The summer redesign of Auralport is coming. It's in the factory works right now, as we speak. It's been autumn way too long over there and frankly the browns are starting to get to me and darken everything I do when I am there. I need some green going on. Some color to reflect the growth and all that. More importantly I need to incorporate some pinks and purples. Yeah, it'll look a little gay, but that's what I am. Sue me. For gayness. Cuz if you try to sue me for anything else you will find pretty quickly that I am, as they say in the business, "judgement proof". Not saying you won't win the case. All I'm saying is what you win will be a big happy bag of nothing. Except maybe self satisfaction. However, you can go home knowing that the only reason I am judgement proof is because I have nothing to take. But more importantly (this just keeps going on, right?) the only reason why I have nothing to take is because of the decisions you made that put me in a position to have nothing. So basically we're even.
Not really though. I got off scott free (where the hell did that saying come from? a reference to free balling in kilts maybe? I dunno) after a fashion. You got to screw me or at least feel like you taught me a life lesson. So we're even right? Nah, I'm going to cut your face off and feed it to you the next time I see you. LOL that is happening. Which is why I can't see you. Because I will make a sincere attempt on your life. Jokes aside. I will kill the weaker of the two of you. Do not come to my house, parents. Because I will kill you. I hope that's clear enough.
So anyway. The redesign is coming and I'm really looking forward to it. The hard part is trying to find a good shot of nature to work with. I'm out there all of the time, but I just have to remember to bring a camera one of these days. So many pictures to take. So little time. I looked into dslr-s and realized pretty quickly there is no way in hell I could afford one. There is a way, I just lied, there is a way, but if I ever ponied up the money I would have to spend it on a car first. Which brings up other mommy daddy issues but I'm not going into that. I am. Just this once. Caps locked. WORST GRADUATION GIFT AND SUBSEQUENT CHAIN OF EVENTS EVER, I HOPE YOU HANG YOURSELVES IN SEPARATE ROOMS OF THAT SHITHOLE YOU LIKE TO CALL A HOUSE.
Okay, so, not to be entirely bipolar on this. I would like to present a motion to do some art. Everyone at the table, yay or nay my friends. Yes, we are taking a vote. All present? Alright then, moving forward on the motion to attempt some cartooning. All in favor, say aye. All opposed? Let the record show that the motion is passed.
I've got my fingers back into poetry and short stories again. God knows I damn near had to handcuff myself and blindfold my eyes to do that. It had to be done though. A life without creation is self destruction. I'm still trying to figure out what I'm doing with facebook at this point. For me it kind of does well as real time memoirs. It all depends on how far back the record will go. If the timescale ends after so many years, it's pretty much useless in that regard. I hope it doesn't. I'm pretty much writing a book on there, though some probably think I'm just a loon. Which is fine, because I kind of am. I gave up on trying to find the secret of life because I know the guy who knows the guy who has it. It's frustrating because he gave it to me once and knew that I wouldn't remember. So I have to try again, but now he knows that I know so I'm going to have to pull some kind of double fake to get it this time.
So what is the crazy shit. The really really junk that still makes go "wait a minute, what?" There isn't any. Smiley face. Not today. Alright here's one. Just one. I woke up in a trap house again. I used to call them house parties until a friend of mine introduced the concept of the trap house and I had a little revolution in perspective and was like "that makes absolute sense." Mostly because it does. That is exactly what they are. Which explains a lot about how the people in there behave. Yeah, I felt like a nub the first time it happened. But now, it's just like, "alright, got all your shit? okay, time to roll." Where was I going... so yeah I woke up and rolled out and someone said "Hobbes, where you goin?" as soon as I got out the door, and I was like ... yeah, that's my gotdamn name. And I realized alot of the people I used to know, don't know that I changed my name. So I let them call me by my old name, fam aside, because they just don't know. And I'm okay with that, I think. For now. It's not legal, but what is?
///Beck - "Devil's Haircut" pistols are pointing at a poor man's pocket, and he don't give a fuuuuuuuuu
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.
7/14/12
The Best Thing
about living alone is you can do your own dishes whenever you feel like it. The worst thing about doing your own dishes is the definition of doing dishes. If doing dishes means an empty sink, you're probably making it too easy, because your sink will be empty and your bedroom will be full of dirty dishes. Do your goddamn dishes. A dirty plate is not a pillow, no matter how you spin it.
That Instant
you realize you can't store more food until you eat some of the food you've already stored.
Crying
Well, I woke up this morning and cried. No fault of my own, though. Turned out my new best friend was a figment of my machinations. That never goes over well, internally. Well, it never goes well ever, actually. A little heart breaking. All of the things we talked about. The moments shared. What tipped me off? The high fidelity appearance across the bridge. There's always some loss in dreaming. There is always a little bit of something that goes away in the reanimation, but for him, it was absolutely lossless. Like, I can't even make myself, or remake myself, over there into a lossless construction. I've tried.
