I won't love you less, but you may find I love you a little more.
I'm not against shaving. I just hate it. I say that shaving is for pussies. Its a joke that cuts both ways. If you don't see the humor in it, you're an idiot. If you don't see the humor in it, allow me to clarify. Shaving is for pussies, as in weak people that feel they have to present a certain image of themselves to be attractive. Beards are awesome. Lady, if you've got a mustache, the only thing weirder is shaving every morning. Everyone sees your five o'clock shadow. I dunno, bleach it or something maybe? Okay, fine. Shave it. Laser it. Laser the hell out of your face. It's a complicated issue, I know. Shaving is for pussies, as in pelvic areas, as in the vulva, is a joke. It's sarcasm. Can you imagine walking around with razor burn on your crotch all day, everyday, with the most confining underwear known to mankind? I can. I once completely botched a ball shaving job with an electric razor and didn't realize it until my scrotum was on fire in a pair of fine mesh black panties while sitting at a bus stop in the middle of summer. It was ten o'clock in the morning. It was one of the worst days I've ever experienced hygienically speaking. Oddly enough, when I do it right I can shave my crotch with great ease and never have the problems induced when shaving my face. If I had pubic hair for a beard I could shave every day, easy as pie. However, I could never grow a beard because I would have pubes on my face and a full forest in my pants and that's just asking for all sorts of smelly sweaty awfulness down there and who wants a pube face? I mean, than I would absolutely have to shave every day and that's just a hassle on another scale. Shaving is not for pussies. Trimming perhaps, but not baby smooth shaving. That's just weird and hazardous to your health and safety. Beards are awesome. They keep the wind off of your face in Winter. They shimmer in Summer. They're low maintenance. They let the world know you are a sexy beast. They let the world know you are not a child anymore. They make a statement. They give you a chin if you don't have one. They give you something to play with and tug on and snuffle into. I'm not against shaving. I just hate it. I hate it like I hate Nazis. Okay, I hate Nazis more. Slightly more. There should be an extra notch above hate so that I can hate Nazis more, but there isn't so I have to hate shaving slightly less than I hate Nazis. So I don't actually hate shaving. I just strongly strongly strongly dislike it. Why set your face on fire everyday? I don't like anyone enough to go in for that no matter how much they like a smooth cheek. How's that working out for you now? What do you mean you don't want to nuzzle my horribly broken out, bleeding ingrown haired face? Wasn't that what you wanted? Aw, go to hell! You don't know what you want. I want a nice thick beard, thank you ma'am. Shaving is not for pussies, its simply not for me. No need to spark a revolution. Grow a beard or do not. I won't love you less, but you may find I love you a little more.
8/2/11
The Right One In
This entry was about a thousand words longer, but I thought about it some more and boiled it down beyond harping.
There are people that are there for you and there are people that think they are there for you. People that listen to you talk and try to participate in your dreams and delusions and end up sounding like hollow eyed parrots. People that try to hug you and have no idea how to actually hug another human being. People that think being there means saying "hey come by anytime" when you're not actually able to get there. Or, saying "sure come and stay as long as you need to except we'll have you moved to a homeless shelter if you don't find a place to stay in fourteen days." Amongst other things, it's just galling and conceited of a person to insist that they're "there" for you when they have no concept of what "being there" actually means to you and they believe themselves to be a saint to you when what they're doing is about as useful as giving a homeless man an end table and saying "my work here is done."
Don't tell me we have everything in common because we both had bad parents and should suddenly be bonded for life with endless stories to tell each other. Suffering maybe universal on a general level of human experience, but personal suffering is just that. Exceptionally personal. Never tell someone, after they tell you explicitly that you have nothing in common, that you have everything in common because you both had a bad dad, or wanted to play sports when you were little. How arrogant do you have to be to tell someone that you know them better then they know themselves. It's just plain stupid.
Don't ever tell me you're there for me and I won't let you in or don't want to be your friend because I'm afraid that you're "there for me," and I'm running away. It's a thing I don't want to dignify with a response.
