Aug 26, 2016

Why?!

Because!?

Fuck you! That's why.

Fuck You Cigarettes - MY BRAND, yeah, MY BRAND, yeah ALL CAPS bappety bappety bop bop
shuBAW

they're fuck you cigarettes... yeah yeah yeah yeah, fuck you cigarattes, yu yah yu yah yu yah yu
[fuck you cigarettes]
why?
fuck you that's why.... yah yi ya yo yah yi ya...

take any mind control where you can get it, see where it gets you
take on a scheme, a secret for control of the world, your world, at least your world
at least take on a dubious friend in a solipsist's hell, an imaginary friend? that'll do
that'll do nicely, in fact, that might more than do, that might be more than happy, like a dangerous mental condition

placebos for working out tension earlier catches up with me, waking fever dreams will do nicely, it'll all mesh comfortably, mash it up prahpalYEE! shy bow bow, fuck you cigarettes... yeah ya, this'n'that and never mind whatever's involved, detach to realities, make the warning on the pack as big as you want, fuck you, and yes. That'll do nicely.

Where has all the rage gone? Gone to a rage song. The machine rages on. 2016 remix. Fuck you. I won't do what you tell me. Unless I'm in a safe space where realities can't touch me. Be proud of self-imposed mind control, where you can get it, so precious, a philosopher's stone. Get the balance right, punched it up occasionally with thc and don't do coke unless it's offered, and mash it up properly, mash the tension to a pre-digested paste to massage the dendrites of perverted interpretations of extra layer sensory depth of feeling you don't know what to do with, altogether, especially... to minecraft renditions still not satisfactory, enterprise still too blocky, tetrafractcal valley tours but where is the gold block that makes it mean all and everything? the iridium vain, the main secret collect motherlode star item event - the lodestone runny currency, an i-coin slowly flanging into a bitcoin, the walmart stand, beautiful barely-legal ip infringement

horizon, let's call it - in any event...

things can change, thoughts, feelings, fuck you, cigarettes, cause, fuck you, that's why, cause - just cause, cause the internet, caused it all, caused this country going down the tubes, what tubes? the tubes, of this country, the country's going down it, and why is there more than one tube, does every state gotta have its own tube now? seems to me like, one country one tube would do the job pretty good, but tubes that big, you'd think someone woulda seen 'em, someone woulda said hey ey ey joey, hey, lookit those fuckin tubes! and where do they go?

the pacific, i guess, it all makes sense, fuck you cigarettes, we need a euphemism, we need a euphemism, WE NEED A EUPHEMISM, a resounding successful reunion of comfort and menace: a monster mashup type thing, swerving to avoid, gracefully, all these things, that you might have riffed on if you'd caught a groove in an old indulgence

take any mind control, like a mix of stabilizers, better than dread regimes from nowhere panic, flip out fables, little golden books

you've got a friend in fuck you cigs, and dreams where you get to do drugs, cause it's dreams, and a good battered psychology is good for a juicy dream, isn't it? dream material, stuff that dreams are made of, are gritty cable dramas, literally gritty cable dramas, in the case of a multi-series arc of the sopranos i wasn't aware had existed until that dream that merged with breaking bad at some point and involved a mob turf war on a Mediterranean labyrinth with wafer walls and old country decor, and other ways i could claw onto a caprice, shamelesly, then down and shamefully, and altogether in a knot of loss of love for self in that sentence.

Dirty miracles on Elysium. Bloody microchip miracles. Post-existenz coup de gras and portable.


