contemptation

Oh, but I had such contempt for that vape you thought was so cool. Why do you young inheritors of even further along collapse actually like this pink lemonade ice shit? What kinda synthetic estrogen smelling pinkie is this? I'll be an opportunistic janitor in a high school, a scumbag some might say, scavenging vapes from sanitation-theater tampon pouches that would horrify parents if contemplated- so I can try the flavours that are edging-out production of the hourly fulfillment of my transitioned-smoker's lust for tobacco-tinged dopamine button. Ding. Ding. Dang, this one's pooched. But the battery will do three or four more decent last hurrahs if I stash it for about six hours, dunno what lithium scripts these kiddies are running lately.

Well, I won’t be a curmudgeon, as long as you come to the meeting with me, let me be a secret agent recruiter for the grand secular cleansing of the globe, to kill the ones that need to be killed, the billionaires to be blunt, even the ones with identities who’ve made rap music or girlboss moves - also could maybe add mid-level grifting wolves [no not ‘wolves’, that sounds too cool, maybe ticks rather], blood suckers, worshippers of mammon, irish, jew, comedian, caucasian, asian, incel, whatever identity you want to throw on it like a cyber truck wrap gifted by influencer sneako.

We could dehumanize anyone ground down to a power-addicted insect incapable of morality or decency or cooperating for the common good of all human life, and maybe some animal life, we're not sure, still debating that one among ourselves, and fetuses and viability and anti-natalist vs pro natalist reddit warriors each claiming the mantle of the earth. 

Interesting dreams lately. 

But they're... fleeting...? Don't know. Don't even know if I don't know, but suspect that. Nice to not know something. Life is so endlessly interesting, it seems, some times. Frantically, when ego deteriorating, sometimes scramble for covers of identities to try on, try your hand at, like a deluded cover artist identity, thinking that was in any way a passable version.

Don't know how much time I have left before I'm completely dragged under by the dram - that dram meme, I want to find it, was haunting me. 

the undertow of the watery dark magic of dim delirium - but the emotions aren't dim, even undulating in that deathy oscillation, near non existence, yet existing, yearning for things, almost able to grasp fantasies that could never be in reality

bubl

 "You've got a job to do," I tell myself, in somber tones. 

But the world is fucking scary.

Why wouldn't I get hermetic? Like I was at a certain age, after childhood, before adulthood. When the world is so scary and crazy, and the most scary thing is the trajectory. Why would I not give myself permission, to cloister myself, and my pug, and avoid the world, the crazy. Like as if I've got some kind of duty to that world I never made. Like I should want to make a mark. In that world? Maybe I should let testosterone ebb away to lacunae, replace nothing, leave a negative legacy, and funnily enough, be something with my pug for as long as that lasts. Maybe as long as I last. We last, together, for as long.

What job? What drugs could I get on to make a revolution fun and easy? Haven't found any. Fun and ease can be found, for a little while, but won't revolutionize shit. It's a well trodden path, the rut of shitty mud from factory farm runoff. With my pug, I can make hilarious conversation from an rfk jr impersonation riffing on brain worms and hormones and commenting on the increasingly crazy and scary world through a porthole on a cruise ship. It can be intoxicating and analgesic being with pug, softening the sharper edges of the scary. Because there's cope in this two person hermit shack. She can describe her doctor's ear in poetic holophonic display that feeds me chronenbergian visions remotely bypassing bio-port. We can talk about Belize. You best belize it.

epistemic crisis

When I step outside the house, I'm strung out, but it's a peaceful fret because this place is in a nice part of the woods, big trees that sway in a way as if they're communicating messages that I can't understand but can kind of feel, even though I'm really bad at feeling them. Bad, but not completely numb.

Am I too stupid to be schizophrenic? Is he?

Self aggrandization is one way of seeing how he's being. I'm trying to keep all possibilities open, it's polite, even respectful maybe, and also being right-sized, cause little old me don't know shit, especially right now. Really feeling the epistemic crisis. I appreciate his diplomacy in certain areas, amid the gregarious spewing out of assertions, as if he really is a shaman like he says and has some ESP that can suss out the no-go zones with me, or he might call it synchronicity, or I might call it lucky. Is the vestigial catholic in me so obvious but I can't even see it? Or is he just wielding cheap manipulative tricks that psychic charlatans do? Sometimes I get paranoid and overly guarded, lest I fall prey to some scam or simple power move. Anyway, it's probably some third thing I can't think of.

We're watching youtube vids about new ways of making microprocessors. Wondering if I'm watching AI. If so, it's sophisticated slop. Are we getting sloppy? I figure it's probably human created, but look how paranoid I am! I can't vet this stuff he's saying confidently about graphene-photon chip lithography, or how he was the true author of The Holographic Universe but graciously allowed his old acquaintance to write the book instead. And I don't wanna take anything on faith. But I won't assume crackpottery either. If I was more inquisitive in a certain way, I'd have an urge to fact check, but I'm not. Maybe I like it to stay in the ether, savor some mystery. Dubious about debunking.

I do lack curiosity in some sense. I'm too fascinated with my internal life, sadly. Well, this will pass the time, til I have to drive T to the ferry... This torturous exalting luminous fog. This is why I obsess over my inner life, trying to make it everything.

He said he liked my energy. I was happy to hear that. But now my energy has completely changed. Makes it hard to cope. Drilled down into my brain so far that I'm hamfistedly fumbling around with the root code like an imposter surgeon. Paranoia. Physical paranoia. Unable to cope. Nope. Now I'm crazy and you're the one that has to deal with me. See how you like that. In the clench. Deterioration.

I can take control again. Maybe. Struggle mightily over a thousand years for the handle. Intolerable tension in all tendons. Fucking baby sit me. Give me baclofen. That's how we can even out our debts.

It's too trite to use the words beauty or horror, those words are bad, hack, disgusting in a stunning way, breathtaking. Forgetting to breathe or there's an epistemic crisis and I can't know if I'm breathing or not. Not remembering to drink water. Peeing and wondering how I could not have shriveled up into a dehydrated trisolaran by now. Remembering to drink water. Taking a token sip and forgetting again. Thinking I should eat. Taking a few token bites of something random like a grape and then a granola bar.

The option of wearing your heart on your sleeve...

or, managing people's perceptions for your own convenience...

That is the question.

Whether it's nobler in the mind to commit suicide figuratively by getting so open and vulnerable that you lose control over how you're seen, how you see yourself, the questionable nobility of that dubious risk, a specious definition of "suicide", making the word mean almost everything, and therefore, nothing. Cheating death by taking away the sting of it through re-definition. A weak strategy, doomed for quick failure. I dunno - I flow - I come - I go - like Igo from the meetings who probably won't join the party.

"Yeah, I really like that. It's one of those ideas that I heard a thousand times, but I'm hearing it in a new, more urgent way now for whatever reason."

Shit, maybe he is a shaman after all. These thoughts are making me nostalgic for my Robert Anton Wilson era. Things are too weird these days, like McKenna predicted. The Mandela effect is strong.

Blog Exclusive

I'll bang out some quick text. Quickly glue it altogether with swag. Bang a quick hit of false confidence. Mmm. Feels fucking good. That's how I'm describing it. 

Now I'm left, bereft, with an orphan to grudgingly take care of. An abortion that survived. Ugh. Is that what this is?

Could try and contrive a stale utopian fantasy. My own custom version of a good contemporary television series, like severance, for eg. Knowing that that will mean something in the right frame of mind. Could jolt myself into old styles of writing and thinking by dipping into the recesses of my bereft medicine cabinet, help myself, join me brother [], if there's no future, you could spin yourself back into a better time, even though in retrospect, you know it's circumspect at best, most likely completely implicated in being a delusion, bullshit i once said in the immediate aftershock of a salvia trip... some flavour of that - but i'm banging out text and it feels good, so that justifies everything. Fuck yeah it does.

get a few drinks in me

and I'll say it's

"our time".

I'll have a whole theory on that.

I could fake it til I make it

til I believe in it

til it dovetails with the revolutionary fervor

where doubts are swept away, cringe isn't a thing

the only thing that matters is winning the fight

to fight monsters and become the corny as fuck monster

for taking it so seriously that i did what it took to win

to become that monstrously corny

oh god, it makes me cringe

but then the rage comes back

the cringe becomes a clench

my strong but stubby-fingered semi-dexterous pseudo-virtuosic hand

becomes a fist, not much good for smashing anything

but i'll take a job digging ditches for the revolution

they can throw in bodies of the monsters

we want the movement to kill

no more argument

no hoping for Someone Else to perform an assassination

like Johnny Smith

no more of that waiting

no more taking solace in Mr. Burns dying at the age of 105, we only have to wait twenty two more years... no, no more of that.