I know myself pretty god damn well (though there's still so much I still learn) and know one knows me better than my former psychiatrist because I've told him things I haven't and will never tell anyone. Don't tell me, ever, that I'm afraid to let you in. Any person can want to be let into your life. Any person can want to be there for you and stand outside the windows of your eyes asking why you treat them so badly because they've been there for you all this time and you never once thanked them. Any person can want to be like you and have everything in common with you. But what it takes to "be there for me", trust, you cannot and have not done. Why should I thank you. When I tell you we have nothing in common, it's because I know myself well enough to be able to say so with certainty. And when it comes to who you let into your life, everything else becomes secondary, as long as you let the right one in, and I'm sorry, but it isn't you.
I'm sorry about that last part. It wasn't written directly to you, but to the person who is causing some problems because they thought and probably still swear to themselves up and down that they are all of those things that I just explained to you, so many people are not. It's grown tiresome, and I just had to get it out of my skull.
Some people really are there for you. Some people can be let into parts of your life. Some people do have things in common with you and me. But most people aren't, can't, and don't and one thing life has taught me through the years is that if you don't let the right one in, it makes it tough to move anything else forward when they start to ask you why you push them away.
Anyway, missed ya. Be back later with more items de arte.
Massive Attack - "Man Next Door" ...from here... onto the night.
There are people that are there for you and there are people that think they are there for you. People that listen to you talk and try to participate in your dreams and delusions and end up sounding like hollow eyed parrots. People that try to hug you and have no idea how to actually hug another human being. People that think being there means saying "hey come by anytime" when you're not actually able to get there. Or, saying "sure come and stay as long as you need to except we'll have you moved to a homeless shelter if you don't find a place to stay in fourteen days." Amongst other things, it's just galling and conceited of a person to insist that they're "there" for you when they have no concept of what "being there" actually means to you and they believe themselves to be a saint to you when what they're doing is about as useful as giving a homeless man an end table and saying "my work here is done."
Don't tell me we have everything in common because we both had bad parents and should suddenly be bonded for life with endless stories to tell each other. Suffering maybe universal on a general level of human experience, but personal suffering is just that. Exceptionally personal. Never tell someone, after they tell you explicitly that you have nothing in common, that you have everything in common because you both had a bad dad, or wanted to play sports when you were little. How arrogant do you have to be to tell someone that you know them better then they know themselves. It's just plain stupid.
Don't ever tell me you're there for me and I won't let you in or don't want to be your friend because I'm afraid that you're "there for me," and I'm running away. It's a thing I don't want to dignify with a response.
I know myself pretty god damn well (though there's still so much I still learn) and know one knows me better than my former psychiatrist because I've told him things I haven't and will never tell anyone. Don't tell me, ever, that I'm afraid to let you in. Any person can want to be let into your life. Any person can want to be there for you and stand outside the windows of your eyes asking why you treat them so badly because they've been there for you all this time and you never once thanked them. Any person can want to be like you and have everything in common with you. But what it takes to "be there for me", trust, you cannot and have not done. Why should I thank you. When I tell you we have nothing in common, it's because I know myself well enough to be able to say so with certainty. And when it comes to who you let into your life, everything else becomes secondary, as long as you let the right one in, and I'm sorry, but it isn't you.
I'm sorry about that last part. It wasn't written directly to you, but to the person who is causing some problems because they thought and probably still swear to themselves up and down that they are all of those things that I just explained to you, so many people are not. It's grown tiresome, and I just had to get it out of my skull.
Some people really are there for you. Some people can be let into parts of your life. Some people do have things in common with you and me. But most people aren't, can't, and don't and one thing life has taught me through the years is that if you don't let the right one in, it makes it tough to move anything else forward when they start to ask you why you push them away.
Anyway, missed ya. Be back later with more items de arte.
Massive Attack - "Man Next Door" ...from here... onto the night.