Aug 21, 2016

dwindle

a slow phase out grate off powder into
vaporous transition
to not notice
forget, eventually

remember, there used to be a sense of something to say, or was it wishing and fingertips? there was drive, but the knob broke, broke off from overuse, corroded pathways

rhombus bonus spoke to me of a time when a rolling network of color commentary bounced along side like a lively shadow in a riverside sideshow, hey folks, c'mon down

font got too small, tasks multiplied, threads became balls - at that point, snacks had to happen, a good distraction, then kindling made pages multiply, folders filled, flicked into subfolders, parent folders filled, clicked on in a riffling past inventory way, in a scheme, but never read, like those bookshelves, looking even stranger, quainter, every day, taller, space multiplied, microfilm digitized, text unreadable, taken care of, digested in a layer of rote processing below a conscious level with machine learning, consciousness isn't all it's cracked up to be anyway, not the end all and be all, merely an ends to the machine tool that's tooling this stepping stone for a bigger busier tentacle troll pickup line

forgot reasons to either moan with depression and self-pity or groan with ecstasy from ill-gotten gains from time-bounded chemical splurge schemes - when everything was thought of in those terms, could still be, one use for virtuosity, indexing disorders on a fractal that is surely in order, as near as we can figure out, trust it, go with that flow, prioritize according to a series of values the order dictates, make disorder work for you, impose bureaucracy on it, strangle to strengthen into rhythmic meter-long wiremesh segments, points, to get out of bed, because eventually, you want to

certain senses enhanced, other, lower forms shunted to margins by noise cancelling headphones - creating marginal sluces and diamond-crusted chutes, and line noise offchutes, and forks of lightning that is glittering static crackling

there was space at times - nostalgia got uglier, mirrors liquified slowly, on a slow drip













bonus rhombus

Jul 31, 2016

Strike while the iron is touched

Touched. He's touched. I was touched for a moment, that seemed to last forever.

Touched is a much better word than schizophrenic - a townie friend of mine said that, about our mutual friend. I have the urge to perform a metaprogramming hack on myself, like Eliot with Evilcorp, that character in Mr. Robot and henceforth copy and replace the word and henceforth my reality. Evilcorp. Can't even remember what the original "real" name of that fictional (?) corporation was. Would that I had such schizophrenic powers, but alas, I'm not touched, merely a clumsy hacker without a script, a magician sans technique. Good probably, I couldn't handle it. A seasoned touched person can attempt to medicate on brute force tranqs like lithium.

No, I'm not relapsing, just had a dream that lasted maybe two hours "real time" but it was one of those glimpse of infinity insanity and reality dreams that are eternal in some sense, that motivated me to write, in a real time season of no words, only externally imposed, internally complicit routines. One of those dreams I get on the very rare seed occasions that I fall asleep, finally, without taking my sleep medication. It gave me the urge to meditate, cogitate. Instead I followed a well worn script, got up, feeling awake in a way I haven't in years, smoked a cigarette, poisoned myself in weathered floor crafting recipies. Not selfish hedonism drug trip scripts, just slow death unhealthy living patterns I've slid into, forever postponing the futile proactive probiotic future crystal floor path recipe.

Made me think and feel about being "touched" though, ideas like I should reach out to friends of ours that are touched, who better to talk of these things with. Or who worse? Who better or worse than our touched friends, or the friend that worded it in a perfect folksy way, who's now in a real earthy life script of raising a new life he co-created.

Of course I can't really write about it. But here's a community college try.

Fading, like a dream, or a psychedelic revelation, which is really a whole nother thing. The rare dream thing sans sleeping pills, that's more in line with Ian Welsh's eerie mention of being young, hospitalized, in extreme physical and mental pain, but the mental was infinitely worse, and probably caused in part by medical steroids administered routinely on a living death-bed, partly alleviated by morphine and demerol. All things being equal, he wrote, mental pain is worse than physical, and nausea is worse than anything. Don't think he was even thinking of Satre or mescaline.

Just thinking, being touched by powerful mind altering substances and affliction. But getting good words out of it, in the end, in the current hegemonic language, even if words are so clumsy. But magic tech is getting ever more sophisticated, if that's the word. We're all touched by it. Increasingly running on code that could be transparent, but who ever clicks on the show source tab? Information overload, medicated dreams.

Love is a word that's so cheap, I'm falling in love with Abigail, not really, she's nothing but a few pixels, she's a sprite with a few animations, not even an avatar, a short tree, a few possibilities.