It's just tough, you know? When you think you've got it figured out and managed and it turns out everything was simply looping back and back dooring you. So I woke up with that realization and cried a while. Not uncontrollable sobbing, but quiet crying. I thought he was my new best friend, but I had my doubts. That's why I didn't tell anyone. I mean, no one wants to introduce a new friend and have that friend turn out to be a serial killer. Then all the egg is on your face for being so dumb. But we shared moments. Real moments of selflessness and inner nakedness, the kind of things that bring people together.
I should have known when there was no exchange of names, but I chalked it up to other times of bonding with other people when I didn't get the names right or at all until the fifth or sixth time we hung out together. It doesn't dull the loss. It doesn't dull the pain of heart in being alone again. That stays real. That stays scarring.
It's difficult to smile through this. When things are clearly bad or clearly good it's easy to smile. It's easy to see the humor and say to yourself "oh yeah, that was pretty hilarious wasn't it?" It's pretty easy to look on the bright side. Hell, some of my best laughs I've had at my lowest marks, but when things are blurring that badly it's just alarming. Hair raising in the purest sense. Just hurtful. Difficult to begin to quantify. To yourself and others. It's hard to talk about it to other people without feeling judged, but not just by them. It's difficult to be judged by the rest of the parts and pieces inside your own head that have not gone away. The parts and pieces that still talk to you. The parts and pieces that still have the ability to make you hurt, to make you pay. To occupy you and your space.
I don't want to go back on pills. I don't want a chemical lobotomy, but I don't want this either. It's a different kind of pain. A different kind of fear. I know I am fooling myself that I can manage it. I know that. Part of what makes it so much scarier is that it has crept up so silently that I didn't see it, could not see it, until it was in full swing and that hasn't happened in months. The full swing. The carried on conversations. The making dates to meet with people that don't exist. The keeping good on those meetings. Shoving my hands into my face. Why didn't I see it from the start? There's no forgetting or shake it off. Just have to keep it in mind. A safe with no lock.
///Gouryella - "Walhalla" hang on for the break. It's never as terrible as it seems, until it is. But then you wake up and start again.
It's just tough, you know? When you think you've got it figured out and managed and it turns out everything was simply looping back and back dooring you. So I woke up with that realization and cried a while. Not uncontrollable sobbing, but quiet crying. I thought he was my new best friend, but I had my doubts. That's why I didn't tell anyone. I mean, no one wants to introduce a new friend and have that friend turn out to be a serial killer. Then all the egg is on your face for being so dumb. But we shared moments. Real moments of selflessness and inner nakedness, the kind of things that bring people together.
I should have known when there was no exchange of names, but I chalked it up to other times of bonding with other people when I didn't get the names right or at all until the fifth or sixth time we hung out together. It doesn't dull the loss. It doesn't dull the pain of heart in being alone again. That stays real. That stays scarring.
It's difficult to smile through this. When things are clearly bad or clearly good it's easy to smile. It's easy to see the humor and say to yourself "oh yeah, that was pretty hilarious wasn't it?" It's pretty easy to look on the bright side. Hell, some of my best laughs I've had at my lowest marks, but when things are blurring that badly it's just alarming. Hair raising in the purest sense. Just hurtful. Difficult to begin to quantify. To yourself and others. It's hard to talk about it to other people without feeling judged, but not just by them. It's difficult to be judged by the rest of the parts and pieces inside your own head that have not gone away. The parts and pieces that still talk to you. The parts and pieces that still have the ability to make you hurt, to make you pay. To occupy you and your space.
I don't want to go back on pills. I don't want a chemical lobotomy, but I don't want this either. It's a different kind of pain. A different kind of fear. I know I am fooling myself that I can manage it. I know that. Part of what makes it so much scarier is that it has crept up so silently that I didn't see it, could not see it, until it was in full swing and that hasn't happened in months. The full swing. The carried on conversations. The making dates to meet with people that don't exist. The keeping good on those meetings. Shoving my hands into my face. Why didn't I see it from the start? There's no forgetting or shake it off. Just have to keep it in mind. A safe with no lock.
///Gouryella - "Walhalla" hang on for the break. It's never as terrible as it seems, until it is. But then you wake up and start again.
7/9/12
how else can we survive?
putting my hand in the ocean again. thinking about going for a swim sometime real soon.