8/4/10
Golfcart Flamingo Logo
=_= very tired. The state of perpetual collapse that plagues my absolutely fucking retarded family life had me so angry and out of sorts I literally could not function and then the wonderful flip side of that situation was that I've been erased by someone I thought was a best friend (more about that later) so I had the unique pleasure of getting fucked from every direction at once. So its back on the smokes, collar up, stiff upper lip, and into that fucking wind.
This is what I managed to accomplish in a few hours of dedicated work when the bewilderment calmed down.
Three more to go. Dear god, if you're out there... please don't shit on me again today. I like getting work done. You aren't helping so just stay the fuck out of my way, okay? Thanks.
///El-P - "The League of Extraordinary Nobodies" '...and we haven't even gotten to the part where it's a joke..."
This is what I managed to accomplish in a few hours of dedicated work when the bewilderment calmed down.
Three more to go. Dear god, if you're out there... please don't shit on me again today. I like getting work done. You aren't helping so just stay the fuck out of my way, okay? Thanks.
///El-P - "The League of Extraordinary Nobodies" '...and we haven't even gotten to the part where it's a joke..."
6/24/10
lookin good
finally finished the principal of the thing in the benegon project. feels good to be done with fitting pixel A to pixel B. it looks good though. hopefully moving forward will allow me more time for writing and loving and wandering the other side of consciousness. you know, the side where the wild things grow and come and lick and poke at the membrane around where we live.
i can kind of see how the next 5 years is going to play out. spoiler alert: more losses. did i ever tell you district 9 really touched me. like way deep down? yeah. i almost shed a tear at the end. i wrote an email once to all of my old professors asking for any aid they could possibly offer. one responded out of ten or twelve people. one. and that person's main talking point was: sorry.
researching technical schools ive found they are not cheap and id need a car to get to most of them. im in a camp. i am walled in and held apart from my peers. i dont fucking know why. if i did i would fix it. what are they afraid of? why are people so easily upset? i mean im sure my situation probably makes other people uncomfortable because so little cash would make such a massive difference. but the sum is just large enough to be too much to give away. people probably spend more on cigarettes in a year than i spend on everything combined because im just that broke. well still... theres some hand wringing over that im sure. i avoid talking about it most of the time because its so out there i guess. outside the realm of knowing. im so far away from my socioeconomic peers i stand out like a burnt out house in a neighborhood of gated homes. its not that im too lazy to fix my god damn windows, its that the only thing i can afford is a slab of plywood. you try not to let it color your experiences and temper your relationships but it does. its like having a broken pen in your laundry. no amount of balling up the fabric will prevent it from staining. the viciousness of life does not cease to amaze me. the foulness of our fellow man did a long time ago.
whats the fix. whats the fix. whats the fix. how am i supposed to fix this? do i stay? do i leave? to where? my head hurts. i dont want to lose friends, but sometimes i wonder if friends want to lose me. loss and dealing with loss is something that i dont do well. who does? its crushing to live in such a small box and unreasonable to think others should think of you when you yourself are never around. its like im shouting from the bottom of this well and asking what happened in the news today. eventually the people around me get tired of me asking and they wander away. i guess all i can really do is keep talking so i dont forget what my thoughts sound like.
enough of that depressing shit. in other news... now that i have some design time free for a little while im going to redo the poetry page layout over at the auralport.blogspot.com and have it play off of and into this and itll be one big sexy party of thoughts and words and colors and strikes.... and when youre knee deep in rainbow colored vaginas and unicorns and giant robots and mushroom clouds youll weep tears of solid gold and ill say pretty please while a sky diving t rex plays the greatest guitar solo ever heard.
maybe not that awesome. but hopefully itll be close. god damn it while i was drawing that i inevitably came back around to the black hole in the middle of my life. this is what ive realized: normal people dont like hanging out in hospitals. even on star trek no one hung out at sick bay (unless they were simply bat shit crazy or had no friends) sooo i cant really expect people to want to hang out with someone who is constantly on the verge of ... ah fuck it. im too sleepy to get into this shit. when is it alright to ask someone if you'll ever get back together when you already know the answer? it just goes round and round and round and one of these days im just going to smash it into my desk with a claw hammer and shovel the guts out the window. but till then
///the seatbelts - "forever broke" sunset on 8mm film sounds like this.