May 3, 2016

somebody can hear someone playing Beethoven's moonlight sonata, and fucking up occasionally but pulling through, and hear that in entirely different ways. Maybe they hear it as a sad piece of music made even sadder by this demonstration of a performer who maybe once had facility but is now tragedy erroded. Or maybe they hear it as the fits and starts of a person recovering from a calamity, filling the hippocampus with laboured breath, slowly lighting those long dark neutral paths and persevering and finding his strength again.

Apr 17, 2016

recognizing loving and love pumps

first improv on my new keyboard:

instinct


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Feeling empty, the only thing that nudges me to write anymore, so, voila, something like this, when empty's overflowing and i'm heaving nothing into a porcelain blog, tickling lil' lines in the dust on the surface of the semicircle, poking a node, stroking vectors, transcriptions of a casual chat with satan's collection agent from the pact we made back in the day, me and satan, in the company of an agent as witness and middleman - satan's agent's still trying to collect, sent an angel to bribe me into looking back for love, i played it pretty aloof, shook my hair like a pretty boy, with almost enough cell-death, biological distinguishment to pretend to be adult far advanced in decrepitude

wit drained - plumbing was a good thing once upon a time, the visions of plumbing, infinite variation on flowing visions through conduits, on themes that were important in ways i couldn't explain, maybe nothing could, not even math - and plumbing was a good thing because there was an analog spectrum between non-horniness and orgasm, a nice wide spectrum to work up to almost unbearable physical gratification before release - then there came a bottleneck, maybe medication, maybe leach of psychological nutrients, rigid neurochemical management, serotonin austerity regime - or maybe giving up, love lust and everything in between being not worth another try, yet again, too disappointing - maybe i should write one of those songs from the male perspective about wanting someone to do all the work for me, to come to me, to make me come

plumbing proved problematic, had to prime the pump to blood pressure redline, velocity straining tendons, to get to a point where it should start to build like a good solid chunk of empty man's bliss, and once finally there, for all that effort, almost instant flip to spasmodic and sterile ejac like a hairtrigger switch - very little satisfaction, no afterglow to speak of - yes, there are mediocre orgasms, and i've had some great ones with porn

but searching these days is a lot of "not my porno", took so long to find the right one - then i did, something i should have appreciated, nothing i would have even conceived in more innocent days, not dirty, just expertly hot for my subtype, enough sophistication to deserve a critique, a clip really accomplishing something with the art of porno, making the girl seem smart and in on production and able to articulate the strategy, of maximizing horny-making effect, beyond anybody's convention of sexy but deeper, pushing buttons and telling you about it

i can run toward empty, past the slash, and then write like this again, hear this voice, if i want, if i can stop nursing the burn spot on my finger, dunno how i got it, got too stoned i guess, to even notice pain, any real tactile pain, drowned out by thousands of imagined pains in a sensory connection state bounded, when i can really MEAN a note when i play it, but it doesn't matter later, the meaning is completely lost, feeling residue baked into Fourier transformation trails.

Better than con trail theories. They're a con. Confidently-told stories that people would love to believe, because paranoia is optimism for certain kinds, when out of control, inhuman is too threatening, too pessimistic, because you're alone and afraid in a world you never made. Hey, I'm there too, most of the time. Can get a flash of feeling I'm out of it, but it's been decades since DMT flashes. They were bright, but terribly state bounded, there's a mere smear of words condensed from an energy that apparently killed me if i'm to be believed by what i wrote as it wore off... now i can only write it off as digscrawls of a feeling I meant to mean something, but it's like a stoned piano improv that may as well be the "even worse" hell of that Event Horizon movie, or the tesseract from a novel that seemed a lot more mind-blowing when I read it at age ten than it did four years ago. I'm in the world I never made, and afraid in it, and alone in it, but friends come to mean enough, not exponentially more and more, but in an ebb and flow, more random than pulse, but 0.003% predictable over a 30% spread, people I expect to hang out with but don't expect to be directed to a poet/philosopher/biologist with a take on everything is waiting for you, put down your loneliness, let go of the self and engage in the conversation of everything communicating with everything, a meeting - and not even being on acid! See, I'm friendly but rarely seem so, so I exclaim sometimes, to set up a prison phone conversation through plexiglass between an incarcerated bundle of loving fun and an insular misanthropic self-indulgent writer.