7/1/12
Dry Motor and What It Is
Creeping creeping. Creeping up on you like silverfish in your bedspread. The anxiety has been hilarious. Awful. To the place on the scale where it ceases to be funny and "haha, that scared the shit out of me, but now I know I was imagining things, so I can laugh about it because no one was here to see it" and becomes "hahahaholyfuckinggodamnit, just get out of my head." Balls of string, almost, that get knottier and knottier with each passing sunrise and then a glimpse of something that might have a been a flicker of spider's webbing in daylight is grown into a hunched fistful of glitter black something that makes you stop and look with both your eyes to make sure you are moving and not it and then the words come back in like crowd dialog in vapors and the whole morning there is no fix on what it is that smells like gas. Get out of my head.
Creeping sense of rage. A little bit of task lock. There's no transition between the time fixitive and the free base of writing. Well, I shouldn't say there is none. There is none developed. It's been a very long time since I had to generate one through my own channels. Normally I hit the mechanical hard lever contacts and everything changes over like a locomotive switch track. Or has the potential too if I can get the charge high enough to arc the distance (the switch doesn't always close). What am I talking about? So I haven't had that. Oddly enough, or typically enough, smoking grew tightly threaded to production. I quit smoking. It is not at all tempting to go back to smoking in a bid to make writing easier. That's a back blown lock. Explosive decompression. Sorted. A bridge designed into the process I took toward quitting, but a necessary effort at sabotage, because I knew I'd never quit if I didn't hack myself. I'm not sure if that's coming across, but you get the picture. Things have been harder to do, is the bullet point. For good reason is the second bullet.
I find myself outside the gates of my skull, mornings, looking in, trying to smell them out. Where they've been and where they plan to go next. Hard pressed not to cut myself. An inexplicable taste for it, really. You come to the moment. To it and then back around to it. Someone asks if this is it. Don't be so hard on yourself, you're having a good time, Jack. Necking with yourselves. Across from you there is also you and they are talking their way around you like you're not even there. Don't be so hard on them. Without us, they would have died a long time ago. And someone asks if this is it. What is? Through space and time, not in that philosophical, flowered hill top, poet staring at the stars nonsense, through actual manipulation of distance and the passage of time there has been an answer. The distance problem. Too close and then too far. With no sense of balance. The old states. The newer state is orbit, not quite to deep space. Where I belong. A place void enough that violence drives nothing and no one away because there is no one near enough. Sort of thing.
It's weird. Wanting closeness. The other part of what it is. Mechanical maintenance demanding space to allow for irradiation. Power on. Wanting closeness and knowing it is exactly that which has the horsepower to turn the entire engine over in a fraction of a second. Blow your skull apart. A finger at a time. Division, I suppose, is difficult. Fragments. It's hard to understand. To put my thoughts around in a way that cuddles with the chemistry and wraps it up in something cool under force of touch. Maybe nature. I have to remind myself to not be alarmed. Panic buries absolutely. What it is: I can want it and have it sometimes. Under specific circumstances. Limited instances. Hard wired for... something. I dunno. What it is. Is weird. Living within it. All you have to do, if you really think hard about it, is understand enough of what you are to project beyond the black shaped box inside your head. Before you can count to three you are the same as you and me. Inside of there. Developing ways to convert binary emotion into all the flavors of the analog rainbow. Access rights, never found.
I'm trying though. Ten days at a time. One day at a tear. Three tears ripped off at a clip. I don't know. Plus warning. star streaming. always always always dreaming. of a perfect chemistry. Get out of my head. I still have pictures to make. Stories to write. Music to make. Too much to do. I am me and you are you.
///Sneaker Pimps - "Water Baby" sport is love and blood is sport
Creeping sense of rage. A little bit of task lock. There's no transition between the time fixitive and the free base of writing. Well, I shouldn't say there is none. There is none developed. It's been a very long time since I had to generate one through my own channels. Normally I hit the mechanical hard lever contacts and everything changes over like a locomotive switch track. Or has the potential too if I can get the charge high enough to arc the distance (the switch doesn't always close). What am I talking about? So I haven't had that. Oddly enough, or typically enough, smoking grew tightly threaded to production. I quit smoking. It is not at all tempting to go back to smoking in a bid to make writing easier. That's a back blown lock. Explosive decompression. Sorted. A bridge designed into the process I took toward quitting, but a necessary effort at sabotage, because I knew I'd never quit if I didn't hack myself. I'm not sure if that's coming across, but you get the picture. Things have been harder to do, is the bullet point. For good reason is the second bullet.