i can kind of see how the next 5 years is going to play out. spoiler alert: more losses. did i ever tell you district 9 really touched me. like way deep down? yeah. i almost shed a tear at the end. i wrote an email once to all of my old professors asking for any aid they could possibly offer. one responded out of ten or twelve people. one. and that person's main talking point was: sorry.
researching technical schools ive found they are not cheap and id need a car to get to most of them. im in a camp. i am walled in and held apart from my peers. i dont fucking know why. if i did i would fix it. what are they afraid of? why are people so easily upset? i mean im sure my situation probably makes other people uncomfortable because so little cash would make such a massive difference. but the sum is just large enough to be too much to give away. people probably spend more on cigarettes in a year than i spend on everything combined because im just that broke. well still... theres some hand wringing over that im sure. i avoid talking about it most of the time because its so out there i guess. outside the realm of knowing. im so far away from my socioeconomic peers i stand out like a burnt out house in a neighborhood of gated homes. its not that im too lazy to fix my god damn windows, its that the only thing i can afford is a slab of plywood. you try not to let it color your experiences and temper your relationships but it does. its like having a broken pen in your laundry. no amount of balling up the fabric will prevent it from staining. the viciousness of life does not cease to amaze me. the foulness of our fellow man did a long time ago.
whats the fix. whats the fix. whats the fix. how am i supposed to fix this? do i stay? do i leave? to where? my head hurts. i dont want to lose friends, but sometimes i wonder if friends want to lose me. loss and dealing with loss is something that i dont do well. who does? its crushing to live in such a small box and unreasonable to think others should think of you when you yourself are never around. its like im shouting from the bottom of this well and asking what happened in the news today. eventually the people around me get tired of me asking and they wander away. i guess all i can really do is keep talking so i dont forget what my thoughts sound like.
enough of that depressing shit. in other news... now that i have some design time free for a little while im going to redo the poetry page layout over at the auralport.blogspot.com and have it play off of and into this and itll be one big sexy party of thoughts and words and colors and strikes.... and when youre knee deep in rainbow colored vaginas and unicorns and giant robots and mushroom clouds youll weep tears of solid gold and ill say pretty please while a sky diving t rex plays the greatest guitar solo ever heard.
maybe not that awesome. but hopefully itll be close. god damn it while i was drawing that i inevitably came back around to the black hole in the middle of my life. this is what ive realized: normal people dont like hanging out in hospitals. even on star trek no one hung out at sick bay (unless they were simply bat shit crazy or had no friends) sooo i cant really expect people to want to hang out with someone who is constantly on the verge of ... ah fuck it. im too sleepy to get into this shit. when is it alright to ask someone if you'll ever get back together when you already know the answer? it just goes round and round and round and one of these days im just going to smash it into my desk with a claw hammer and shovel the guts out the window. but till then
///the seatbelts - "forever broke" sunset on 8mm film sounds like this.
6/11/10
predetermination? or something worse
okay so lets begin by saying drastic action isnt necessary and probably will never be. its more of a convenience kind of thing and its a convenience that i will likely never be able to afford... since when every day is the worst day of your life pretty much any day could be an improvement on that so you have to hang on for one more day and unfortunately the only thing that matters is asking yourself that question. meanwhile other people get to actually live you have to keep saying to yourself hmmm i guess ill stick around for another day cuz "what if tomorrow is the day?"
well the answer to that question today is no. today was not the day. inevitably the universe threw me a shovel instead of a ladder and things just got uglier. its not worth going into. just imagine a very nasty person, who you know is a bad person, like an actual bad person, and then imagine that this bad person turns out to be even worse than you thought and that this person is in all likelihood even worse than the new information indicates. thats what today was. so not only has nothing improved but things have gone a good distance farther in reverse.