Someone Else [not me]

-

hide in hat. maybe that'll work. why would i need to hide in hat? should i explain this? anxiety but also a feeling of possibility that is scary, that's why i had an urge to hide, co-existing with urge to explore, do something great, and know that this is delusion at the same... time... that doesn't exist.

But that's short-lived. Time asserts its existence in time. Short time. Or it can flow into something else. Notes to self, I guess? Let's call it more notes to self. A new way of being. Short-lived, but convince yourself time doesn't matter. It doesn't exist, say something meaningless like that. Meaningless and true. True and meaningless. Notes to self cause there's no reason to post. When I chose the wrong sound bgp. Which is what I say in my improv notes to denote "but good playing", despite other faults. Can't even write for myself, self rejects it later. But sometimes loves it later. It's a complicated interface, can abuse myself as audience some times, but...

Happy wife, happy life, someone said in S02E02 of that show I've been watching. We've been watching. My wife and I. Somebody said that saying. The billionaire tech bro guy. There are no anti-heroes anymore. Just villains and the ones who are made villainous by confronting villains. Hey, you math genius who contributed mightily to the sphere of thin copper metal y'all keep banging outwards from the inside to bring about the Great Work: It took all the courage you had to die at twenty. In a duel over some chick, I don't care how comely she was. You stupid fuck. You should have been a coward. You had more stuff to do. Ah, still, it's ok. Someone Else did it. Not you, not me, but Someone. Now we need Someone Else to save this degenerate gambler civilization. Elon is so cringe, he gives ket a bad name, makes mars look lame. Heaven is a place on earth. Baby, do you know what that's worth? We gotta do it Here.

We need the one they call Someone Else. Most assuredly not Me. I joined a communist party so I could larp a bit. That's what I did, that's enough for fuck’s sake. I'm a neurotic addict just trying to cope with this clusterfuck, whaddayou want?

Happy wife happy life. I'm being a good husband I think, pretty good at any rate. I've got a partnership here. It's not perfect but it's got a good vibe sometimes. And it's not masturbation, but it's still sex with someone I love. Sex is not unimportant. And the partnership is also not not music. It's got a lot of Prince, unfortunately, but then, getting me to sometimes sort of appreciate The Purple One outside that Ween song is magically unsolipsistic. And there's the time she said she liked the part of the born and raised beth improv where the vangelis-soundtrack-style chorused piano comes in after six minutes of synths. It sounds less trite to her because she's not conscious of the reference. But to be fair to me, the reference was 90% accidental.

But some times...

We need the one they call Dr. Feel Good. He's gonna make us feel all right. He's gonna make us require adult contemporary creature comforts. You'll rely on AI. When you finally tire of Your Husband they'll have an AI boyfriend that satisfies.

We desperately need Someone Else. Let's call him Luigi. He'll be our OJ Simpson to their Rodney King cops that protect the ruling class for pennyante graft and a pretty sweet pension. The cops seem hard to turn cause they're such piggish assholes.

Now here's something that feels worthwhile. A mood that vibrates. Dirty wurly recalling Rzewski's Cotton Mill. Recurring riff must have been in my head cause of that Blue Öyster Cult song, judging from the 2011. Evoking worthwhile plywood that smells of pine. A pine with synthetic polymer blending like a too-good-to-be-true glue, truly binding everything together beautifully, invading olfactory orifice with a level of satisfaction to keep going. To keep running on the hamster wheel. This hamster wheel I'm making for myself. Why not share? Because shame. The bell of shame will sound. So deafen yourself before it tolls. For it tolls for thee. You see?

At 16:05 it starts to feel really fucking good like when Renton had to test the heroin. Oh fuck. Should do something with that. What better time than the present? It feels good to write like this and often [between bottomless chasms of meaninglessness and failure] stride the fecund fields of purpose. The lunatic is in the grass. Remembering games and daisy chains and laughs. Skipping over the chasms. God it sounds good. Fuck yeah. But there's a lotta HOM in this sector. Unparallaxed skies in primordial shooter games sometimes became Hall Of Mirror errors in the design and were referred to as such in the level text file.

It's funny how time isn't real, except at 18:56 it's <<< THE REAL SHIT >>> and I'm really spiraling into the singularity of that feeling. Really feeling that shit. Popped my "the shit" cherry and called something "the shit". What better time than the present? To step up and dictate the structure of the type of thing that will bridge state boundaries to assert significance. Like a vocation that couldn't be thought of in any myers briggs grid, let alone what normal systems produce. It's important you see. You see? This is why I'm so intense about it. Look at my intense and intent stare. That proves it. It feels great right now. It's got the charisma of a tyrant rebel whose on My Side, like someone I'd follow into hell with hopes of heaven. Such a theoretical thing is only in songs and dreams. Dreams and songs. The "My Side" part is the cherry on top. My Side doesn't produce such people. What's taking so long, am I waiting for Someone Else? Some guy with an incoherent ideology but referencing Michael Moore in a manifesto? Well maybe I'm waiting but christ, I'm just barely hanging on in this "end times"-feeling era, and here's a delusion I can find purchase on for a second, some messiah? Well, better that than tearing myself a new asshole for not being some kinda fucking storybook hero legend. As if. If there's blood down the lines that does that, it ain't in me.

A lot of performances of music are [marginally] socially acceptable public masturbation. That margin is shrinking every day. These times are ever more decadent, and yet, the implied inevitable reaction to decadence grows more stern, monstrous, scary, real. What you deserve. What I deserve anyway. But I still fairly easily reject the specter of a morality I don't like. I hate that putrid morality! I spit on it!

Musical masturbation. I hate that metaphor. Because it's so true. It's such a goddamn good description sometimes. Spiraling thru the gravity well toward the singularity of the N hole. Sex with someone I love. Making love with myself. Which is a better way to say it than the Bowie lyric in Ziggy Stardust.

Can't translate.

Not gonna even try, cause fuck that. Like back when I Have Had A Vision. You had to be there. All of Allen Ginsberg's witness of history hadda be playing on a jukebox. Couldn't be any other way. Best of all possible worlds. Hadda be. 

Don't know if I can... 

Write anything. Things may be too scrambled. Out of one paradigm, into the frying pan, into another pan. Fried. Guess there's bits of poetry? 

Don't wanna pay attention to any old order. But might have to. For routine reasons. Practical survival reasons. Not that there is any imperative. I hope. 

Forgot to put the dryer on. Drying brain pan on a scrambled scrape fan. Guess it some times gets like that. Good to have something to do. Look like I'm busy. Feel like I'm busy. A busy box for a verging on paranoiac inconsequential head faker. Good to have an alarm on. Not for any imperative, mind you. What's the point of posting on substack? Where there's no reflection? Getting further and further into the N hole. Where consequence is below some event horizon. Narcissus unblinking. And all that matters is death. Some narrative of death where it's not the end. Where you have the assurance you need. That. Death is not the end. 

Endure over time. Not try and be friendly, but still be loving every body, in a desperate sort of way. Be looking forward to next amphetamine break. No one knows. 

Noisia. Making me wanna rave again. In my own way. Own the universe. In a pinpoint. In an N hole. Corrupt cops and crack rocks. 

That describes that. That.

That fucking beat. Fuck. Banging. What now? While I'm in it.? 

channeling easy mode

Sometimes I fade, like Bod. Then proceed to get away with things. Stealing time, treating myself. To a glorified journal entry. This pigmy thing in New Jersey. The stink of mob corruption. Never bow to the mob. It's a slogan I will appropriate. Then drop, like a baseball, suddenly losing my courage of convictions. Cause, dialectics.

Learning Dialectics. Stinks like Dianetics. Scientological snake oil I can get drunk on to feel good. Maybe keep feeling good, maybe it would almost work. But they aren't cranks, they say. I believe them. They explained why the author of the pamphlet called the big bang theory erroneous. What he was calling erroneous was an outdated and simplified version of the theory, with metaphysical flaws. He wasn't taking issue with the well-conceived implications of data on cosmic microwave background radiation. I assume.

I'll take it on faith that they have faith. In some sort of anachronistic pseudoscience. That is a way. To what, I don't know. What happens when tactics change? What pain for gain calculus in a revolution? John Brown gun club. There are ppl who talk about it, and then there are ppl who do it. 