I find myself outside the gates of my skull, mornings, looking in, trying to smell them out. Where they've been and where they plan to go next. Hard pressed not to cut myself. An inexplicable taste for it, really. You come to the moment. To it and then back around to it. Someone asks if this is it. Don't be so hard on yourself, you're having a good time, Jack. Necking with yourselves. Across from you there is also you and they are talking their way around you like you're not even there. Don't be so hard on them. Without us, they would have died a long time ago. And someone asks if this is it. What is? Through space and time, not in that philosophical, flowered hill top, poet staring at the stars nonsense, through actual manipulation of distance and the passage of time there has been an answer. The distance problem. Too close and then too far. With no sense of balance. The old states. The newer state is orbit, not quite to deep space. Where I belong. A place void enough that violence drives nothing and no one away because there is no one near enough. Sort of thing.
It's weird. Wanting closeness. The other part of what it is. Mechanical maintenance demanding space to allow for irradiation. Power on. Wanting closeness and knowing it is exactly that which has the horsepower to turn the entire engine over in a fraction of a second. Blow your skull apart. A finger at a time. Division, I suppose, is difficult. Fragments. It's hard to understand. To put my thoughts around in a way that cuddles with the chemistry and wraps it up in something cool under force of touch. Maybe nature. I have to remind myself to not be alarmed. Panic buries absolutely. What it is: I can want it and have it sometimes. Under specific circumstances. Limited instances. Hard wired for... something. I dunno. What it is. Is weird. Living within it. All you have to do, if you really think hard about it, is understand enough of what you are to project beyond the black shaped box inside your head. Before you can count to three you are the same as you and me. Inside of there. Developing ways to convert binary emotion into all the flavors of the analog rainbow. Access rights, never found.
I'm trying though. Ten days at a time. One day at a tear. Three tears ripped off at a clip. I don't know. Plus warning. star streaming. always always always dreaming. of a perfect chemistry. Get out of my head. I still have pictures to make. Stories to write. Music to make. Too much to do. I am me and you are you.
///Sneaker Pimps - "Water Baby" sport is love and blood is sport
6/18/12
Admissions, Missions, Poor Planning, Hobos, and Caught Out
So I didn't plan this particularly well. Not as well as I could have. Given my circumstances and propensity for utter restlessness. I'm in a position where I'm dying to hit the road and run, but I just finished a six pack and I know if I go outside right now and try to do anything, my judgement will couple up with my reckless streak and I'll end up punching a hobo in the face in a train tunnel by the river and possibly getting shanked. Nobody wants that. Especially not the part of me that likes to not get knifed. All I can think about, well not all, but most of what I can think about is getting out in that humid cool air and sucking lung fulls of it. Then again I have to keep in mind the mileage I put on last week and make sure I rest my hooves enough to do it all again this week. So maybe, not poor planning. Maybe out smarting myself while out out smarting myself. Or just poor planning. That's easier to say. I'm about ready to jump out of a second story window.
More importantly though I had to go in and delete some blogs. Projects I had a vision for that never panned out. Sometimes because they were joint efforts with other people and the other people never put in the effort and they metastasized into additional solo projects I couldn't support on my own along with the things I was already doing on the regular (and subsequently killed some of the regular efforts I was bending myself to in the brief time I tried to do both). It is kind of tough to admit. Sometimes things just don't work out anywhere near where I expect them to, which is why I am reluctant to do anything with anybody anymore. Not that their real lives tend to take precedent. Or maybe they do. I have no real idea why anyone stops. I know why I stop and start. I just don't see those same reasons being relevant to others. Not that I'm unique or anything like that. I'm just unique in my limits and strengths. No, I'm kidding. Experience has taught me that is the case. My perceptions of myself, however, may vary.
They went down easy though. I downloaded the ones with enough content to want to reread them at some point. Revisit the prisoners of the digital infomatic time capsulator 9000. I glossed some of them as I downloaded and reviewed and decided yay or nay for axing. What was lost is not worth going over explicitly. What survived is a pair of joint efforts with the real j chen. One not touched in forever and the other edited more recently than I expected, but still a year out from today. I owe it a call back at least. Wait and see, maybe. A wait and see kind of deal. The other survivors were all things with names I could pick up and immediately begin rebuilding or re-purpose, restructure, and give new life to, in light of new efforts forthcoming. There's still Fingerslip (the long gestation writing space), there's Hateitalready (which will be repurposed from a place to rant about new products I hate already into an infrequent comic I've been putting off forever, but have wanted to do for easily three years now), there's Simplelongingundertow (which will be about sex and strictly so), and then the Encyclopediamechanica (a store house for made up tech stuff I want to have available to myself and searchable primarily for story construction and resolution of timeline continuity issues, but available to the public because sometimes the best parts of stories are the gadgets and I want that to be documented... assuming I can write and produce something worth reading and reviewing and delving deeper into [adding a richness perhaps I otherwise could not achieve on a short story budget... I dunno]). Thems the survivors.