which really makes me ask as my empire of shit continues to somehow lol to somehow get shittier .... is that possible... hahaha... well apparently it is... but anyway ... this makes me ask my fellow man, the world, and the universe "is this predetermination or something waaay shittier?" are people just this bad or am i somehow a magical catalyst that causes people to do shitty things to me. i know there's agency in there. i wont deny that at all. but i try to put out constantly happy vibes. well not happy... but positive vibes. i am genuinely generous with what little shit i do have.... i mean was i just born without the "good fortunate" receiver antenna installed? and i dont mean that nothing good ever happens. or even ever happens to me because good things do happen, but its a lot like this:
there is an ice cream cone with your favorite flavor on top of a stick, but the stick is electrified and licking it will close a circuit that will give you a mildly unpleasant shock even as your enjoying it. and then before and after every lick you have to close your eyes and a person you may or may not know will punch you directly in the face but youll never know because your eyes are closed. what you do know is that the ice cream was soo good. but you lost teeth and got shocked just to taste it.
so is it then a matter of memory. forget the bad and remember the good? maybe. but thinking about how much you love the smell of flowers wont outweigh the experience of standing waste deep in fecies for a day in any persons memory.
its been a pretty steady trajectory. ive fought it, ive at times just gone with it, but that never lasted. i hated knowing that i wasnt doing anything to fight it. fighting it is the only thing i can do. i mean, i hate to even suggest it, because i know its complicated, but maybe people are just on the whole kind of douchey. id like to think i was just like everyone else. i really would. cuz then things would be different, but somehow im not like anyone else. but how do you fix that. does it even matter? probably not in a perfect world but how far away from that are we? we're in like a whole nother evil alternate time line or something. but am i not standing out enough? am i standing out too much? am i too this or not enough that? just be yourself. well thats what ive been doing and it aint working. everything that starts off okay eventually explodes, tears itself apart, gets crashed by me or someone else, or otherwise derails in grand 30s-early-film-head-on-train-collision style. does that mean that i just hate people? what the hell does it mean? nothing? luck isnt real... but ive chased opportunity. every single one. the only limiting factor being my own body's fatigue and geographical considerations and ive thrown that to the wind before too. sooo what the fuck.
lets just say its not predetermination. lets just say that genetics, race, income, and personality have nothing to do with it. that only leaves nurturing and outside forces. so if its not me or at least not entirely me then its them. the parents. they must be the other force like dead planets orbiting a star and altering its celestial corse ever so slightly. if someone suggested this years ago i would have at least made the case for an alternative but now... seeing it happen upclose and receiving details of locked away secrets.... it is. it really is the case. has to be. the world is simply too random to have a 15 year stretch of not so great outcomes.
hmmmmmmmmmmmmm. what the hell. ive bucked my head against so many walls i should honestly have no brain function left. and yet here i am still. unkillable. i feel like ive already lived forever. i would trade a raging alcoholic for one or both of the people that birthed me. at least then the reasons would be more obvious. and theyd be dead by now.
///school of seven bells - "face to face on high places" the song itself embodies the movement from one life to another. the title just makes me think of meeting up with friends and finally finally Finally!!!! having nothing serious to hide because it would kill the get together if i let it out wrong. and i just relish the thought of hanging out on a hill in a park in the summer with the wind and frisbees and girls and boys and just being. even the lyrics are reflective of the theme and actually poetically pretty engaging from a literary stand point. i dunno. i think im just waxing philosophical. nothing else much to do in the wreckage except poke the cinders now and then to make sure where your sitting is no longer on fire.