And then, later, following american politics, eating popcorn. Too long an interval between goof proofs of the incompleteness theorem. Am I gonna mention dimensions now or are there too many dimensions to mention? I think the latter, but look at me, doing the former. But there are real monsters, aren't there? And there's still enough coke in columbia to kill me, but not enough in Nelson to fuel me. My superpower is sobriety. Drugs are my kryptonite. But I let my subscription to kryptonite weekly lapse. Because I just connect by listening to someone describe what it's like to grow, process, and insufflate kryptonite crystals through an oculus rift device. On youtube. As a balm to graze edony, and lie down and try and sink into a hospice premonition, but only really squirm about in an unsatisfying medicated slide into subpar sleep.

damn, out of lighters too - this must be - when one gets kicked out of the loop of playing language


Mar 13, 2016

Is it an army jacket? Is it contrived? Well so what. Fuck it. Fuck the world til we're all the same color.  Why do people look so suspicious? Of me? I cleaned up pretty well, didn't I? Especially well? For special? I'm a fine upstanding citizen, a former big user, yes, but no criminal record.

Feb 20, 2016

commissioned for an audio tour of Nelson

Actual composition instead of an hour-long improv indulgence, 'sbeen a while. I wanted to call it The Dandy Whoremonger, but settled on a neutral title:

Baker Street Rag



Feb 2, 2016

god delivers


















3 + 4 = 7 = The Logos = unity in us all, and/or narrowly defined humanness. But we can all agree on the first part, right? Arithmetic among other maths can be expressed in beautiful visuals for right hemispheres.

Failure to be impressed in an objectively impressive world. Failure to muster enthusiasm for review, of anything, pro or con. Failure to be a photographer. Bookmark backlog three thousand links deep for unwatched documentaries. Writing like this. To not have to use the word I as much, to further remove self by artifice, refer to it as an other, needlessly obfuscate prose.

Obsession with self being the shameful root of shyness - no pitiable pain, only intolerance to light outside the vanity blinder. Yearning for the paranormal but failing to find what weird I find compelling.  Wanting to be like idols of the fringe, go stone crazy with magic tech but from a rational starting point. Then be so overpowered by the miraculous that the hard-chiseled abs of material reductivism are useless. And yet... nothing comes along to overcome what is not even middling core strength on my part, see, me? No rigor. Seems like I could be shattered so easily, won't you please shake my faith in nothing, mister, please?

So maybe God comes to the irrational as a burning bush, the only symbol that will take for that particular schizophrenic, and to the rational, as a genderless pronoun in an operational definition that will act as metaphorical arbiter over the morality of what he's gonna do anyway. If you're Thomas the Doubter, you get to put your finger through Jesus' hand holes, cause that's what passes for a scientific experiment in these times, pretty clever on the sliding scale that is a snail's straight razor descalator. If you're me, you get a vague sense, but maybe enough to guide a guy through a funpark minecart railtrip in the fog, that it's good to try and be decent and nice and think about others and consider the implications of external nerve endings. It's what passes for sunlight in these times.

The carney's hawking aromatherapy, suddenly I've got a good feeling about it but I can't smell anything, this dude I just met says kinesiology is the answer, that's gotta be worth a listen cause it's a coincidence that could power a 10 watt bulb on the improbability-fueled starship, since I was just listening to a podcast on electric eels and muscle stimulation, the restaurant manager counsels me for free to take initiative and carve out an economic niche as recipient of  government money for an as-yet-un-diagnosed band of The Spectrum, my audio tour guide asks me, how can I really have any choice when I'm so lazy, like it's my lot in life, to laze, and graze on rays of light, the closer the deadline, the more active the screen romance, til I can't sit or keep lids open, and regress even flatter, hoping for unearned sleep. I'm tired, I say, not lazy, when everything's so crazy, but even crazier how normal that feels, weird, for sure, in a labelly way, fascinating, you'd think, a miracle in a certain logic lacking feeling... Wanting the miracle despite fear of the curse, that child fear, post-santa, pre-hormonal maturation, the dread that anything could happen, I could be cursed. Wanting the miracle even though it implies demons because it also implies angels, and I need them. For sobriety and use to society, and a dignified life on the side.

