I won't say I will not continue to try to make myself happy. That's foolish and, honestly, a little bit petty and a lot of bit lie no matter whose mouth it comes out of. I do and will (most of the time). Sometimes I completely screw it up and ruin everything for all of us. Life is about that sometimes. Let's begin and find our ending and hopefully put a bow on it so we can assault the next stronghold.
We're a consumer organism. Advancement, the byproduct. That's easy to yank out of the air because it's been floating around there since I was a kid. "We don't make stuff anymore!" "We export everything!" "We import everything!" And on and on and on. It's very easy to get lost in macro markets and who owes whom X amount of ... have you ever watched a history show?
A show where they talk about ancient constructs or modern constructs or ancient economies or modern economies or ancient populations or modern populations? Have you ever watched a speculative show where they talk about what could be at X time in Y space if A and B happen or if C continues to happen or if D changes to a ridiculous extent and ceases to be or metastasizes into some sort of creature all it's own? Have you ever watched the news or an informative program or a program garbed as one that is vested in speculation or sometimes vested in pure facts?
If you have not laughed, laugh the next time you watch one. Not because what they're saying is true or false. Not because what they're saying could be true or could be false and massive death or infinite life may be just around the corner. Not because what they're saying is a ridiculous analogy or because what they are saying makes no damn sense at all given what we know about the world, given how long human beings have been recording information and analyzing information and the fact that even the people that were completely off were still right by a few degrees and it's largely been a war of precision and infomatic attrition.
Laugh because it is hilarious when they tell you the heart pumps enough blood in your life time to fill an olympic swimming pool. Okay, that's not that outlandish. Bad example. Are you laughing yet? Laugh when they tell you the sun produces as much energy as two billion nuclear power plants over the course of their lifetimes in a single second. Laugh when you hear the Hoover dam can power 900,000 refrigerators for ten days with one day of it's output. Laugh when you know a bullet packs the same punch from a .357 as 200 horse power driving a single 30 cm diesel piston pushing a ten mile rod one inch into glacial ice. The scales get insanely arbitrary, but sound impressive.
We're not a consumer organism. Advancement is the byproduct. Want does make excellent bedfellows, though. Maybe it's just the people I know, or choose to know and the ones I choose to not associate with. Yeah there are a lot of consumers. It gets me down. Who doesn't it get down? Silly question. Programs and users. It get's depressing. On this little operating system. It does. I'm not going to lie and even if I did, you'd know. Consumers give the rest of 'Merica a bad rap.
Where you going to put it? What's your percentage of consumer to user? Well, if you must know and you must because we must... 30% - 70%. The thirty percent gets all the play though. Eventually the 70% become dull eyed. The economy does love the 30%, but some of them, many of them keep the seventy employed or at least in cummed.
The other best two words in the English language? You guessed it: "I'm cumming." And no, that's still not three words. Niggler. I'm on to you and your detail oriented cant.
I came to this point what for was for this: (partly to make a cup of tea and nod off to sleep knowing my books are clear for whatever's next but also the following point) driving through an upscale neighborhood, enclave, everything was out for display in the mid afternoon light. Every garage had a car parked outside of it. Every garage was parked outside of high square footage whatever you want to call it, shoulder to shoulder with the one beside it. Parked outside each was a fit human being. Parked beside them was a fit child or bicycle or motor bike or domesticated animal. Parked beside them was a very well attended tree, beside it a clean swatch of cement and occasionally a glittering sign or hydrant. Parked between them was a fine manhole cover. All of it a strange display.
All of it begging to be wanted. Not to be contrarian. All of it unreal. All of it horribly unreal. All of it violently upsetting at it's worst and unsettling at it's least. Who want's to live in a gift shop? Do you really want to know those people? Do you really want perfect? Do you really want to consume that violently? By all means, take care. Take care and maintain and perform and do not give in to kipple. Kipple only breeds more kipple. It's disconcerting.
Yes, my kingdom is of sand and tied together bits, but they're well taken care of bits. That, I do not mind. When you want me to want yours because someone informed you that it is something to be wanted because someone taught them that it is something to be wanted it get's a little gross and wretchworthy. It get's a little arson worthy because I wonder what you'd be without it. If you'd still be you. Ostentaaaaaaaaaaagh! -tatious. Fueling the economy with your fanned feathers.
My own hang up. I know we're a country of makers, producers, writers, painters, builders, organizers, innovators, capturers, battlers, warriors, sportsmen and women, communicators, grifters, flippers, destroyers, and outright creators. Why are the consumers the most flagrant?