When I fade, like Bod, I don't have to be paranoid anymore. I can settle scores, take what's mine. Grab what I can grab, while the grabbing's good. Who knows when I'll get an opportunity again? Maybe never. So, gotta be clever. Nature loves courage. And cleverness. Evolution is clever like that. It's not a blind idiot god, that's just what it wants you to think.

Why does communism attract such pale losers? You know why. Because, chads, the philosophy of winners is our poison. Dialectically, though, we're hoping for a win. Speaking for myself, at least, I wouldn't say no to establishing a new establishment. At the very least, gooey billionaires melting down on Piers Morgan should be overthrown, soon. Like, now.

Why are tech-bros so disgusting? Am I just jealous I can't make it into the cyborg imperium, so I'll insist the grapes are sour? Maybe it's all on rails, I was fated to think that, because of the dialogue-tree that was my life's path, and my insistence on selecting option C every time, to prove some point. To scorn IQ. To not want to know. To be skeptical of quantifying intelligence. But that skepticism is also anesthesia, if not a general anesthetic, at least a topical one. It works for the moment, anyway.

Fucking moldbug. Why does my friend have to be into moldbug, what does he see in that freak? I'm not gonna read the wiki entry on him. I'm going to lean on lack of curiosity, it's a trustfall into voidful bliss, warm negative space. Here, you read it. I don't want to know about Iran's mothership. I don't want to live in a Chief Wiggum spinoff. 

Imma join the party. I'm a caviar communist. I'll eat my cake and have it too. I'll pay dues but keep the expensive vaping habit anyway. Maid is still my retirement plan. I have the creepy feeling that I'll suffer a thousand indignities, each worse than the last, before it gets to a point that I'll have the cojones to consummate the death cafe ritual. It's a rite, too, it's my right. Given to me by the constitution I wrote. A google document, you could add to it if you cared to. Write me right out of existence. Groan.

MAID is my retirement plan

Working hard, cleaning buildings. Trying to find some time to write in between tasks. Managing time in a near-panic, body consciousness enhanced, caffeine turning the gears in the old machine that's my body, trying to keep the autopilot software running before it glitches and I have to reboot the system. Need a firmware update. Should be a mentat, to go along with the Bene Gesserit training. The witching ways. I wanted the creativity boost which I've got so I want to make use of it, but I have to keep working and I'm falling ever behind, and since I bought the creativity ticket I also have to take the body conscious ride, which is a difficult thing to ride, when I'm noticing how much pain I'm in. But I'm still beholden to obsessive compulsions, my personal idiosyncratic standards for what is a good job, what must be done at all costs. It's not for this building, or the employees, or the students, it's really for me, like Walter White in Breaking Bad.

Listening to Noisia. I like when it gets trancy. Creepy, chanty, drony, trancy. Fancy trancy. Like that track from the Bowie album Outside. Noisia. Over-powering gravity pull, flow thru inevitable music video. A dissociative-filled sound alright. Fueled sound? I like to think it is.

This second, I'm content with my pathetic niche in the cliff face of the global economy. Let's try and make that second last. Maybe I could make it last ten seconds. Surely it could last at least that long, if we drew out this moment like a mouthful of opium smoke. Ten seconds could feel like a hundred seconds, in this mental fog.

I think about how a charismatic leader on my side would be nice, wouldn't it? Someone I would follow into hell. And then I think about how funny it is, the idea of a leader of anarchists. But that's not me. I'm playing with communism, so it makes more sense, to want a leader, to channel misplaced feelings of responsibility. Could there be a black wing? Even if so, what could they claim credit for? I don't see anything, right now. An age of war and revolution might turn specters corporeal, maybe I would get my leader if I lived long enough, and surely far more than I imagined, horrors to go along with empowerment.

Short-lived paranoia about the one co-worker prying into my stuff in the breakroom. Nah, wouldn't happen. Calculated risk. I don't keep the good stuff in the pockets, that's tactically on my person at all times. Most times. You won't get much of a window. But there's always a window I guess. God doesn't shut one without opening a door, they say.

Now eat a spoonful of nuts, like you're solving your personal problems, desperately getting out of a trap. A Kwisatz Haderach trap you set for yourself.

Now another second. Where I'm deeply, desperately burnt out. Wanting the time to go fast. Clinging to a fragile faith that there's an other side. Listening to Mastodon. It's elevating my gray little life. I'm the sixth member of Spinal Tap. We salute you, our half-inflated dark lord. Hushed and Grim is sounding like a really great album. Amazingly good. I’m revaluating rapidly. Having crazy thoughts, like it’s even Crack the Skye good.

You've heard about MAID, right? The medical assistance in dying? It's Canada's euthanasia program. It's a seed, but I'm hoping it'll bloom into a forest of government sponsored death. I'm not even being sarcastic really. I think we should be proud of our Maid. I think it's bolstering the Canadian Brand after a particularly bad round of bumbling on the world stage, our contemptible parliament hosting zelenski and fucking it up royally by clapping for an old nazi war criminal that some dipshit MP had invited.

Soul~chewing train

All aboard... the soul chewing train. Train your brain to chew your soul. It's so chewy. So soulfully chewy. Chunky. Steak and potatoes. Eat it with a knife and fork. Carnivate your soul. For UnCarnal Knowledge.

So, it sounds like something that meant one thing one time. That thing I forgot. Spoiled ironies. Dried to husks. Pointless to harvest. Like dust. So, emote about being a mote. Sound like fucking kansas for a moment. WTF is with that moment? Let's mosey on. I'll see myself out. Take myself to the woodshed. Waiting on a rewatch of mad men episodes by Matt Lieb.

Sigh, groan, at what live serves up to me. To us, I can include others. Try to enjoy black humour. Really, try harder. Try before you why. Why nothing, just try to appreciate some aspect of the horror show. Even though the share price of poetry has plummeted again. It's not good enough to be bad even. Bad hasbra. Low value man and woman. Synthetic testerone could be rivalled by lab-made ampethamine class prodrugs.

Fit to be tied. Fit for a substack. Adrift in the vast sea of the market economy. Paddle to the sea, yo. Shock humour of 1999. What's that worth?

not all soul-chewing

Soul Nibbling.

And soul repairing.

So I've chewed on my soul vigorously, frothing at the mouth with tiny bubbles of short-lived BEST POSSIBLE WORLDS, tearing them to gristle in my teeth, grinding grinding grinding til they taste like ashes

but I swallow those ashes, find a way to perk up, desperately at first, for hours that seem like weeks, then more confidently, then, like spotting ocean on a sea of sand, the prospect of soul, again, and I can play, play with light, of light, reflect it like a diamond, play music, reflect it to jupiter, amplify it to the sun, cast to the universe.

Animals can restore soul, if I let them. My two cats. Beautiful handsome creatures. Noble beasts with poo-butt. Silly spastic prisoner pets. Tati inspecting my keyboards. She's gotta sniff all the knobs. 

I might chew more. I thought I chew too much. It felt like the awful truth at the time. Those were long times. Now I'm revaluating. It feels good to revaluate. Consider, maybe it wasn't all a waste. The balance I've been seeking between the sardonic and the sublime.

When I amplify music to the universe, it's actually not that, so much, I'm not inviting much of anything except a very specific zeigheist, a stellar spirit from the far future.

 

Who can I talk to about this? I don't know, maybe no one. So it exists in the form of a blog post.

thin blood

Legend: When I use the tag "LIT", it's an acknowledgement that I'm appending a literal explanation to something I wrote that was unclear, in a way that could have the literary merit of helping a reader understand what I'm on about. Also I'm not being needlessly cryptic but instead trying to communicate real thoughts and feelings, at this late date, and break the habit of hiding in poetic prose, but still failing in this gerundtocracy, because it has to curl in on itself that way, like a dumb fucking bumfighting jester.

So, I was thinking about harm reduction. [LIT: more specifically, the question: would it be a legit request to ask my wife for permission to just get stoned on thc, and promise to not mess around with anything else? And could it be a harm reducing activity, so that I could feel like things were extra profound and my life was kinda like a music video, without resorting to much more dangerous drugs?] It could motivate me to do stuff, like write more, and play more music. Even if only 1% of that motivation leads to action. That's still 99% more stuff getting done than when in the endless wastes of the non-stoned desert.