6/6/10
stray cats and dogs
as any stray will tell you "sometimes you eat the city and sometimes the city eats you". orrr well they could also say "sometimes you eat cat and sometimes you eat dog, but the important thing is to ... to uhm... eat ... something?" no that doesnt sound right. okay, starting over.
as any stray will tell you "sometimes you eat cat and sometimes you eat dog and sometimes animal control comes when you least expect it." the thing to remember though is to not use the word though too much cuz it links too many thoughts together into schemes that demand a certain countervailing quality of each other that is not always expressly present and can add a lot of processing time to otherwise simple conjunctions. the thing to really remember is that animal control's existence implies that animals cant control themselves. the challenge is to exert that control. the premise is that being a stray who is more often caged than free to roam can that control be reliably exerted. the conclusion is that it would make an interesting movie. the hook is what happens when the stray is permanently freed from the cage and are the cage wardens aware of what will happen.
well lets not go so far as to say will. every day of roaming is learning to control. where and where not to go. who and who not to talk to. what and what not to talk about. when to arrive and when to leave. and that learning cant happen from inside a room with one window, a floor cot, a bent desk, and more free weights than physical places to take my body with the strength they build. buuut i dunno im getting all muddy... am i really sure what will happen? not totally. but one thing i do know is we cant live if we're too afraid to die.
so i guess fire at will and from all sides. hunt the wounded, slay the dieing, and long live the god of all strays who lives neither by law nor moral. where did that come from? i dont know. in the pantheon of apparitions and visions im pretty sure ive seen him. maybe. philosophy has never been a strong point for me. probably a ticklish point. it smells here. sometimes your free to go, but to where?
how about enjoying the moment for once. there are times when i forget that moments are connected because i fight day and night for freedom from that chain and when i succeed everything turns into a beautiful and savory instant. the hard part is turning off the part of your brain that forces you into remembrance. i thought about crying the other day, but then i couldnt so i didnt. oh well. maybe this week is the week we finally get to meet each other for real?
///unkle - "safe in mind" not to start you off with another unkle track but if you listen to the end there is an excellent quote from the film "fallen" with denzel and john goodman (great movie in my opinion. dont let the budget fool you)
"I like the night. The street. The smells. The sense.. Of another world. Sometimes you come face to face with yourself" i wish i could show you through my eyes that the other world is.
but i still havent really explained where ive been. ive been gone, exploring, tracking, learning in other states. still no new home yet. im sorry i didnt tell you but a lot of bad things happened before i could get a chance to say a proper goodbye. but im back now sooo next time i go out to space ill let you know first.
well what the hell heres another one:
///dj danger mouse - "what more can i say" jayz's lyrics, beatles bricks, and danger's architecture. "we'll see what happens when i no longer exist."
as any stray will tell you "sometimes you eat cat and sometimes you eat dog and sometimes animal control comes when you least expect it." the thing to remember though is to not use the word though too much cuz it links too many thoughts together into schemes that demand a certain countervailing quality of each other that is not always expressly present and can add a lot of processing time to otherwise simple conjunctions. the thing to really remember is that animal control's existence implies that animals cant control themselves. the challenge is to exert that control. the premise is that being a stray who is more often caged than free to roam can that control be reliably exerted. the conclusion is that it would make an interesting movie. the hook is what happens when the stray is permanently freed from the cage and are the cage wardens aware of what will happen.
well lets not go so far as to say will. every day of roaming is learning to control. where and where not to go. who and who not to talk to. what and what not to talk about. when to arrive and when to leave. and that learning cant happen from inside a room with one window, a floor cot, a bent desk, and more free weights than physical places to take my body with the strength they build. buuut i dunno im getting all muddy... am i really sure what will happen? not totally. but one thing i do know is we cant live if we're too afraid to die.
so i guess fire at will and from all sides. hunt the wounded, slay the dieing, and long live the god of all strays who lives neither by law nor moral. where did that come from? i dont know. in the pantheon of apparitions and visions im pretty sure ive seen him. maybe. philosophy has never been a strong point for me. probably a ticklish point. it smells here. sometimes your free to go, but to where?
how about enjoying the moment for once. there are times when i forget that moments are connected because i fight day and night for freedom from that chain and when i succeed everything turns into a beautiful and savory instant. the hard part is turning off the part of your brain that forces you into remembrance. i thought about crying the other day, but then i couldnt so i didnt. oh well. maybe this week is the week we finally get to meet each other for real?