I feel bad taking money sometimes. Earned money. I can't remember the last time I outright stole something from someone and didn't tell the person I stole it from what I did and why within 48 hours. That doesn't count as stealing. Especially when I give it in it's original state or better than I left it, right back to them. It's aggravating. I would be so much further ahead if I could steal better. I would like to think. I dunno if that would work out. I don't believe so. I feel bad taking money sometimes and I have to remember why I had to convert to pay for play a couple years ago. Allow me to relate it briefly. It's a very short, kind of funny story.
One day someone asked me to help them move furniture. After another round of my long standing slug fest with who is and who is not a friend, I realized I could not continue to accept a hug and a few beers for my services. The first time I did it, it was a great time and chummy and sexy and kind of fun to laugh and live and love and help build a new space. It was fantastic. It was downright fantastic. The second time was the same. The second, too. The third, as well. The four, you guessed it, the same.
A sensation began to creep in. A very woeful sensation. As I filled the gas tank and counted bruises and counted unvitations to normal events and counted invitations to things I could not attend for lack of fuel and bodily integrity it dawned on me that myself and my peers were no longer fighting the same war.
One of the great equalizers is college. University. Call it what you will. We're all, more or less, fighting the same battles: studying, trying to eat, trying to have money on the side for fun, trying to pay for housing, trying to connect, (some of us) trying to work too, trying to keep up with family. The war has changed and it took me years and years afterwards to identify the change.
I was doing too many favors. Far too many favors. Far far too many favors. My peers and I are not in the same trenches anymore. Not nearly as close as they were. When they fire their rifle their elbow does not knock my shoulder. When I miss a beat and drop my canteen it does not land near their boot heels at all. When I want a smoke I cannot shout for one and catch their ear. When I slop lunch at the mess hall they do not hear my fork and I do not hear theirs when they do the same. We're on entirely different fronts altogether. Not that we're not still friends, bunk mates, and lifers. We're not all infantry anymore.
What I would and have done for them for free, nearly without asking, no longer applies. Changing watch shifts means little to them and the world to me still. An extra half apple means the world to me. To them, it's something to throw in a pocket for later, ya know, just in case. An extra magazine is the world to me. To them, it's something to leave at home because they're operating beneath air superiority and, hell, the whole god damn squad will be resupplied at the push of a button if need be. The war has changed for many and damn near all of them. Not for me, though. Not yet. When a comm line has been shelled to hell I have to army crawl out to fix it, but they don't.
So now, when they ask me to, it's not a favor anymore. It's mercenary work. I hope it doesn't distance them. I hope they understand. If anything, I hope they are amazed I am only now realizing it. Realizing that "smoke em if you got em" still applies, but now, if you ask me for one of mine I will ask you if you have my back when we get back home after we've shared the same trench because when you get shot you get to go back to the forward base and when I get shot, I get to sit down with a bowie knife and a lighter and a rag and a few minutes, and hope it doesn't get infected.
We're not nearly as close as we used to be. I miss those days. I miss loaning out clean dishes with the only caveat being you had to return them. It's pay for play now. On the big stuff. The little stuff, as long as you can promise I will not get shot, I'll still do for you. May not be the same war, but as long as your fighting, I'll fucking see what I can do and keep my own chatter to do or die please and thank yous.
Do not get offended if I flip out because you spent $250 dollars on a fucking chair. A fucking chair!? Are you kidding me? Different theaters, I know, but that could have kept me and my unit supplied for two months. Just saying, mickey.
A clean ship is a very happy ship. Returning to kipple. It really does breed. Kipple makes it difficult to wake up. More difficult even to think once you are awake. It breeds violence too. They never spoke about that part of it. Kipple particles that flake off of the kipple and get breathed in and become a part of your insides and work their way into your nerves like heartworms. The effect isn't the same as a neurological disorder that causes you to lose motor control and not like the effect (if they existed) of ingesting some sort of nanobot that takes over your musculature or even the effect (I would assume) of incorporating some sort of particulate life form or virus that forced signals. Breathing in kipple dust provokes a profound loss of fidelity. It is very important to keep a clean ship.
More importantly, in the vacuum of space, it is critically important to know what is wrong exactly, or as close to exactly, to diagnose the problem effectively and come to a solution quickly. The margin for error is thin. Part way out of the necessity for distance and part way out of the necessity for the fact that calls for support will take a lot of time to travel to the nearest waypoint or planet or orbital station that you happen to be near and an answer will not, regardless of distance, be able to be assumed available before your ships integrity has been completely compromised and you have to either float until you are picked up or hope the entire structure was lost somewhere close enough to another grave yard to piece something back together. The bonus of being a ship builder and engineer by trade and everything else by passion. It gets hairy sometimes.