The mission becomes not letting myself get as caught out as I have been. Focus. Hocus focus were to be the names of my cats if I got a pair, but I didn't. I have been a little bit caught out. Caught between reading and reading up on old movies by watching them and reading up on old stories and rewatching (more like studying and breaking down) films I have enjoyed and disliked and plot lines I have enjoyed and passed off as trash and scripts. A lot of time has been spent plotting and planning to the point of compulsion. A lot of time has been spent, yes, dreaming still. That is probably one of my top five primary functions. Dream composition. Now it's time to start making the faces and planes and points and lines intersect. They're all there, even though I'm not always. I had a thought about the sky being the limit, which is patently false. What I came to was that the sky is not the limit, but the sooner you understand that, the sooner you can get to working toward putting yourself in a position where that might actually become the case through some luck, coincidence, and connection. I glass ceiling implies a glass floor somewhere.
Anyway, the point is, what do I have to do to get laid in this town? And more importantly.... you know, I don't think there's a second part to that. At what age do you just forget about getting laid altogether. Cause that shit is distracting. Can I skip to that age? That spot in the timeline where it's not even that you forget about it, but it's that your genitals transmogrify from a point of expression and emotion and even, sometimes, source of soul and self into little more than say a plumbing fixture or decorative coaster. What I do know is that one of these days along my life span I am going to wake up with super powers and the world better hope I die before that day comes because I will be the worst superman ever. Can superman even do crack? Does he have to do supercrack to get an equivalent high? I know there was that one superman movie where he got drunk, but seriously, if he went to a bar he would have to drink the entire bar to get drunk. Unless his powers only apply to mechanical elements. musculo skeletal systems. Worst super power ever. Or just not a great movie. I don't know. The point is, stuff is going to get did. Because the stuff not getting done is gone. Also because if things don't get done I will feel terrible and listless and end up down at the docks again fighting hobos.
///Aphex Twin - "Waxen Pith" think time
More importantly though I had to go in and delete some blogs. Projects I had a vision for that never panned out. Sometimes because they were joint efforts with other people and the other people never put in the effort and they metastasized into additional solo projects I couldn't support on my own along with the things I was already doing on the regular (and subsequently killed some of the regular efforts I was bending myself to in the brief time I tried to do both). It is kind of tough to admit. Sometimes things just don't work out anywhere near where I expect them to, which is why I am reluctant to do anything with anybody anymore. Not that their real lives tend to take precedent. Or maybe they do. I have no real idea why anyone stops. I know why I stop and start. I just don't see those same reasons being relevant to others. Not that I'm unique or anything like that. I'm just unique in my limits and strengths. No, I'm kidding. Experience has taught me that is the case. My perceptions of myself, however, may vary.
They went down easy though. I downloaded the ones with enough content to want to reread them at some point. Revisit the prisoners of the digital infomatic time capsulator 9000. I glossed some of them as I downloaded and reviewed and decided yay or nay for axing. What was lost is not worth going over explicitly. What survived is a pair of joint efforts with the real j chen. One not touched in forever and the other edited more recently than I expected, but still a year out from today. I owe it a call back at least. Wait and see, maybe. A wait and see kind of deal. The other survivors were all things with names I could pick up and immediately begin rebuilding or re-purpose, restructure, and give new life to, in light of new efforts forthcoming. There's still Fingerslip (the long gestation writing space), there's Hateitalready (which will be repurposed from a place to rant about new products I hate already into an infrequent comic I've been putting off forever, but have wanted to do for easily three years now), there's Simplelongingundertow (which will be about sex and strictly so), and then the Encyclopediamechanica (a store house for made up tech stuff I want to have available to myself and searchable primarily for story construction and resolution of timeline continuity issues, but available to the public because sometimes the best parts of stories are the gadgets and I want that to be documented... assuming I can write and produce something worth reading and reviewing and delving deeper into [adding a richness perhaps I otherwise could not achieve on a short story budget... I dunno]). Thems the survivors.
The mission becomes not letting myself get as caught out as I have been. Focus. Hocus focus were to be the names of my cats if I got a pair, but I didn't. I have been a little bit caught out. Caught between reading and reading up on old movies by watching them and reading up on old stories and rewatching (more like studying and breaking down) films I have enjoyed and disliked and plot lines I have enjoyed and passed off as trash and scripts. A lot of time has been spent plotting and planning to the point of compulsion. A lot of time has been spent, yes, dreaming still. That is probably one of my top five primary functions. Dream composition. Now it's time to start making the faces and planes and points and lines intersect. They're all there, even though I'm not always. I had a thought about the sky being the limit, which is patently false. What I came to was that the sky is not the limit, but the sooner you understand that, the sooner you can get to working toward putting yourself in a position where that might actually become the case through some luck, coincidence, and connection. I glass ceiling implies a glass floor somewhere.