///unkle - "safe in mind" not to start you off with another unkle track but if you listen to the end there is an excellent quote from the film "fallen" with denzel and john goodman (great movie in my opinion. dont let the budget fool you)
"I like the night. The street. The smells. The sense.. Of another world. Sometimes you come face to face with yourself" i wish i could show you through my eyes that the other world is.
but i still havent really explained where ive been. ive been gone, exploring, tracking, learning in other states. still no new home yet. im sorry i didnt tell you but a lot of bad things happened before i could get a chance to say a proper goodbye. but im back now sooo next time i go out to space ill let you know first.
well what the hell heres another one:
///dj danger mouse - "what more can i say" jayz's lyrics, beatles bricks, and danger's architecture. "we'll see what happens when i no longer exist."
12/2/05
i am not anna nicole smith 12/02/05
Subject : I am not anna nicole smith
Posted Date: : Dec 2, 2005 6:37 PM
She is white. I am black. Our similarities pretty much end there. She attempted to make a living with her acting and endless breast enhancements (to the point where she could literally use her tits for extra shelving or a convenient t.v. dinner tray holder or even a nice crevase for catching stray crumbs when eating crunch n munch popcorn while jetting through the l.a. freeways), and only ended up alieniating every living person on the face of the earth except maybe david hasselhoff and a few perverted little kids who had no concept of what a beautiful woman really is anyway. then again david hasselhoff isnt really a person so that leaves like .000000001 percent of the population who could look at her and have thoughts other than murder/divine punishment/"retribution-for-womens-rights-though-i-am-a-die-hard-chauvanist" come to mind.
when she realized she couldnt act and no one was interested in seeing her, naked or clothed, she went gold digging with some dude 63 years her senior who died a year or so after they got hitched. I on the other hand am not banking on anything else except my ability to land that hottie who may or may not happen to be 63 years my senior and even if she did die in the year after i got us hitched and my name in the will it would still be the best damn year she ever had, god damn it! yes, i plan on becoming filthy rich through essentially servicing an older woman, but at least its not a dude, and at least i have her pleasure in mind. when you break it down its like any other job: you put in your time until theyre gone and bam! its time to retire to mutha fuckin rio forever and shag all day and drink all night with a view of one of the most beautiful landscapes on earth.
i mean, consider the alternative: i could work in a nursing home and shag the patients and get nothing out of it but a tiny pay check and union security. now you tell me you wouldnt pick the able bodied old lady with a fat wallet and a horny sand box over that poor bed ridden shmoe who will probably get you fired after your night of illicit passion. hmmmm... tabloid super star > washed up nurses assistant any day if you ask me. anna nicole isnt even a tabloid superstar. She's a pathetic example of excess gone awry and, sadly, very well documented through small distribution media that happens to be tabloidal in nature. she is a failure at life, where as i will be a resounding success because i will set out to do what i have always intended to do instead of pretending to be good at something im not by running around with two extra bald heads grafted to my chest.
$$$$ its all about the benjamins. plus i dont need any enhancing. that shits just shallow in that kind of extreme!11/24/05
breaking into the porn industry 11/24/05
Subject : breaking into the porn industry
Posted Date: : Nov 24, 2005 8:53 PM
how exactly does one become a porn star... as a guy....?
do you have to go find some start up website and audition. do you just mail in head shots or do you mail in head shots and money shots on paper bullseyes with ruler increments so they can assess all aspects of your appeal. do you just have to have a weird uncle no one talks about who lives out in hollywood california and is continually buying things he doesnt need with money he shouldnt have but somehow does? i dunno...
im just curious... its one of those things i suddenly feel i must know. like why the sky is blue. does someone just say hmmm.... i believe my penis is sufficiently large... i need to be a porn star. cuz i mean that is completely subjective. and what about those fat bastards with wee pricks... how the hell do they keep finding there way into my porn movies with decent looking chicks! personally it is offensive. the women get screened and the boys dont? baah! must not pay well... i need to know... i need answers... these are the deep questions my friend... the deep questions that puzzle my brain at night.
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