Whatever planet I'm on, whatever city I occupy, whatever vessel I visit, whatever waypoint I frequent, when I talk about going home, I'm talking about my ship in orbit and my airlock with my key code and my pressure settings and o2 mix. Sometimes I leave I leave the radio on because it's nice to come home to tunes banging through the tunnels.
Admittedly, we've learned to entertain ourselves. There is no slight to the galaxy outside ourselves or Sol. We just don't get along. I remember the shit times and the good times dragging around the inner system. It was pretty fun sometimes. It was pretty hell too. There's a disconnect. I understand that. I'm not going to stage a war against it. The book taking precedence over the rest is the composition of the Spacefarer's Bible. Not to be confused with the Hitchhiker's Guide. It will be a handbook (so I have to keep it short) on how to not screw up when you are responsible for every single last little thing that happens to and for and within your ship. It's taking some precedence. Should I even be talking about it here? I don't know how that shit works. Let's stop cussing so fucking much. How about that?
I woke up yesterday with the realization that since the cessation of communication with my birth parents life has been a very pax by comparison. I had to remind myself not to forget new memories while running from the blacked out ones. I was going willy nilly, erase that one, and that one, n'at, n'at, n'at!!!! I think everything that should be glass is finally glass and god damn I feel pretty nice about it. I will not say mission accomplished just yet, but almost. Not 'til they're dead and I can move freely. Then, yes. Camo theory. The double fake. The triple fake? Off grid: suspicious. On grid: innocuous. Off grid: hello. On grid: hello. Who has the discipline for that?
Do not forget to look up. Every summer I think about and pain over how hard summer is going to hurt me. It's hot. It's bright. It's humid. The days are long. The nights are too short. The world is busy. Kids run everywhere screaming. Teens judge you and you want to knock them down with a well placed baseball to the teeth and then beat their ears in with rocks for having the nerve to say shit to someone they do not fucking know. And the little children run around bewildered at how green everything can be and you want to spin around in circles with them too and pick flowers and the littler ones just scream and cry because they're too hot and the pool is too cold and you want to scream too because it seems like good fun and one hell of a way to get to a good nap for a few hours until it cools off enough to sleep alright if you want to or run around alright if you want until you're too tired to run around and then take a good long nap under the stars or maybe go fishing and start a fire and find some dumb ass tweens to beat to death with a rock you found at the river while they're getting high and being rebels in the woods behind your fishing spot or find the guy who lives there each year or open your mouth in the 10 A.M. sun shower and just look up at the sky and the thunderheads and the moon all up at once and see lightning at ten in the morning. Don't forget to look up when the air is hot and thin at night and the stars come clearer.
I know I'm not a write off or disposable. Scratch that, I am disposable. That I do know. I'm okay with that. The challenge is making yourself indisposable for stretches. Making yourself available. Laying out the factory floor. Not changing the blueprint for the map's sake, but changing it because you've changed. Because we've changed. "WHO DO YOU WORK FOR" shaken by the collar. I work for you. Don't you remember me? I came in during operation sea hawk midway through mission wolf noose. You don't remember me?
Save things for a good time. Save nothing for a perfect time.
///Django Django - "Zumm Zumm" sometimes you yawn and realize you still have 8 bit roots
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 walk out. Show all posts
Showing posts with label walk out. Show all posts
9/12/13
Dissolving (some) Isolation, September 11th, Launch, and Laughter (touching roots)
It's been a long time. It had to be. I had a lot of things I needed to think about and learn an acceptable way to grasp, but I did! That's good. You know what else is good? Coke's slogan. I thought about it all day when I heard the commercial and now I can't remember what the hell it was, but I'm sure it'll come back to me tomorrow when I'm not thinking.
I will think of coke and remember the slogan for Coke that cracked me up because it was so dual apt they couldn't have done it by accident. Look it up. I don't assign homework in general and almost as a rule, but look it up. I was just thinking though, I have never assigned homework unless I had to. I kind of make a bad teacher in that way sometimes. I think that's the way it should be though; if you always come to class and never miss one you should be as well informed as the person who never goes to class, but reads the textbook cover to cover.