Beryllium could tell, she said. When I was writing on my blog stoned. Cause she actually read it enough to compare entries. It was a rare pleasure, when someone or other special to me read my words. I wouldn't have to trick anyone into it. Not that I would now, but I think about doing it sometimes. Funny, watching that Kids in the Hall skit with Erin this morning. Don't we all look into the inky abyss of our souls sometimes and find the roar of the loneliness there... deafening? Kevin McDonald, the best of the contemptuous friends, and even him, having to admit he just skimmed Bruce McCulloch's suicide note looking for his own name. That's the best you get, Bruce. It's something, you'd better take it, there's no better offer coming. And good thing you did put Kevin's name in the suicide note, so there was something for him to read, like a good writer of a brief for president trump.

Fuck it, we're still in the bad timeline. This bad timeline is fiendish in its malice, because it allows just enough non-horrific things to happen to keep ya from switching to the coping mechanism of accepting that you're in a pro-wrestling-themed hell-world, Hulk Hogan on one side and Jesse 'The Body' Ventura on the other, and going with that nauseating ride for better or worse, so ya can have expectations of a future, and maybe even one for someone else's kids. But then it yanks that hope away from you like a bully playing keep-away, and you wake up from the Kamala Harris hangover and realize that it's still a choice between genocide and genocide, with maybe slightly slower heat-death. 

Maybe the clathrate gun hypothesis is just good fodder for sci-fi, like I was proposing to Erin on the beach, will you continue to marry me, my sweet little pug, and also, I'm proposing that the clathrate gun scenario is not necessarily going to cause the entire planet to broil in a runaway greenhouse effect, terminating in a Venus-like Earth. And I'm also proposing that maybe evidence for release of hydrate-related methane to the atmosphere is lacking, and it won't foreclose on our own futures, cutting them down to a decade or two max. I've come to see that you don't need any encouragement to succumb to hopelessness on the micro and macro, and I don't need to be describing sciency-sounding scenarios in half-assed paraphrases of things I read on wikipedia, after chatting with someone on twitter who also claimed to be a former NSA whistleblower being hunted by the feds on behalf of the oil cartels, who also claimed to know about reverse engineered alien technology -- playing pundit or podcast bro, cause I know politics or something, heh. There's a turd in the punchbowl, the ET tech guy, my john titor, as I said to t, who introduced me to the supposed time-traveler guy.

Erin doesn't need this rap, she's doomy enough already, and it's not like I'm some kind of authority. I wish I didn't feel like I know as much as I do. Cause I dunno, who knows if I know anything? But there's a creepy feeling that I do, enough that I should be panicking, except I'm in the bad timeline that will allow me to think that there's no such thing, there's no devil, the greatest trick and all that, and it's just THE timeline that's perfectly normal and natural, so whatever I find horrifying is just me being unable to cope. And being unable to cope is just something that happens, to some people, and I'm just some person, not terminally unique, but unique enough to feel uniquely awful, but that's just normal and natural, and I'm just deputized to be the copeless ditch digger of the trenches for the last war.

Sometimes there was h. Sometimes there was c. Sometimes there was the other t. Sometimes there was s, but so what? Rarely there's Erin, probably good for avoiding new reasons to go to couples' counselling, what am I doing putting her in my complaints? Hasn't been l in years. Hasn't been m in decades. Could be t if I could be bothered to make an effort, he'd meet me halfway. And I do owe the other m an email for chissakes, why do I slack, and then expect the world to line up for the gratification of this hedonism bot?

Fair enough if we can't read what each other writes, aren't we all brain damaged by now, literally and figuratively? I might as well give in to participating in what everyone else is doing every time we talk, and let loose with age cliches, and monologues on the horrors of getting old, and talk about the jump scare of looking in the mirror and feeling like an amnesiac waking up in the body of a corpse.

I like fragments that can reflect each other, reflect on each other, reflect off each other, and multiply potential interpretation, instead of a dull cut and dried intent, it's a rolling fractal kaleidoscope of intention, rhyming meanings, synonyms, antonyms. But then the play of light gets too brilliant, out-smarts itself, the light becomes lite, airy fairy meaning lessness, stuff and nonsense. I can play on my keyboard for the first time in months, and the novelty of dusting off an old habit creates something that feels worthwhile, for the moment, at least.

Gratitude Alphabet

Doing a writing exercise, I guess, is what I'm doing. Because I've hardly written anything for months. Since I got sober, yet again. Excuses, excuses. Blaming deficiency of soul on being married and sober. For whatever reason, not writing anything, even long letters. Even short letters. Even skeets, threads. 

Also, doing a gratitude exercise, I guess, is what I'm doing. Because I've been getting gloomy and doomy. Perhaps I can blame that on being married and sober as well? Writing is hard when I haven't got the swoony swagger I get from various kinds of buzzes. Gratitude is also hard, in that wilderness. Wild clarity, where I'm pining for clouds and fogs and coils of vapour to flavour things and suggest a soundtrack and obscure painful realities and disappointing probabilities.

A is for Alison, my sister. A good sister. I'm lucky to have her, things are much better with us than when we were kids. Even though there's a long distance, physically, and emotionally, although I am grateful for a kind of closeness with her that I don't have with my parents, even, perhaps because of shared cultural references and experiences, and just less autistic weirdness. Just a little less, anyway.

B is for Brian, my dad, the best dad in the world, and other father's day cliches, but in this case, really. He is sweet, despite autistic weirdness. A father I can be proud of, and am, sometimes, when I think about it. Don't want to think about him ever dying, I'm grateful I don't have to much, not that time yet, hopefully not for a long time.

C is for Chels, an old friend I've never met in person, chat up sporadically, sometimes between gulfs of years, I prize that catalogue of messages, some incredibly good vibes at times.

D is for Doors. Cause they allow entry to rooms. Cute.

E is for Erin, my wife, the love of my life. Takes care of me in ways I don't even know. Someone to take care of. It was something I wanted for so long. And then I get what I want and feel burdens. But I can take stock and realize how lucky I am. And then feel like luck is a burden, don't want to feel obligated to feel gratitude. And then I can think about things that bring tears to my eyes, like how she baked that cake for my sober birthday, that molasses cake that I loved, that she thought was weird and bad.

F is for Fur, cat fur, it's so soft, feels so nice to pet, the nicest tactile feeling that I get, on a daily basis. Especially Tatiana's, the poofy luxury cat, the softest thickest coat I've ever had the pleasure to pet. Worth the stress and expense of cat maintenance.

G is for the Government. Could be worse. Does some good things. Social services. Gives me tax refunds. There's a system set up, that I've been able to tap into at times. Can't be easy, running the whole apparatus. Wouldn't say I live in a failed state, even though it might be heading there, but maybe I could still win the death-bet.

H is for Holidays, seems like they've added a few since my school days. So that's nice. It's hard to find time and energy for anything other than survival, but there's usually one a month, if I could plan better and do better at following through with plans, I might be able to nurture some more soul. Writing is hard, it's making me sweat. Like, I know I could come up with a metaphor much better than "nurturing" soul, but I can't be bothered, it would take hard mental labour, I'm not inspired. Well my writing joints are weak, they're creaking, haven't been stretched. And I'm not even a third of the way to Z.

I is for, I dunno. I gotta keep this moving, I wanna do the whole thing before I drop off. Nevermind nodding, don't mention that, forget that. Keep it moving, keep it grateful, ok?

J is for Judy, and Jennifer (both), and I could go on with J names, but I'll just try and tick those off in later entries, should they happen, magically, by themselves, or maybe through some strenuous writing exercises in a future regimen. Maybe I'll even book another counselling appointment. Maybe if I can get that Laziness Does Not Exist book read, to feel sufficient prepped for another session. Maybe I should just book it, stop trying to prepare. Already killed the momentum.

K is for Kyoto, that disc from the box set of Keith Jarrett's Sun Bear Concerts, such a great improv. Guess I could've made K for Keith, but I like that I made it Kyoto, more specific, and I did get a lot of pleasure from mp3s somebody ripped from that disc, while generating landscapes in Vistapro 3.0, even if the first batch I downloaded, in the early Napster days, were glitchy and I wasted so many hours trying to "repair" the waveforms. Am I really "grateful" for the Kyoto concert? Yeah, a little, I guess. Just going on quick associations from letters.

L is for love. It's real, even if I'm not a great lover of love. But love songs don't make me nauseous like they used to. I can feel it, I guess that's something that androids dream of, it's not something to be taken lightly, and as much as I fucking hate things sometimes, it's good that I can fucking love things too.