But always back to self obsession, whether pro or con, still uselessly self-absorbed, burning energy, experience, exercise, potential that could be spent contributing to collective good and getting out of sick self.  I'm not a rugged individualist, nor libertarian chic, just decadent. If I could turn pleasure-seeking into a trump tower, I probably would, gild pride, cause people could live in it, live in my dreams and nightmares. Something to be said about wealth, and even more, popularity.

Nov 25, 2015

Come by what honestly?

Honestly? How many times can I feel the end of the world? And not even feel unbearable lightness of cyclic nature? Dreams will save me in the cycle, every once in a while, like the bankrupt wedge on the wheel of fortune, something more healing than anything inside the head, a reset of self awareness and identity.

There won't be any smile for many days, except a fake one, cause in times of real self-inflicted darkness, it gets to where pretending things are better is better than feeling the pain of feeling the pain, on that extra meta-feeling level. I got locked up, unable to express anything relevant, even through a debauch of words. Cause of what I did, again, how it makes everything pointless.

It's sick, really sick, especially how I say this, the will to change everything, but the sick mind applying the implements, ineffectively. Really, it's never been more pointless to say the things, of health and philosophy and artistry and disease telemetry.

I think I sicked myself out. I'd like to hang out in the hollow wallow until ruined city reverb sounds pleasantly familiar, familiarize until comfortable, the hard dynamics of familiarization, re-familiarize, grind on the stuck gear of frozen malfunction.

I'm straining, cause nothing goes, it's a no-go, non-starter. The opposite of freedom is what I need, possibility grants me malign tumours, makes waves of arbitrary frequency, like an Aphex Twin track where he used a spectrograph morpher to sculpt his decal visually in linear pitch vectors but you're trying to hear a melody.

I can't make anything good out of this, it takes a little more out of me each time, each time I fuck up. If there's a trajectory, I can't see it, or believe in except as a proof of the Riemann Hypothesis. I've squandered enough second chances, there's so much wasted grace there's no seeing over the detritus. Yes, I'll slog through, try and come out of it. I just can't see what I could do with this utterly disgraced person at this point, it's played out.

I know how I sound, I dunno, maybe I need to let even more, let things disintegrate even further, I mean, in the case of straining to tap out some consecutive words, as if that's something to move through and not the extended wing downward into darkness. Extant.

I guess the point would be to become a monk, and do something useful like copy books in longhand. Well, what's the modern equivalent, that's actually useful? Rip television series' from Netflix and upload them to torrent sites? Even then, I'd be redundant, there'd be crisper rips quicker than I could output.

I richly deserve what bloodless depression I feel now, but it doesn't do anyone any good to bounce around in that bubble. Maybe it does me some good to reflect in words, since it's the barest feeling of having a facility, though the mirror is filmy from bodily fluid misfires. But there's been no attempt, just a long-standing lament at lack of craft. Meanwhile, consuming terabytes of podcasts streams and series, feeling like I can riff on the brilliant comedy because I can predict what they're going to say 5% of the time, like I'm a peer, appreciating the craft like a practitioner.

Can kind of see it in my head, like I see anything in the mind's eye, which is so vague it's tragic, but a kind of tragic my crying muscle never finds purchase on, more of a dream tragic that can't be wept about, it's smothered by superterranean substance, and I would gladly take that, for eternity, instead of the void I'm still afraid of. But getting to a point, perhaps, where I'm sick of thinking about how do I face it, or what does it mean, and would rather just fucking NOT think about it, nevermind about the truth or whatever, fuck.

Nov 21, 2015

You've agreed that you've agreed to tee up to stuff your stuff. It used to take effort. To write. Then it became about typing, and rhyming ideas. Then it was groovy. Then, it wasn't over, until I smoked a stick of clover, and y'know how I might've finagled that.