Sorry, I got distracted. I didn't know where to start and I've been looking for a way to start again, but nothing has lead back here the way I expected it to and then I was all out for starting points and so far away that I was all in for whatever I could find to begin again and I found what I was not happy to find but I'll throw it off from the edge of the rooftop and watch it fall down and try to make sense of it. Okay? Let's go:
September 11th. The day that changed 'merica. It didn't. America is still what it was. Only a little more paranoid. This day used to have a little more bite. I used to remember the servicemen I know and knew (not because they died, we just stopped being as close as we used to be) and the new ones I've met while fishing the river on a slow Thursday. I used to remember them with incredible reverence. Not so much anymore.
The one's still in are in because they want to be. The ones that are out are out on good terms and very well compensated, on the pay scale I aspire to climb toward that kind of stability, and have awesome resumes. I guess that still burns me a little on this day. Getting near perfect scores on the entrance test and damn near perfect on the physicals and getting bounced on psychological failures. The whole talk my dad gave me about "the family standard of excellence." I didn't want to cry or weep. I just wanted to pop out of existence with a genie wink when going in and making it as an infantryman and working a way up could be viewed as tarnishing "the family standard of excellence." I still makes me laugh out loud today to say it aloud.
Part of what makes me laugh is that, incidentally, he was right. After taking a year or two to think about it a little harder, I can see that I would have been a skittish, trigger happy, blood hungry, question asking, thinking, liability to the cause. I would have gotten myself and other people killed, given a uniform, a weapon, and a theater. That's just coincidence, though, pure coincidence, so it doesn't really count. At all.
Serendipity.
"Are you dead or are you sleeping, God, I sure hope you are dead." Dealing with a little paranoia break, but that's neither here nor there.
September is also the anniversary of the longest intimate relationship I ever was able to be a part of and it was fantastic. I forgot the date the first three years we were together. Finally made the brilliant move to add it to my phone. It stayed there after we broke up. I can vaguely remember some of the gifts, one of the gifts, I gave her. I think the others were holiday related. I can remember trying to figure out how to get flowers delivered to her office and the whole runaround I got. I can also vividly remember the violent times. The times when my brain fractured. The times when truth was too much for me to eat.
I am laughing because it is remembering the times when, more than anything else, I wanted the laws of interpersonal physics to suspend themselves. I do not know, though. Life is long. Who else are you going to travel the spectrum of drugs with when you're too old to work and done everything else and the prospect of shagging is as interesting as scrubbing your bathtub? Blackouts. Retirement is going to be an amazing thing.
So, September 11th used to be like holding a revolver in my mouth and pulling the trigger until the chamber clicked over several times while fingering an empty casing from the gun range. Not anymore. I'm passed it. Nothing's going to change my world, sweetness.
We will modify, sometimes ad hoc, we will destroy and build, we will continue to drive toward some kind of perfect state, but we will mow down no one else along the way. We will remain honest and not overly dramatic, maybe, we will masturbate to idle thoughts of bodily violence, we will maintain course and get to know the new ship, we will cultivate friendship, and build ourselves into better people instead of weapons. We will.
I don't want to spend too much time on this. I've been trying to structure my paragraphs better and slash the blocks into verses. The poet that keeps clawing it's way out of my mouth. I don't want to spend too much time on this and I'm three hours in so let's call it close.
I love you. I do. I shouldn't. If I could bury you each and be the one with the shovel over night, I would cum. It is a strange thing, I know. I love helping people, so much. There is no replacing the feeling of helping someone solve a problem and secure a future outcome 100%. 100% assured that what they wanted was what they were going to get. Nothing replaces that. Wherever you are.
I've been working to dissolve some isolation. It's important. An important thing. Once I finish the project I am working alone I am going to need to be able to interact on a normal basis to get another job to fill the money void. Money drives everything, doesn't it? More than that is learning how to interact with people without a group to diffuse the messy bits to. It's easy to do when there are many other magnetic orientations to diffuse field lines to. Not so much otherwise.
I am approaching a point where isolation will become counterproductive. Flat out. For a time. There are many options for filling the counter point to weigh it into a cantilever support system. Ad hocced. Performing the expense reports in my mind. It's not going to work. I think that is part of growing up. Growing the capacity to do that and know with some certainty what is bound to fail when it comes to tolerable and intolerable acts of personality.
I am getting closer toward dissolving some aspects of isolation. One finger on the trigger that will close fire bulkheads. I don't know what process or loop or instantiation will trigger something terrible, but I am prepared to eject instantaneously. I'm not your project. I am project enough for myself. Here come old flattop.