Anyway, the point is, what do I have to do to get laid in this town? And more importantly.... you know, I don't think there's a second part to that. At what age do you just forget about getting laid altogether. Cause that shit is distracting. Can I skip to that age? That spot in the timeline where it's not even that you forget about it, but it's that your genitals transmogrify from a point of expression and emotion and even, sometimes, source of soul and self into little more than say a plumbing fixture or decorative coaster. What I do know is that one of these days along my life span I am going to wake up with super powers and the world better hope I die before that day comes because I will be the worst superman ever. Can superman even do crack? Does he have to do supercrack to get an equivalent high? I know there was that one superman movie where he got drunk, but seriously, if he went to a bar he would have to drink the entire bar to get drunk. Unless his powers only apply to mechanical elements. musculo skeletal systems. Worst super power ever. Or just not a great movie. I don't know. The point is, stuff is going to get did. Because the stuff not getting done is gone. Also because if things don't get done I will feel terrible and listless and end up down at the docks again fighting hobos.
///Aphex Twin - "Waxen Pith" think time
6/16/12
Dear (_____)
Dear weekend,
I am going to @##$%$##!@*** your brains out.
That is all.
Sincerely,
runs with scissors
I am going to @##$%$##!@*** your brains out.
That is all.
Sincerely,
runs with scissors
6/11/12
First Times and Last Times and a Limo Full of Tacos and Go, Dumby
That full feeling you get a few minutes after eating, but the feeling doesn't sit like a cannonball on your stomach, but it keeps on roiling like hookah smoke laid into a glass bowl and it just keeps flowing around and around, Baoding balls in the palm of your guts. It's kind of like that. The feeling is. But saying it's like being full like you just ate is way too simplistic. It's hard to explain. What ever isn't. A few things. Gravity. Death. How to make a cheeseburger. Those are pretty easy. What a fruit salad is. Also easy. I could probably explain most of those things in five seconds. Except the cheeseburger. That's a tough one. The definition is loose and specific at the same time. So not everything is hard to explain, but most things are. Things like that feeling.
Commercials are ridiculous. Everybody knows that. Except the people that don't. I've been noticing a lot of things citing the first days of people's lives. This or that was like being born. That and this was like the first night of my life. No one remembers what the first day of their life was like. If anything it was probably a fairly crappy day. The day when you had to put in your first twenty four hours of work. Which is kind of hilarious. I feel born again: no you don't. If you did you would be screaming and crying and probably wanting more than anything to be forty feet under water in a hot, glassy surfaced, tropic lake with your eyes closed and dreaming. I don't want first nights or last nights or rebirths. How about, just a little continuation. A little contiguity. A little less of people skipping and dancing through the streets with ten seconds of memory. I mean, isn't that what the drug state is all about. Helping everyone forget their only born once? Who knows. Sometimes, talking about it on it's own makes me laugh enough to let it go merrily down the drain.
It's funny sometimes see shows on tv and you can immediately dissect it with enough clarity to know which guy in the four person script will end up being the one referred to as "...that's that guy from that show, right? Oh, wait, no. I was thinking of..." regardless of who ends up being cast in the role. Imagining other people's heads on other people's bodies while watching television. Other voices coming out of the other heads on top of the other bodies. I don't know what I gain from doing that except a little personal amusement and every now and then the rising realization that someone in casting completely missed the boat on a pretty interesting matchup of screen presence and line reading. But then you think, well maybe they had something more important or lucrative to do. Because not everybody is like you, with your schedule that more often resembles a day in the life of Mr. Squarepants than anything else. Which is fine. The only down side to schedules like that is that people feel free to cancel on you. Which is fine. So you, just move on to the next thing on the list. And if you're lucky, it's nothing, so you go take a nap. Or hit the bar. I forget.
So anyway. Funny story. There's this commercial for tacos. All of these people are dressed up in a limousine and clearly a little party tipped (drunk, but you know... tv drunk... so not drunk really, but totally drunk) and they get out what equates to a party ball of tacos and start chowing down in this limo. All I could think of was how the air in that limo probably went from breathable air to beef gases, cheese burps, and corn flour breath in about twenty seconds. It's basically dropping a box of grenades into the artillery hold of an aircraft carrier (is that what those are called?). I mean, not to belabor the issue, but the last a group of 12 adults already with alcohol and sugar destabilized gastrointestinal tracts needs is a box full of greasy catalysts. That's a recipe for 12 photo finishes.