M is for mom. She's the sweetest, despite autistic weirdness. I'm feeling so lazy and tired doing this exercise, I can't be bothered to say things in an interesting way much of the time, but mom is one of the things that inspires the most deep and genuine gratitude. Aside from all the ways she is special, I owe my life to her, directly.

N is for Nevermind, the Nirvana album. I don't know when the last time is that I actually listened to it, it's probably been years, and I was probably drunk, and appreciating music in that way where it's a soundtrack and nostalgia. It has many permanent rooms in my head, that album. It wired me in all kinds of ways. The associations. They still take me back to that birthday, when I turned eleven, in New South Wales, my first walkman with that tape to go with it, being transformed aesthetically on hearing that music. Still, there's never been anything like it. Driving to a water park in the morning. Driven. Formative in ways I can't define, because it's aesthetic.

O is for Osaka, maybe my favourite of the Sun Bear concerts. Another one I wasted hours trying to de-glitch. Although I'm grateful for those hours too actually, because I learned things about waveforms doing that. A formative experience in audio editing, unknowingly leveraging neuro-plasticity in my adolescent flailing at engineering.

P is for Pickle Rick. I am grateful for that episode of Rick and Morty. It's probably in my top ten. Even though it's not all that cool, according to the people that are cooler than me, but it's hilarious and creative, and I enjoyed it immensely, both times I watched it. That jaguar character. I didn't watch it a third time when I was rewatching the series with Erin, I skipped that one, because she was barely tolerating the relentless grossness of the series, and I knew that particular one would have sent her over the edge.

Q is for the letter Q. It's useful sometimes in wordle, when I run out of vowels, but there's a U left, and I want to try some 2 letter combos, like in QUASH, or QUACK.

R is for Ratatouille, the movie, I really enjoyed it when I watched it the one time, back in, I dunno, 2007, on Luc's recommendation. Made me appreciate a host of other things, Luc, Fidel, animals, cooking. Not that I became a food guy, thank god, I'm barely tolerating The Bear. Actually I don't wanna admit how much I enjoy that show, but I still want to maintain an aloofness from foodie culture. Wanna maintain a toe-hold on this self-declared niche of cool.

S is for Savoury, the herb. It smells so good. Even the inferior imported savoury they shipped to the Mt. Scio farm where I packaged the stuff, scooped it out of a giant bin and bagged it. And the smaller amount of fresher stuff they grew there, my god, so good, so [insert better writing here]. What I'm really grateful for is the job. The owner, can't remember his name now, but he was a good man, respectful to his employees, liked to hire ex-convicts, and weirdos and losers like me, with barriers like autistic weirdness, that made having a silly low-paying job like that a high value thing in my mind, just the petty achievement of having a job like a real person to go to and afford a modest life by western standards.

T is for Tony. I'm so glad he's back. Thought I'd lost him forever to his mental illness. I did lose him for more than a decade. But we're friends again. It means a lot to me. It was so upsetting to me when he went paranoid schizo on me back in those days, I would sometimes dream of him coming around, but it was only a dream, until the last few years, he reached out again. And we're living on the same island, which is great, I get to go up to Port Alberni and visit and play music and talk about stuff that's important to us.

U is for Ucluelet. Maybe Erin and I will go there soon. I have rosy-tinted memories of the place, even though the few months I lived there were actually quite dark and stressful. But it will be nice to see it again. I really am grateful for the experience of living there back in 2012. I guess it helps that it's long in the past, I know that I came through it, I have that benefit, that too did pass, and I can see the good, barely remember the anxiety about trying to find work, and that brutal day of work processing the bloody muck from the bottom trawler, and then having to hitch to tofino every day to be a dish-bitch at the marina restaurant, occasionally getting to borrow briar's VW jetta, trying not to drive it like the disrespectful dumb dude I was. Yeah, I know, this is supposed to be about gratitude. But I am grateful for those hard times too, because I get to write about them, and feel hard for having gone through them. The hard-won "hardness" of a privileged working class canadian cracker with sweet parents.

V is for Vampires, cause I've gained more appreciation of them since getting with Erin. I've discovered there's a lot more to the mythology and creative possibilities I hadn't imagined. Maybe I'll even do something with the concept some day, if I ever take a second crack at doing fiction. Yeah, I dunno.

W is for words, even though I'm having trouble with them lately. But I love words, which is why I feel their void so painfully now. I'll get back to them.

X is for X-rays cause, well, I love everything on the electro-magnetic spectrum. Not x-rays especially though. I'm gonna have to look at the dictionary if I keep doing this, cause X, you know.

Y is for youth, specifically, the youth, younger generations, cause I think they're turning out better in a lot of ways. I mostly hated people my own age when I was younger. They're less bad as my contemporaries in middle age, but also, I think newer gens have a lot to recommend them. I don't envy them coming up in this world. I cut them a lot of slack because of it. They're annoying in a lot of ways, of course, that's just gonna happen, but no more annoying than I found my own gen when I was younger. They have at least the capacity to be more informed, because of information technology, and a lot of them are. And a lot of them are misinformed to increasingly grotesque degrees because of that same technology, but the possibility to be better informed than any past gens is a net good, I think.

Z is for Zodiac, because it's fun to lark about with astrology once in a while, it's cute. My baby does is sometimes, it's endearing. It would get old fast if she got super serious with it, but it makes a nice aesthetic. I'm not as dismissive about her budding interest in wicca. I guess she would consider them somewhat related, but there's a lot more meat on the wiccan bone, I think. 

Okay, I got to Z. Now I don't have to be grateful, I can just ramble. I can stop rambling now if I want and go to bed. I dunno what I want to do. Ramble I guess. I need to write a long letter to Matt. I need to write a novel that is a memoir that is a plan to die with dignity. I need to do all this shit, damnit, feed my soul, collate lyrics to plug into scraps of keyboard improv to build songs. It feels good to finally do some writing, in so fucking long, at least, I'm grateful for that. Hopefully I'll do more of that, whether it's therapy writing or nursery rhymes for stunted adults, or whatever. There's a loneliness. This is a step in the ridiculously circuitous escalator to address that.

The Twin Gears of Cringe and Cling

Donating. Actually doing something - an interaction - over the web - financial transaction, christmas shopping, or sort of gesturing to christmas, spastically, like a pitied invalid, broken toy, haha, whatever.

Musical guest: whatever your favourite band is. It sucks. I can barely rouse a care about bands anymore, anyway. 

Yeah, don't get sucked in... by stupid bullshit like that, pretend words have no power, not that type of power, not that kind of magic - back to strip-mined culture. A synthesis. Now a theatrical antithesis of dead. Now too outside, as if that ever meant anything.

All that can sustain life is the mere presence of making it another step without cringing. Well it's something, as if, a subroutine, a side-quest, not the main story. Clinging, or cringing. The two paths forking from the straight shot tickle to send the rest packing. It does sound better when it descends into nonsense. It tastes better too. But most importantly of all, it sounds better because it's music. It's about not being enough of a virtuoso to know which ways to waste and which ways to want. And being beside a WantMonster. Paying tribute to a colleague. And connections fraying infinitely from that. The barest of tendrils like a tiny rope of jizz off a cock. Stretched over an abyss. Sweet abysmal malice or friendly pussy. Gotta be a rock in the flow. Erode around.

Like a, Like that article, definitely.

Desperation, CLINGING, chasing security.

Desperation, lacking security, CRINGING, the subtlety of embarrassment, rather than shame.

 

I've tried to tell myself I was punching up before, not as in afflicting the comfortable, not hierarchy-based class-conflict in words, but the kind of punching up where you're crafting a bit, to be funnier. That kind of diamond drillbit. Playing of light across an overconfident perspective, thinking it was cool once, now caught in the twin gears of cling and cringe.

The saw teeth sawfigures of rusted out basements of the heady sensation that things are so fucked up and fucking up in a cascading way, but not finding paranoia very fun, making do, wasting time with discussion of drugs.

Under the heavy sedation of life... it's not music, except when it is... When it can roll, into a cradle. And definitely be a part of that deja-flow. You know? You bwad bwad bwoy?

Is a certain popuri of posturing intubations of what fills a dead space between two massive chapters of crusted ebullience. Like it was inexplainable, inimitable, a gratuitous grace how it donned the syntax of its age and just accepted gifts of forgiveness. A thing called righteousness. When he asks himself what to do in the mirror, demands that he, himself, tell himself, what to do. That's freaky. Begs for his life at the end. It's sort of satisfying but unnerving, when you're that far up the ass of a bubble dimension that exists to Johannson strains?