We are you friends. We are your friends. We are shoving off from the scrap yard brand new in many ways. The new ship is troubleshot and configured. There is nothing more to it than to do it. We are launching. We are reentering circles and seeing what snow will fall and where and what kinds of sculpture we can make of it until the sun comes up and melts it all. We are launching. Granted we were stocked up and manned up a week prior, but we didn't have the heart at the wheel to give chase to open sea. We do know. We are ready. Cobbled together from many different pieces, we are ready to see if it works. Shove off, baby.
Getting back to laughter. Getting back to what makes us laugh. Back to the roots of what made me start in the first place. Gain some understanding. At first it was a reaching out, it became a gps, and now it's a tough out. I don't like to think inwardly. As tough an out as they come. It's still a map. I'm on the far edge of it and it keeps drawing beyond the dark part of the space of influence. I think I am getting back to laughter.
Back to being able to really, really, indulge in the spaces life does afford for taking nothing too seriously and taking everything too seriously. That magical place where living life, at least the way you understand it presently, like it is your last day jives with the fact that, barring absolute worst outcomes in tandem, it probably isn't.
You're going to have to live with, regardless of how you or someone else can spin it, what you did today.
I want to spend that time laughing. We're launching again. We are equipped for combat, need it arise, we are equipped for food, it will arise, and we are equipped to question ourselves and somethings (not everythings) anew. We are equipped to observe and equipped for some closeness. We have an L six two D load out and we are ready to rock.
I am perpetually intermittently disappointed with myself. Lack of ability to grow networks combined with... grows. I wonder if I am some kind of cancer embodied sometimes. A walking carcinogen. You go back to her and I go back to... I feel like I am in a very long race to eliminate myself or as many people as I can take down at once. It's nothing personal. It's sporting. Not immediately but, I don't know.
Some days, walking down the street, I look at myself in the store front windows reflected, and it's a pretty damn cool thing to see that ambulating to wherever and enjoy that remove. There's no vanity there for me. Just trekking and knowing that we're doing it. We're doing it! We are out of doors and doing alright. I don't love the birds looking back sometimes with that "not if you were the last man on Earth" look. What the hell is that about?
We're doing this. I am as over myself as I'll ever be. It's passed time to laugh again. Laugh about little things genuinely. It's easy to see the world as whole. It's passed time to really chew on it again. Launch probes. Explore and navigate from afar or as far as possible, but do not be afraid to take readings from the machines you employ. It's time, however briefly, to try again to square up vision with reality and you'll never know how far off you are, or've been, unless that depleted round sails downrange.
///DJ? Acucrack - "Allegra" ... this is the soundtrack to stalking yourself. Searching out, the movie score. This is, bassed up, the chase; the quiet chase between functional and passable (between blending and fitting in).
I will think of coke and remember the slogan for Coke that cracked me up because it was so dual apt they couldn't have done it by accident. Look it up. I don't assign homework in general and almost as a rule, but look it up. I was just thinking though, I have never assigned homework unless I had to. I kind of make a bad teacher in that way sometimes. I think that's the way it should be though; if you always come to class and never miss one you should be as well informed as the person who never goes to class, but reads the textbook cover to cover.
Sorry, I got distracted. I didn't know where to start and I've been looking for a way to start again, but nothing has lead back here the way I expected it to and then I was all out for starting points and so far away that I was all in for whatever I could find to begin again and I found what I was not happy to find but I'll throw it off from the edge of the rooftop and watch it fall down and try to make sense of it. Okay? Let's go:
September 11th. The day that changed 'merica. It didn't. America is still what it was. Only a little more paranoid. This day used to have a little more bite. I used to remember the servicemen I know and knew (not because they died, we just stopped being as close as we used to be) and the new ones I've met while fishing the river on a slow Thursday. I used to remember them with incredible reverence. Not so much anymore.
The one's still in are in because they want to be. The ones that are out are out on good terms and very well compensated, on the pay scale I aspire to climb toward that kind of stability, and have awesome resumes. I guess that still burns me a little on this day. Getting near perfect scores on the entrance test and damn near perfect on the physicals and getting bounced on psychological failures. The whole talk my dad gave me about "the family standard of excellence." I didn't want to cry or weep. I just wanted to pop out of existence with a genie wink when going in and making it as an infantryman and working a way up could be viewed as tarnishing "the family standard of excellence." I still makes me laugh out loud today to say it aloud.