This is post number 999. I'd better make this really really mundane, and not special, and have some real homeric one for the next one. Yeah, why not make an excuse, to celebrate? I will damnit, I will take that opportunity. I will write a semi-homeric post about that Other acid trip I meant to write about, the once in a decade trip that I dutifully took, after the seven year nuclear apocalypse wore off. I seem to recall it had something to do with the school I was cleaning, and creating reality telekinetically from first principles.


Sep 28, 2015

unprecedented inspiration

led by... the always reliable dreams

you ever get those spectator dreams? of course you do.

It was a horror movie, but done in the most expedient way. In the way that lives depend on, when they get crushed under the stairs of the sewer sever lovers. When candy was currency. The 50 limit is waved in certain charity cases, in proximity to a wife that offed herself. I'm sorry, proxies. But we're all incredibly fucked up, and yet, incredibly, we'll soldier on. It's incredibly great that so few will read this, and it'll mean and matter so incredibly little, that's why it feels incredibly important to write this, and lay things incredibly excruciatingly bare, except obscured, by analogy. But barely so.

And you didn't understand, and I didn't either, but I made a something that meant something in that moment, it's just that moments are so cheap, such red syrupy currency, it's good that there's cake to offset that... oh my, what would we do without that? well, we'd be up, because we slept the whole weekend - well, it's been a while since we slept and

i don't know, sometimes it takes a break in the currency to actually actualize a communicato continuum and bridge the dream gap - it's been a real long bleak season of not posting anything and that disturbs me greatly, perhaps even more than pragmatic realistic good things like money rollin' and other gauche things that shan't be discussed in this blog...

there's been not enough alteration, and this is a bid for a little bitty moment that the pragmatics deem not wide enough, but i'll crick it a bit and i think i can manage to - even in daylight! yes - i miss that, and it counts for something, even if it demands a recount.

gotta wear out the shoes quick... night and day. I have no excuse. And yet. I might. I'm gonna finish though.

and what else... it's been ... i can do this... it's not so bad... especially after what's happened... in the past... and i might as well be up... stay up... i'm not much of a professional... good company... it was one of those one-offs where we riffed on friends... and i won't remember when i meant by that but it was a juicy comment...


Aug 24, 2015

the journey of a thousand-comment thread starts with a single post

Aug 10, 2015

Needing something to do.  It never gets easier.  I mean, it ebbs and flows but trends nowhere.  Drifts with the whims of follicles.  Bad hair days short and long.  Tortured here and there, convo peripherals at meeting, nature as god. Can't make anything out of fakery just now.  Super this, super that.  This is all I write now, stuff like this.  And I shared.  There was some sincerity in it, but also a big thing of dishonesty in that I neither exude nor feel gratitude. Could uncover such a thing with deep digging I won't bother with, except allude to like a myth in a share, that ghastly noun. Kills time that badly needs killing given it's still not time to go.  Peripherals get sharper and sharper.  Cake meetings. Not even a movie of the week.  How fucking easy it is for everyone else.  Imagine the mileage I could get out of ease like that.

So hard to say things.  Takes so much effort.  Easier to swipe them to self as a channel.  There's gotta be something in my water. Something making me tired.  Something making me see the clear emptiness of everything, program sayings. I'm praying for spiked water, something to blame.  Feel disliked today, that paranoia's taking over.  Of course I'm in the wrong company for that.

Close eyes to not see signals to interpret.  Gesture ignorant but just perceptive enough to be offended in the case of some true positives.  Signals.

I wish I could know in advance which meetings are gonna feel good and which aren't, so I could just go to the good feeling ones.  The ones that feel bad are so often the cake ones where everyone's laughing annoyingly and my absence is palpable.

Yeah, I got that vibe.  Ease. It's still so hard.

Well, what do you expect if I'm going to spiral into exclusion. These are my bootstraps, the only kind of initiative I can take.

May 24, 2015

The faintest ink is better than the best memory



Don't reach out, don't go there, stay in here, inside, dig, down, deep.

Stop telling others this or that. Tell whatever void's gotta be told what's what.