It needn't be though. It needn't be freaky. If it had the right key to the right lock, it would fucking ROCK, but it won't. So deal. So die, or live with it somehow, but don't look at me, to me you're like someone in a "somebody else's problem field", so yeah. That's my monologue for you today, sir. It's borrowed bits of paradigm from dxm cruising. That's the word I could have used, bruised, self-abused, but useful to myself, idiots. Cruising altitude, like Michael Brooks in his late TMBS era [], cruising in stride between pretty plateaus, hefts of flour, seeds of plains of maybe it's not the end, just the end of a horrible unnatural cycle and a new era of disease divine kings, rightfully ruling, presumably, syphillitically, because mightfully ruling, literally. Exerting might for the monopoly on force, to rule. So, this paradigm feeling natural, in this exegesis, where my fingernails are too long and I feel like I'm tapping with talons on a tablet, like as hateful as the living tripod creatures, moving with calculated swoops in on low insect protein source food routines.

Seeing city lights stretched from end to end of horizon, and yeah, I could, I should, keep going, but I can't, I gotta end this side-quest for now. Heh.

The saw teeth of saying something, for any delusion that there were hallucinations beside you, on your peripheral, when I talk to you, when I try to make something from nothing, like friendly ghosts on tropanes, who seem nice but then they disappear which doesn't seem as nice, sometimes it's knocking on your doors in your dreams for centuries cultural hangover kind of thing in a situation where tech just paradigm slurs every strata of understanding over each other, like it's a rich flavoured gravy of mores, but on the other hand, nevermind.

as if

If I don't turn it into a side quest in some dumb game, I won't do it at all. I guess if this is the only way, to write, then okay. I'll give in to exposure because, as if that matters, haha. It's a way to try and get back energy and passion. One avenue, one hopes. It gets too cryptic too quickly and veins outward in a million different directions, like a neuron. It's a flow over a rocky shallow creek. It's too rapid. It's all a tall head of foam, can't be teased apart, you'd move through it unmoved, holding no coherence. As if this were an essay, heh. Fidelity to the flow causes overturning of set courses. Before discourse can form, syntax resets, non-sequiturs pile up in heaps. Must believe there's some skum of magic that glistens over the broken furniture hastily shoved together. Some magic skum that makes it alright somehow. Closet full of weasel words tumbling to the floor. Tricks on self to try and sorta focus. 

One trick is to try to continue that scene that's so pale it's leaking null space, it's got a fatal glitch, it's clipping, there's no floor, the ground is parallax. Maybe some day you'll make a level that's viable and not an impossible escher sketch. Maybe some day you'll be real.

So, the scene. Let's just pretend it's good to keep it going, the new mantra. It will get me set. Set for life. The right set and setting for expenditure of energy on shoving together furniture and pretending it's a room. With no floor. So, the scene:

It's a hospital room. It's an iconic scene. I'm telling you that. That it's iconic. I'm not showing you that. Because there's no point in showing that particular thing. The telling is important in that case. The fact that a hospital room is an iconic scene for me. That's what's important in this glistening film of magic. Because it means things like birth and death. Recent times where I've been in a hospital, with my wife's brother in a little room on the apparatus, head blown off, barely alive. I'm peering close to the IV vessels, getting a lay of the newest mid-tech gear for middle class people in the state of washington. Seeing if I an discern some drug nomenclature. Well, that one's fentanyl, that's clear, it's even in an LCD screen these days!

So it's iconic because yeah, there's birth, with all that meaning, but these days, ever so much more so, I'm thinking about death, trying to ruminate, but behavior patterns get in the way, ones with a misguided allegiance to life, not life-loving in a good way, but in a chicken shit desperate to distract from anything negative look away, way. But when I try to look away, it all leads back to the big one, the meaning of death. And the things around it, like wanting to die high, and having it be a fantasy in lieu of using now, and wrapping the things around that into a fantasy, like getting in a severe car crash or getting critically ill, and being free of the expectation to walk around and do things and be responsible, and be drugged instead. It doesn't sound all that great when I put it in words, but I'm still in love with the fantasy. 

This kindling does have potential to be revved up to a roaring fire, and maybe that fire could even be used to forge real material, but it's hard to work up the energy for that. I'm trying to ween off caffeine for a while, been living on only 1 cup of tea to start the day. Considering, I think writing anything at all is impressive. I made a dooky! Shitbabies in post-natal pinocchio situations. I had the rebellious thought that I should break the caffeine fast tonight and drink a strong cup of tea or two and see if it would help me power through, and not leave the fruits of inspiration dying on the vine.

Because the sun comes in the morning and they die, so quick. The morning could come as early as an hour from now, while it's still dark. The sun comes out anyway, at 2am, and there's burn. And there's burnout. Magicskumshine dries, loses its supple texture, amalgam with a crust of gel. It's all splayed out on the rocks, sheet of flakes of denatured crystal. There's so much to show, and tell, but the flow is too rapid. I can't make use of it, it's a flow of fuel and I don't have the infrastructure to capture it, refine it, process it, use it. Petrochemical metaphors, I guess, that's what I've got. Then the day comes, for real, and the light is overcast, it mopes through the blinds, the sun behind a gray building somewhere. And it's enough light to spur me to eventually get up and do chores, to keep this obscure performance going for another cycle. Getting stirrings of intifada.

Maybe the wife and I, god what a weird phrase, let's be weird, whatever, maybe we should integrate each other's writing more, or, wait, that's an INSANELY bad idea! Like when I thought the solution to so many things, the brilliant idea, was for us to take DXM together, and it would be, for me, like getting married in a church or temple is for religious people, it would be like a SACRAMENT! Yes, fucking genius! Um, yeah, or, maybe... not so much? Given I write the stuff I write, and I really don't want to censor myself. But I still want to post, heehee. Teehee. A bad idea. But that's a judgement, what does bad even mean? In this endless plane on the leather-bound donahue transcript.

But about that scene, there's other elements in the fantasy, like, going back to that part in the sunblock selfie sutra, the IA, intelligent automation of Her hooking up with Alan Watts. I'm not gonna finish tonight without in some inept way advancing that "scene" I keep alluding to, like navigating a new office job on the first day while high as balls on dxm, to where it's not a "high" anymore, high and low are arbitrary prepositions, and there is little left of a self, like who am I, he was a guy, technically, who got scraped off the brain. And keep in mind, if you survive this walk in the void [in the sucking vacuum where telepathetic entities that are collectives of tech transhumanist edgecutters were marooned, picked up orbiting the collapse of a star on lsd-soaked sugarcubes], it'll hurt later when some of that self gets sucked back onto the cortex of the brain, like a severed limb dragged temporally, retrograde, onto the mockup of the nervous sytem, the microcosm, in the brain, being slowly cleared of chemical agent, it's a depletion curve, a half-life. The office job was in my mind. It was like an office job in a way, I can use that for that trip report I'm trying to put together. Faltering first steps.

But nah, I'm just too tired. Can't rouse myself to make tea. A lot will be lost. I don't trust myself to be able to pick up any threads. But maybe I'll surprise myself. Maybe there's method in this madness, maybe there's notes I wrote that will carry the seed of civilization through to another run at the chaotic world of 3 body, across the finish line that doesn't finish anything, beyond the state boundary, to build a god damn bridge, how hard is that, people? To get a god damn bridge, we need one, we need handrails of satire, we need trellises of pretense, we need to eat cake and have it too god damnit.

Guess I'll have to try and explain intifada later, I'm too tired, gotta lie down. Lol. As If. "As If", the title of one of Robert Ashberry's book of poems that I read. One of the few I read, I imagine the man had a vast output, PKD-like exegeses of thousands of pages, he was that kind of kook. Was more kooky that cranky, more entertaining than annoying, more psychedelic than religious.

As if, lol. As if it matters whether I write or not. It does to me, but, yeah. Lol.

memoir pamphlet, S07E16

I built a rickety bridge to greener pastures. I'm crossing back and forth any time I please. But the workmanship is shoddy. But brilliant. But shoddy. If I do say so myself. 

"Zot's za spirit, lahd! Gd-r-reener pastyoores!" That's what I said to him, the guy who belted out tunes at the royal, as if my memories are worth anything, but let's pretend for a sec. Needs some context though. We'll call him Aaron. I'll come up with a better name later. He was like a groovy glam rocker. Turns into a black man sometimes. It's not black face, it's just music, man. Played the lead in Jesus Christ Superstar. Jesus Christ, I should have gone seen it and appreciated.