Part of what makes me laugh is that, incidentally, he was right. After taking a year or two to think about it a little harder, I can see that I would have been a skittish, trigger happy, blood hungry, question asking, thinking, liability to the cause. I would have gotten myself and other people killed, given a uniform, a weapon, and a theater. That's just coincidence, though, pure coincidence, so it doesn't really count. At all.
Serendipity.
"Are you dead or are you sleeping, God, I sure hope you are dead." Dealing with a little paranoia break, but that's neither here nor there.
September is also the anniversary of the longest intimate relationship I ever was able to be a part of and it was fantastic. I forgot the date the first three years we were together. Finally made the brilliant move to add it to my phone. It stayed there after we broke up. I can vaguely remember some of the gifts, one of the gifts, I gave her. I think the others were holiday related. I can remember trying to figure out how to get flowers delivered to her office and the whole runaround I got. I can also vividly remember the violent times. The times when my brain fractured. The times when truth was too much for me to eat.
I am laughing because it is remembering the times when, more than anything else, I wanted the laws of interpersonal physics to suspend themselves. I do not know, though. Life is long. Who else are you going to travel the spectrum of drugs with when you're too old to work and done everything else and the prospect of shagging is as interesting as scrubbing your bathtub? Blackouts. Retirement is going to be an amazing thing.
So, September 11th used to be like holding a revolver in my mouth and pulling the trigger until the chamber clicked over several times while fingering an empty casing from the gun range. Not anymore. I'm passed it. Nothing's going to change my world, sweetness.
We will modify, sometimes ad hoc, we will destroy and build, we will continue to drive toward some kind of perfect state, but we will mow down no one else along the way. We will remain honest and not overly dramatic, maybe, we will masturbate to idle thoughts of bodily violence, we will maintain course and get to know the new ship, we will cultivate friendship, and build ourselves into better people instead of weapons. We will.
I don't want to spend too much time on this. I've been trying to structure my paragraphs better and slash the blocks into verses. The poet that keeps clawing it's way out of my mouth. I don't want to spend too much time on this and I'm three hours in so let's call it close.
I love you. I do. I shouldn't. If I could bury you each and be the one with the shovel over night, I would cum. It is a strange thing, I know. I love helping people, so much. There is no replacing the feeling of helping someone solve a problem and secure a future outcome 100%. 100% assured that what they wanted was what they were going to get. Nothing replaces that. Wherever you are.
I've been working to dissolve some isolation. It's important. An important thing. Once I finish the project I am working alone I am going to need to be able to interact on a normal basis to get another job to fill the money void. Money drives everything, doesn't it? More than that is learning how to interact with people without a group to diffuse the messy bits to. It's easy to do when there are many other magnetic orientations to diffuse field lines to. Not so much otherwise.
I am approaching a point where isolation will become counterproductive. Flat out. For a time. There are many options for filling the counter point to weigh it into a cantilever support system. Ad hocced. Performing the expense reports in my mind. It's not going to work. I think that is part of growing up. Growing the capacity to do that and know with some certainty what is bound to fail when it comes to tolerable and intolerable acts of personality.
I am getting closer toward dissolving some aspects of isolation. One finger on the trigger that will close fire bulkheads. I don't know what process or loop or instantiation will trigger something terrible, but I am prepared to eject instantaneously. I'm not your project. I am project enough for myself. Here come old flattop.
We are you friends. We are your friends. We are shoving off from the scrap yard brand new in many ways. The new ship is troubleshot and configured. There is nothing more to it than to do it. We are launching. We are reentering circles and seeing what snow will fall and where and what kinds of sculpture we can make of it until the sun comes up and melts it all. We are launching. Granted we were stocked up and manned up a week prior, but we didn't have the heart at the wheel to give chase to open sea. We do know. We are ready. Cobbled together from many different pieces, we are ready to see if it works. Shove off, baby.
Getting back to laughter. Getting back to what makes us laugh. Back to the roots of what made me start in the first place. Gain some understanding. At first it was a reaching out, it became a gps, and now it's a tough out. I don't like to think inwardly. As tough an out as they come. It's still a map. I'm on the far edge of it and it keeps drawing beyond the dark part of the space of influence. I think I am getting back to laughter.
Back to being able to really, really, indulge in the spaces life does afford for taking nothing too seriously and taking everything too seriously. That magical place where living life, at least the way you understand it presently, like it is your last day jives with the fact that, barring absolute worst outcomes in tandem, it probably isn't.
You're going to have to live with, regardless of how you or someone else can spin it, what you did today.