I've kind of realized I am a junk food lightweight. Not by conscious choice. It just phased out with excess disposable income. Candy bars? Eh, I'll split one. McDonalds? Eh. Can we just get some pb and j and rice? I mean, I'll eat it if someone else buys it so I'm not turning up my nose, or if there's nothing else to eat and even then, even then I have to concede or at least add a disclaimer. It's not you, empty food, it's me.
I was doing laundry today and as I'm looking at it I'm thinking it would be a lot easier to decide what to wear if it were all in color order. But then as I'm looking at the heap of colors I realize I should organize the colors by hue. And then organize the hues by saturation. That way even as I use up the t-shirts it'll still look pretty hanging there and I can spend time looking at it. Then I realized that's what a crazy person would do. So I didn't do it. Then I thought it was a little pointless too since they are mostly hanes brand tees. Therefore mostly either flat gray, flat black, flat army green, or white or brown. Not that complicated. And then I realized what the shirts really need is not more variety, but more writing on them. As they are all blank. And that would take at least thirty permanent markers to do. But I can't trust myself with thirty markers. It would be maybe five markers down before I started sniffing them. And then I would end up sniffing all of them until they dried out. And then I would feel terrible all over again and have a bunch of blank t shirts and no money too. And then I realized that was also a crazy person thing to do.
Finally I decided the only safe thing to do, really, was put the shirts on the hangars in random order or randomize it when adding shirts to the closet. Because that was the only sane thing I could possibly do. And I congratulated myself on an hour well spent. So there. I'm not crazy.
So I have to get started. I've already gotten to the point of forgetting what I dream because I have been tearing them off six at a clip twice a day. Voice recording has gotten to be a hassle. I lost my ear phone/mic. Which means I have to sit in one place. Purpose defeating. The small voice in my head is a large voice now. Just go do it, dumby. A lot has changed. What do you want? Clarity? I got that. No, that's funny. Way too aggressive. I'm not going to be an idiot and proclaim last times or first days. That's all bullshit. I've learned. Again. After forgetting. This time it's going to stick though. Rediscovered outlets. Emissions. Things I thought I couldn't do anymore. Did get into another row along the way, but even that was minor, just a blip of the larger needle that I guess I'm still not far enough away from to ignore or full throttle straight by and not notice. Which is good. Road speed governor. You and I. I'm still taking two. Except with an eye toward more of that feeling and less outright destruction. It's all physics. Kind of. I don't know these days. Line items.
Hi.
Commercials are ridiculous. Everybody knows that. Except the people that don't. I've been noticing a lot of things citing the first days of people's lives. This or that was like being born. That and this was like the first night of my life. No one remembers what the first day of their life was like. If anything it was probably a fairly crappy day. The day when you had to put in your first twenty four hours of work. Which is kind of hilarious. I feel born again: no you don't. If you did you would be screaming and crying and probably wanting more than anything to be forty feet under water in a hot, glassy surfaced, tropic lake with your eyes closed and dreaming. I don't want first nights or last nights or rebirths. How about, just a little continuation. A little contiguity. A little less of people skipping and dancing through the streets with ten seconds of memory. I mean, isn't that what the drug state is all about. Helping everyone forget their only born once? Who knows. Sometimes, talking about it on it's own makes me laugh enough to let it go merrily down the drain.
It's funny sometimes see shows on tv and you can immediately dissect it with enough clarity to know which guy in the four person script will end up being the one referred to as "...that's that guy from that show, right? Oh, wait, no. I was thinking of..." regardless of who ends up being cast in the role. Imagining other people's heads on other people's bodies while watching television. Other voices coming out of the other heads on top of the other bodies. I don't know what I gain from doing that except a little personal amusement and every now and then the rising realization that someone in casting completely missed the boat on a pretty interesting matchup of screen presence and line reading. But then you think, well maybe they had something more important or lucrative to do. Because not everybody is like you, with your schedule that more often resembles a day in the life of Mr. Squarepants than anything else. Which is fine. The only down side to schedules like that is that people feel free to cancel on you. Which is fine. So you, just move on to the next thing on the list. And if you're lucky, it's nothing, so you go take a nap. Or hit the bar. I forget.
So anyway. Funny story. There's this commercial for tacos. All of these people are dressed up in a limousine and clearly a little party tipped (drunk, but you know... tv drunk... so not drunk really, but totally drunk) and they get out what equates to a party ball of tacos and start chowing down in this limo. All I could think of was how the air in that limo probably went from breathable air to beef gases, cheese burps, and corn flour breath in about twenty seconds. It's basically dropping a box of grenades into the artillery hold of an aircraft carrier (is that what those are called?). I mean, not to belabor the issue, but the last a group of 12 adults already with alcohol and sugar destabilized gastrointestinal tracts needs is a box full of greasy catalysts. That's a recipe for 12 photo finishes.