I was trying to do the voice of a soused scottish lad, encouraging his mate not to give up the post-divorce party agenda because of one rejection - what a weighty downer word, forget that shit. Go to the greener pastures where Roxanne is. Back when they had that plywood-bordered smoking section. Or wait, I'm misremembering that, I'm conflating a memory from, I dunno 2006, with one from 2003. Big difference, one was pre smoking in bars, the other was post. That night with Aaron was post. No cigarette haze in the air, but certainly the scent of piss and wildhoney. That was a constant, I hope it carries through still, whatever they call the place now. I don't think they'll ever change the name. Long after the name of twitter is changed to x and back a hundred times, the Royal will still be the Royal.

There's a great quixotic quest to bridge state boundaries, of every type. Communication, during masturbation. The state or condition of being a crank yankee. Good ol' yankee brilliance and practical know-how, to invent a swivel chair with all the free time from slaves doing all the work and then to declare independence from the tyrant masters of the mother country, to animate the talking mice in disney's head, and much later, build the apparatus that will allow a few elite meritocrats to escape the planet and seed the stars. The mushroom may have told McKenna something like that, the better McKenna bro who did the decent thing and died before His 2012 prophecy, meanwhile we still got assholes like John Hagee going around talking about the unmistakable signs of the end times, not the ones he was talking about in 2014 that lead to nothing, no, the ones in 2023 that are for sure this time, it's a lock.

I might not write anything at all if there's too many rules. So forget the rules then, any agendas too. I might not do anything but for something. Is that something? It's too obvious a flow. Obviously. Glued together, but glue flows, it's liquid dnb, will harden to a solid, it'll do me a solid, myself and no one else. Cause it'll mortar an edifice of empty structure, and the structure will be messy, like a collapsed wire mesh around a trashed garden. A hedge maze of tire tracks and card tricks.

Pretty soon, I'll try and synthesize some writings, and post about "the one that did it", the DXM trip in the recent past that got so out of hand that it got me off a path, and onto another one, derailed me all the way to victoria, dissolved and re-formed my marriage. I never posted about it, was too real, reamed me out, left me raw, in ruins. But there's a few notes scattered amongst that wreckage. Can I salvage anything, and bridge the towering walls of the boundary to that state, and actually write about it, and really remember anything? Really not sure, am kind of afraid to even try. Most of the time I lack the confidence to attempt difficult artistic work, the emotional stakes of maybe failing feel too heavy, so I keep putting it off.

Changeling Change Log:

Channel One. For plugging into. Then channeling. Circuit for changeling. Here are the updates. Enjoy the new channel. For clumsily fumbling at an alien discipline. For the sake of this living thing. So this little living thing can affect all things, contribute to a general good that exists, for real, that is not a mirage, that feels somehow realer than anything, that feels/is immune to any paradigm shift, something eternal and infinite. That's the thing. Predicted by the I Ching. Can't imagine it later. In the fumbling process of programming self to express in groups of four, for the ease of it, the groove of it. Putting down stakes in mistakes. Letting be a laughing color wheel in any icy pleasure dome [sic]. Yes. Letting be. Not it.

Started with bomberman. Sixth and Seventh steps and things in between. Chug blues. All aboard the abused cartridge. The boxcar of diminished fifths. And bitonal sleeping carts. If only it could be rendered a little more precisely, coherently. If only I could get my ass to do work, be a craftsman, realize potential. Pathetically being my own fan. My own man. Yeah, I'll own it. Hype it the fuck up. Did you remember to keep the meter in this group of four? Did you remember about the bomberman melody?

Making peace with kitsch. Making kitsch work for me, yes indeed. Gotta believe, yeah I gotta believe, that ten percent of my fantasy could be reality. Yeah, still, gotta believe. Even now. Even in these times.

Should I make a demand to be taken seriously? No, probably should not. Should not write a symphony. Should have no pretensions to theory. Should not seek sympathy. Should still play synthesizers.

As an emaciated olive branchling to a theoretical audience, I'll say something plainly: Sometimes I really do feel like I'm channeling something. It doesn't even matter what it is, it's the channeling that is the thing. That's what's important. The medium is the message. It's now the polished bodily function. Glorifying dionysian kitsch. Make it all kitsch so as to make it categorizable. Fungible like lego bricks.

Ah, there's bomberman in his buzzy square wave form.

Part of channel one is to feel like I am serious. It's glorious, but how can I say it in an adjective and be actually descriptive and evocative instead of empty with chaff words? It's seriously fun, that's at least a little less finger pointing at the moon-ey. I'm glad I saved those sound programs on the nord, so I can recreate stuff later.

Remember the left hand. The underpinning plumbing that wants to break free from that role. That wants to continue to flow like the effervescing mirage visage wafting off the pale imitations of alien plumbing, continue, to flow, but take on new roles, own the apparatus, set agenda veering off what was always the inevitable gravity of the flow.

As always, a ride, in a music video, down a circuit that encompasses all the options, an ever evolving self-involved nexus of flow and no deep ditch for several miles, but when a cave comes along big enough to suck you in it's so rare and different that it can almost feel timeless, like there's no past or future, which may be hyperbole, but the quality of each moment of perception, each discreet drop of awareness is so rich, such high-grade perception, beyond pedestrian "pleasure", but more the quality of being a hyper-being, getting well beyond ego, beyond what you or I "deserve". Gifts of forgiveness in radically altered perception, escaping the gravity of quotidian life. I want to go there again. I do, I want to be there again soon. Maybe it's good that I forget. Maybe it's good to remember again. Maybe. Let's see.

Damn, this could be material, for real, legit shit. I want to go deeper. It feels good and right. And only fifteen minutes in. I really put some muscle into that music. But the polish isn't there yet. The soul is, but I can't always hear it later. What a bitch that is. Fuck.

Nintendo ref riffing brings to mind malik and t and m and the collaborations we could have. That imperative I felt, with the muscle behind it, which was so fleeting, tardive dyskinesia and dissolution of resolve to do something, at least write him an email saying: we really gotta do this, life is too short...

This time it's different right? This time, this take will take. This take on the situation is the right one, right? Tell me I'm right, tell me it's so, tell me what to do and I'll do anything for you.

I need some people following me, propping me up, that's what I need, a following. But first I need talent worthy of that, and that's what I lack. I'm definitely a case-study. A case in point. If you studied me, you'd see unflattering psychological complexes. Narcissism. No painting over that mirror.  That self-drowning person. The same fate would await me. It'd be a fait accompli. Wait, what am I saying, "would" await? I'm saying it like it's theoretical. Nah. It's real.

No need for a theme, an anthem. It's a divine finite flow, but there needs to be a better word than divine for that. But it felt fine, it rhymed. But now I want a definitely different sound to that. Not divine, but dynamite. That sounds right. That's what I'll write. That's the brightrite of this thing right now. That was a hard-edged half-assed arpeggio. But it was also a series of arpeggios articulating the modulation of a thought about how that bassy synth phase sounded like one of my favourite tracks from the soundtrack to Mandy, and how one of the themes from that movie was the cultist imploring himself, desperately: Tell me what to do! Tell me what to do! And then his eyes lit up and he felt the presence, channeled maybe, blew the horn of Abraxas and succeeded in business, the business of removing inconvenient others from existence, and all for the low price of evil. Tell me what to do and I'll do anything for you. You know what the freakiest thing was? They fucking loved it.

The important part for this to mean anything is that substance is absence, what comprises this matter is a bunch of bubbles, bouncy, expansive, empty, but those shells, oh those shells, they seem to have an abundence of substance, oh hell yeah.

Rebellion will have to come up, at some point. As a sticking point, an issue that's gotta be dealt with. In the same way that societies squeeze their downtrodden members to a breaking point. The terror of how bad things have to get to lead to "The Terror". Subsisting on black breads. Being all les miserable.

My name is Leslie Miserable, I'm here to say: It sucks to rap about a shitty ass day. A shitty ass day becomes a shitty ass week. A month, then a year, and I'm still up shit's creek.

One thing I can feel is the slant, the paraphysical gravity. Does that mean I'm even able to connect to deja-thread dendrites? Past ontologies of dissociative planes? That's cool. That I can do it without even DXM, but just high on pot oil. Maybe doesn't say much for the structural integrity of my grip on reality, but hell, I'd say, I'm somewhat high functioning, except, well, not really. But low functioning, at least. Functioning, of sorts. 

asmr sutra 1/x

HANDS WARMedUP.