I want to spend that time laughing. We're launching again. We are equipped for combat, need it arise, we are equipped for food, it will arise, and we are equipped to question ourselves and somethings (not everythings) anew. We are equipped to observe and equipped for some closeness. We have an L six two D load out and we are ready to rock.
I am perpetually intermittently disappointed with myself. Lack of ability to grow networks combined with... grows. I wonder if I am some kind of cancer embodied sometimes. A walking carcinogen. You go back to her and I go back to... I feel like I am in a very long race to eliminate myself or as many people as I can take down at once. It's nothing personal. It's sporting. Not immediately but, I don't know.
Some days, walking down the street, I look at myself in the store front windows reflected, and it's a pretty damn cool thing to see that ambulating to wherever and enjoy that remove. There's no vanity there for me. Just trekking and knowing that we're doing it. We're doing it! We are out of doors and doing alright. I don't love the birds looking back sometimes with that "not if you were the last man on Earth" look. What the hell is that about?
We're doing this. I am as over myself as I'll ever be. It's passed time to laugh again. Laugh about little things genuinely. It's easy to see the world as whole. It's passed time to really chew on it again. Launch probes. Explore and navigate from afar or as far as possible, but do not be afraid to take readings from the machines you employ. It's time, however briefly, to try again to square up vision with reality and you'll never know how far off you are, or've been, unless that depleted round sails downrange.
///DJ? Acucrack - "Allegra" ... this is the soundtrack to stalking yourself. Searching out, the movie score. This is, bassed up, the chase; the quiet chase between functional and passable (between blending and fitting in).
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.
5/7/11
Stand Up Act 3 (the sex chapter part 1)
Act 2
So I'm stumbling around myself at this point, now that we've formally met, so I figure now is probably the optimal time to get the sex diatribe out of the way, because every comic with some semblance of an edge has a short few thoughts on the matter. I feel a bit reserved here even beginning to begin about something so taboo and my main concern is to keep it from becoming your typical open mic gutter ball nonsense.
Let's begin by observing that every single magazine toting 100 sex moves to get your man off is patently not worth buying for the following reasons:
I'm kidding. Do I really have to go into how 95 of the things those editors tell you to do in the privacy of your own home are things you don't have to do to please a person of the opposite sex? Or maybe they are. I've never been married. I suppose perhaps if your life becomes something like opening up a refrigerator and already knowing what's in there, but gotdamnit a man's gotta eat, maybe you do need 100 tips so that you can discard 99 of them and try one and feel like you're some sort of wild animal because if you were a decent person you wouldn't follow tips outlaid in a magazine distributed nationally and vetted by a committee of people whose only goal in life is to produce something so inoffensive that their jobs would not be jeopardized by its dissemination. I'm crazy. I just followed the advice of something published in the cosmopolitan and it told me to finger my husbands bung hole because that would drive him wild... or something. Hopefully you understand the absurdity of that so I don't have to go backward and break it down. Hopefully you don't read Cosmo because I mean, after all, you're here and I would like to think of myself as very uncosmo by default which is what would have attracted you to an open mic in the first place. Very uncosmo thoughts.
So I have it in my head to lay this out in three parts. Why three parts, you ask? Mainly to give people the opportunity to walk out before things get too hot and heavy for them, as hot and heavy as things can get at an optional survey of sound and life things. I forgot where I was going to begin with in this iteration though so fuck it. Be careful though. Eventually I will stumble on this thread again and have something to say about something and then the jig will be up and not all the tea in China will save you from what is read. What has been seen cannot be unseen. At least not yet, but I hear there's an app for that coming soon. Not as great as zombie edition Playstation 12, but almost as awesome. I was thinking it might be called Iwipe, but that is just way too easy. Maybe Iblack, if African Americans get over themselves by then and see the word play there for getting your game face on in the face of oncoming, body crushing, defeat on the field of verbal mental sport.
I was considering that I will live to see the hundredth anniversary of the Holocaust though. Very unsexy, but I'm sure there will be many an observance and remembrance for something as world changing and visible, because let's face facts it wasn't the absolute worst holocaust to blight mankind and it won't be the last, but it was the most visible and stirring human crisis that I can remember learning about (that has for the shear depth of information blotted out many a closer more painful and relevant crisis since), and that's a lot of qualifiers and hedges in a string. Basically I struck upon the remembrance of the beginnings of American slavery and I wondered why that is not on it's three hundredth or four hundredth or I don't know and don't really care all that much iteration of anniversarial celebration or remembrance. And then I remembered that our diaspora joined us to the fabric of our nation and our world much more closely than theirs because we didn't have a unifying culture, but a diversifying one and then I felt like I was being a racist and then I laughed because I mean really, am I going to live for another forty years anyway? Probably not.