I've kind of realized I am a junk food lightweight. Not by conscious choice. It just phased out with excess disposable income. Candy bars? Eh, I'll split one. McDonalds? Eh. Can we just get some pb and j and rice? I mean, I'll eat it if someone else buys it so I'm not turning up my nose, or if there's nothing else to eat and even then, even then I have to concede or at least add a disclaimer. It's not you, empty food, it's me.
I was doing laundry today and as I'm looking at it I'm thinking it would be a lot easier to decide what to wear if it were all in color order. But then as I'm looking at the heap of colors I realize I should organize the colors by hue. And then organize the hues by saturation. That way even as I use up the t-shirts it'll still look pretty hanging there and I can spend time looking at it. Then I realized that's what a crazy person would do. So I didn't do it. Then I thought it was a little pointless too since they are mostly hanes brand tees. Therefore mostly either flat gray, flat black, flat army green, or white or brown. Not that complicated. And then I realized what the shirts really need is not more variety, but more writing on them. As they are all blank. And that would take at least thirty permanent markers to do. But I can't trust myself with thirty markers. It would be maybe five markers down before I started sniffing them. And then I would end up sniffing all of them until they dried out. And then I would feel terrible all over again and have a bunch of blank t shirts and no money too. And then I realized that was also a crazy person thing to do.
Finally I decided the only safe thing to do, really, was put the shirts on the hangars in random order or randomize it when adding shirts to the closet. Because that was the only sane thing I could possibly do. And I congratulated myself on an hour well spent. So there. I'm not crazy.
So I have to get started. I've already gotten to the point of forgetting what I dream because I have been tearing them off six at a clip twice a day. Voice recording has gotten to be a hassle. I lost my ear phone/mic. Which means I have to sit in one place. Purpose defeating. The small voice in my head is a large voice now. Just go do it, dumby. A lot has changed. What do you want? Clarity? I got that. No, that's funny. Way too aggressive. I'm not going to be an idiot and proclaim last times or first days. That's all bullshit. I've learned. Again. After forgetting. This time it's going to stick though. Rediscovered outlets. Emissions. Things I thought I couldn't do anymore. Did get into another row along the way, but even that was minor, just a blip of the larger needle that I guess I'm still not far enough away from to ignore or full throttle straight by and not notice. Which is good. Road speed governor. You and I. I'm still taking two. Except with an eye toward more of that feeling and less outright destruction. It's all physics. Kind of. I don't know these days. Line items.
Hi.
6/4/12
Have a Try
I'm trying. No apologies out of respect for you. No explanation necessary, I know. Up and down and up and down. Sometimes more down than left. More left than right.
It's an odd scale. Coming from actually having stabbed someone to being free and clear. Your head tells you that you've gotten away with something and you're heart tells you otherwise. Every day. I guess I would never make it in prison. Or something like that.
I'm trying to get back to writing. Like substantial writing. Or something like that. Evolutions and all of that jazz. All of that jazz. Jazz and jazz and jazz.
I read a book recently, where am I now? I read a book recently. Where am I now? Angry. Still. Still angry. Happy, of sorts. But still angry. And sorry. And angry. And Sorry. With a capital S. I never know how to describe it. I never know how to tell you their names.
I am starting again though. Power. Redesgn is in the works. The aural port is getting a summer face. OEM is getting a new face too. I'm sorry. I'm broken, but functioning. I don't know how else to put it. There's a space in my heart for me and a space in my heart for you and a space in my heart for the things I can not deny myself and ... and what? Tears are for the dead. And the dying. So I'll try to breath or something like that..............................................................
...............Muster the gorgeous.
....................place holders. Place holders. Consider this a place holder.
It's an odd scale. Coming from actually having stabbed someone to being free and clear. Your head tells you that you've gotten away with something and you're heart tells you otherwise. Every day. I guess I would never make it in prison. Or something like that.
I'm trying to get back to writing. Like substantial writing. Or something like that. Evolutions and all of that jazz. All of that jazz. Jazz and jazz and jazz.
I read a book recently, where am I now? I read a book recently. Where am I now? Angry. Still. Still angry. Happy, of sorts. But still angry. And sorry. And angry. And Sorry. With a capital S. I never know how to describe it. I never know how to tell you their names.
I am starting again though. Power. Redesgn is in the works. The aural port is getting a summer face. OEM is getting a new face too. I'm sorry. I'm broken, but functioning. I don't know how else to put it. There's a space in my heart for me and a space in my heart for you and a space in my heart for the things I can not deny myself and ... and what? Tears are for the dead. And the dying. So I'll try to breath or something like that..............................................................
...............Muster the gorgeous.
....................place holders. Place holders. Consider this a place holder.
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