Judiciously stringing out beads of dram, creating an interference pattern with the tendency toward fear and guilt - trying for vigilance but succumbing to frustrating laziness - creating future periods of drowse and preparing for a long plateau of smooth surfaces overlapping in pleasing stratas, nothing too steep or jagged. Venting inertial damper exhaust to compensate for quantum fluctuation.

Careful staggered doses of dram will keep things delirious but sane. The fog of extra-thick sensation will soon pass, so I'm looking strategically well beyond this next couple hours to a good dozen of good vibes. Don't worry, be drowsy. We'll make it fine, somehow, see what we can get away with.

It'll be a sutra. It'll have floofy cats with curly fur walking across the desk. I can leave this in the hopper, indefinitely, to encourage honesty, if that's what's necessary... but I don't care, actually, I'll be indelicate and still honest-ishy.

What does that kitty want from me? Wish I could give it to her. If only I knew. If only I could trust anything I think cause I got no instinct. Some paranoid hallucinations. Some ability at the best of times to think of the universe as a conspiracy to help me [a subset of the big meta-theory that we're all playing an entertaining role in the cosmic opera, taking turns.] I guess hearing Alan Watt's articulation of the Maya theory did influence me a lot, just not in a brainwashing way, more in the way where I'm willing to become wishy washy about the distinctions between me and you, friend and enemy. Maybe I just wanna be sedated, better yet opiated. I'm not enough of either of those two things.

I don't know how I would contort this into something fit for squeezing through za medium of twitter. My writing is like ensure, force-fed to prisoners to break a hunger strike. That's a good emblem, at least, for the perverse banality of my writing, anyway, let's say, with imagery not worthy of such a medium, like cheapening the holocaust in a third-rate film adaptation of a second-rate stephen king novella.

Let it all flow as it's all disposed to around me. A prayer of thanks for what is, not yearning. Having modest needs taken care of. Modest. In this second, in enjoying the enabling of all this by a vast assemblage of toil from generations past to be here now.

I'll write about "them" all astounding me later.

*

Value inflates to the size of dream symbology, then restricts like a trap, all the air sucked out, I'm naked in a vacuum tube. A metaphor too outside your experience to get. 

Let it flow. Fake flow til it goes. 

Savouring the sucking out of nicotine laced propylene glycol from the vape, taking two long drags without a breath of air so I get winded yet vindicated from the dopamine hack I guess, pretending to be higher than I am. Willing it into existence cause I can play in the realm of magic like a lucid dream. 

Savouring the simple pleasures of this weird life circumstance is a good thing to do, often, and dispute how all the problems seem to be piling up on all sides. No problemo, take another puff, it's like quaker oats, the right thing to do. It's moral righteousness. You can shake and quake along with my supine slack if you want. Everyone has their own route to god if they're lucky enough to be able to find one. Alan Jensen found a direct route to God, but he found it profoundly disturbing, ultimately unbearable, so he sold his soul to his ego, bought back a functional life. No flashbacks. 

Savouring watching another failarmy compilation on YouTube with Erin is a good thing to do in these end times. It wouldn't be worth hardly anything doing it by myself, but it's a couch experience way more than the sum of its parts with her.

The Banality of End Times

There's these dueling pay-pig recipients. I'm their client. I pay them and they perform for me. Among other things, they perform the function of being better than me, so much better and more talented. They produce content that I consume. I pretend to worship them. Sometimes I actually do worship them. Most importantly, I give them money.

One of them is on instagram. I found her bikini pics. She alluded to their existence in a reply on a different social network that I happened across. Cristina. From a perfect threads burn where she delivered the retort: "yeah it’s called restraint, something the IDF & u hate-masturbating over my bikini pics lack." It's ideology I like on a hottie. OMG. So it's not exactly pay-pig, a slightly more dignified form of pay piggery, it's hog-shill.

The other recipient is Ian Welsh. Well, theoretical recipient, I haven't sent him money, but I'm really thinking about it, he made a good pitch. But I'm struggling in this economy, right? That's my counter-pitch, to myself, because no one else is aware.

He posted a list of catastrophes and paradigm shifts he predicted in point form. One of them had an ominous sentence after: "It has begun." How do I feel about that? Should I craft it into something to post on that facebook thread? First I've got to do some appreciation theatre and prove myself willing to perform perfunctory attention and admiration upon colleagues in the college of dubious artforms. Level up on points. To where I can post. 

Ian, quoting chapter and verse, me, licking it up like gospel ladeled down my gullet. Gross.

Is that how ppl become fans of ppl on instagram? That's sad. I don't want to play a sad role in a sad little play that is horrifying and beautiful at times, like pixies singing songs to you at the peak/trough diamond drill interval of an ayahuasca trip. We know those "entheogens" don't necessarily do any good, people can go in and out with their asshole egos intact no problem, look at burning man for an example, look at all those zaphod beeblebroxes going into their total perspective vortexes and coming out with the idea that the universe is endorsing their dream to go on mismanaging silicon valley parasite farms. Oh, that rant felt righteous and full of holes.

It can get to be too much some times. Luckily I don't fall into panic much any more. I just let it flow, as it's all disposed to, around me, around me. Don't know what they do, but the things they all get up to just astound me, astound me, Nursery Rhymes for arrested developments. Ok, I got one mantra ready, at least. I cobbled together one of them. That's as heroic as I can get. Until something forces me to get moreso.

Just between you and me, that was too much of that oil. Might have to edit inconvenient vestiges of the present that try to out-compete and eliminate ways of coping, being here now, in the moment. Does make me aware of how cold my hands are, in a more immediate way, like it's weighty, means something, feels something extra. Does make me aware I'm doing something, writing, and lending the weight of weightier sensation to the fact that writing is a struggle, lends more weight to the activity, makes meaning even, in and of itself, if meaning could be derived later, by whatever standard reigns then. See, that's the big question. The goddamn state boundary. You see? Ah, nevermind. I'll try again later.

Nursery mantras I sing to myself when I get desperate, or even drowsy. When I don't want to get out of bed, and it's a morning lullaby, an elegy to waking life and exhortation to stay in bed, and don't worry about it, and don't despair but get back to that pleasant drowsiness, treat the drowsy like I drug, not like anyone else drugs but like I do it, how I treat it like a laudanum-coated lollipop. Some people do dream in a druggy kind of way, ppl do know what I'm talking about, even if the idea of addiction to sleep is seen as not credible, not worth exploring or even discussing... and what is even out there that hasn't got a reddit devoted to it?

What's my reddit saying about me? Did they turn on me? Did some one edit my wikipedia page to claim I was a paypig? Who posted these scurrilous lies? Actually no body, there's nothing, I can relax, as I've always relaxed in that area. I've kept a low profile, because of low points in my ego, in my story, which is I guess what passes for trauma with me, so I guess that's lucky, a first world problem. It's a first world luxury to worry about potential panic in the near future. I could freak out about that luxury, or luxuriate in it. I guess it would be far more pleasurable to do the latter.

There was cyber-bullying, I guess, before the term existed, but my dreams are fucked up enough, with enough over-the-top symbology, but not enough sex, although sometimes. Christ, had the first one of those dreams of my life, so there's weird stuff going on. Maybe there's a lack of outlet, maybe there needs to therapy for me, poor me, or pour me a drink.

There were multiple times of being smacked down so hard online that it kept me shy, even online, guarded. And still, I got multiple relationships out of being online, one of it enduring, ongoing, despite how life conspires to break our wills to be there for each other, that bare minimum thing that can mean so much, even in good times, all the more so in times that seem like "the bad timeline" in a sci-fi movie, like where climate change wasn't fixed easily, even within capitalism, with market-based solutions, like the ozone hole was, and instead, all the "worst-case" models turned out to be overly-sunny projections, and the prognosis became increasingly malignant for human survival, and we got to see the clown fascist pre-shock before the century-long banality of end-times.

I can't think of what to say in the threads replies. I'm tongue-tied. I guess that's why I'm a pay pig. I'm not paying much though. I guess I could splurge and buy some real top-tier temporary loyalty. For a weekend. And then, I dunno, go on a mass shooting spree? Nah, not extraverted enough. That's very late-90s anyway. Old old paradigm. Now I'm an adult, more civic-minded, more inclined to do terrorism towards a doomed revolution, if anything. I'm a cynic civic. Can the word civic be used like that? I'm not sure. What is this, a podcast monologue now?