It did make me wonder what the equation for the production, direction, and Cannes entry of Holocaust films was. I think the time is fast approaching when the more current world changing cultural near extinctions will fade into irrelevant obscurity in the face of modern day challenges and changes. Time scars all wounds or something to that effect.
At any rate, sex will still be around so some segment of the car drivin sex havin populace will still be quite content to do what it does and to hell with history. But seriously genocide is bad so I'll make an effort to be sexier and more hilarious because I'm pretty sure I'm depressing myself and that is not funny. Or is it? Cue Sex and the City segue music.
So I'm stumbling around myself at this point, now that we've formally met, so I figure now is probably the optimal time to get the sex diatribe out of the way, because every comic with some semblance of an edge has a short few thoughts on the matter. I feel a bit reserved here even beginning to begin about something so taboo and my main concern is to keep it from becoming your typical open mic gutter ball nonsense.
Let's begin by observing that every single magazine toting 100 sex moves to get your man off is patently not worth buying for the following reasons:
I'm kidding. Do I really have to go into how 95 of the things those editors tell you to do in the privacy of your own home are things you don't have to do to please a person of the opposite sex? Or maybe they are. I've never been married. I suppose perhaps if your life becomes something like opening up a refrigerator and already knowing what's in there, but gotdamnit a man's gotta eat, maybe you do need 100 tips so that you can discard 99 of them and try one and feel like you're some sort of wild animal because if you were a decent person you wouldn't follow tips outlaid in a magazine distributed nationally and vetted by a committee of people whose only goal in life is to produce something so inoffensive that their jobs would not be jeopardized by its dissemination. I'm crazy. I just followed the advice of something published in the cosmopolitan and it told me to finger my husbands bung hole because that would drive him wild... or something. Hopefully you understand the absurdity of that so I don't have to go backward and break it down. Hopefully you don't read Cosmo because I mean, after all, you're here and I would like to think of myself as very uncosmo by default which is what would have attracted you to an open mic in the first place. Very uncosmo thoughts.
So I have it in my head to lay this out in three parts. Why three parts, you ask? Mainly to give people the opportunity to walk out before things get too hot and heavy for them, as hot and heavy as things can get at an optional survey of sound and life things. I forgot where I was going to begin with in this iteration though so fuck it. Be careful though. Eventually I will stumble on this thread again and have something to say about something and then the jig will be up and not all the tea in China will save you from what is read. What has been seen cannot be unseen. At least not yet, but I hear there's an app for that coming soon. Not as great as zombie edition Playstation 12, but almost as awesome. I was thinking it might be called Iwipe, but that is just way too easy. Maybe Iblack, if African Americans get over themselves by then and see the word play there for getting your game face on in the face of oncoming, body crushing, defeat on the field of verbal mental sport.
I was considering that I will live to see the hundredth anniversary of the Holocaust though. Very unsexy, but I'm sure there will be many an observance and remembrance for something as world changing and visible, because let's face facts it wasn't the absolute worst holocaust to blight mankind and it won't be the last, but it was the most visible and stirring human crisis that I can remember learning about (that has for the shear depth of information blotted out many a closer more painful and relevant crisis since), and that's a lot of qualifiers and hedges in a string. Basically I struck upon the remembrance of the beginnings of American slavery and I wondered why that is not on it's three hundredth or four hundredth or I don't know and don't really care all that much iteration of anniversarial celebration or remembrance. And then I remembered that our diaspora joined us to the fabric of our nation and our world much more closely than theirs because we didn't have a unifying culture, but a diversifying one and then I felt like I was being a racist and then I laughed because I mean really, am I going to live for another forty years anyway? Probably not.
It did make me wonder what the equation for the production, direction, and Cannes entry of Holocaust films was. I think the time is fast approaching when the more current world changing cultural near extinctions will fade into irrelevant obscurity in the face of modern day challenges and changes. Time scars all wounds or something to that effect.
At any rate, sex will still be around so some segment of the car drivin sex havin populace will still be quite content to do what it does and to hell with history. But seriously genocide is bad so I'll make an effort to be sexier and more hilarious because I'm pretty sure I'm depressing myself and that is not funny. Or is it? Cue Sex and the City segue music.
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