Running from any edges that get me edgy -

Draft it, draft a draft, draft it. Music still sounds senseless. Swagger turned to stumble. Sty in eye of universe. Too exposed. Like the shows I'm watching. Or just a delusion. I hope so. It's just youtube. It doesn't matter. It's not as cool, I see through it. But that extends to everything, self, all of the slaked slated tiles of everything that's so terribly necessary to say.

Unproductive stupormania stumbles on. There's a good soundtrack. Maybe I need to fuel in the daylight. Paul Butterfield. The guy I was supposed to care about. Now I gotta.

cross medium jam

with younger iteration of this guy who talks about himself in the third person - shake hands with stendal, that old bit of brand-junk severed for no purposes yes, it's alright, it's all right - don't look back, it doesn't flow well enough that way - it gets too structured, scorched under the blast furnace emission of that thing, the mountain where those people are, do that thing to that guy! Action hotdog go!

you gotta get that goofy truth seems a lofty ideal sometimes - The Goof Truth squad. The gold standard of Goof-proofs is Emmanuel Kant's Critique of Pure Reason.

This is that mountainous dirge I remember, that's got some joyful melancholy in it, like that guy harangues louie about savoring whatever flavour of sadness that was, something serious, heartache type thing, the jaded sage says it's the best part, is it irony?

There was a whole mythology about fingers, and how they snapped, and smelled. It's probably still relevant, but ambition is lacking. Wanting to narcotize its parent cognitive pattern. A rat running around in a maze, in a brain. Chili Willey, gotta roll! Roll down the staircase, elevator, escalator case, just as long as the veins drive on, down, deeper, into the superstructure exhaust port - it drove like i cared, like i loved to care about it driving, it became a stand-in for some other things, and all surrendered to dreams, making one's own music video about it, sophisticated stand in for scrap booking, or rather, a demon haunted thrillhouse ride for mandrake palavers with lucifer.

It was a resonant rain chamber of being perfectly ok with this level of texture, spinning, like hearing about the bubbles in a chugging change chamber of changing operators and their structures with patterns for flattering and felating the master pretender of becoming okay, like where it all matters, with burnt almonds and whistling alternate versions of documented in the moment quarter ecstasy, about as good as the real gets.

Then there's this altogether other sentence of building comp-hiccup glitches wall partner spars, climbing like ivy, and giggling eyelid flutters all over the lashes of your edifice, spread, ready for fogging delirium until it gets to a paste of self-parody, and yet, oddly egged on by simulacrum low end of the speed spectrum compulsion... maybe the stand in has had its time. Impromptu Fuck You is even better. The best. Driving, ever forward, to some reflection of the decadence of some massively ridiculous roman empire epoch - take it easy - any way it comes - oh, and i bookmarked this part. The kid stays in the picture. Everything's as good as you need it to be. Thank god the distracted archivist got it, even though it echoes of self-parody, and that sometimes transmogrifies into truth, like an ancient handshake morphed into a Spinal Tap song, and who could possibly want to read anything? Everybody's pounding out text, of a form, there's not an art to it though, or maybe there is in some unknown subculture of caring. Ringing tweak that only I will know. Let it keep that way. Ringing to infinite death inflation. Dissipating energy, heat death, before the era of quantum cosmic tweaks to meta-universal view.

And review.



My lungs are not leather yet. I need to chat, in text, not talk, can't do voice. Voice is fucked.

Affirmation mode leads to delirium, unfortunately. And delirium doesn't lend itself to dabbling. But dabble I do, for now, in the moment, gotta. Gotta make some hash out of this life. And listen to a Deep-Purpleish jam I played with Nelson and Malik. Consuming makes me sad, lately, but doing something is just a little better, there's a little magic in that.

Weird substitutes I partake in with little rations of the real thing. And bombed. Changed everything.

LENSE tickler, and lenticular invigilator spokesperson for spooky ventricles trickling facile with facility down a river of  - creeper with myself - personalize porn - the affectionate nickname

hoping for later iterations of virtual reality technology to holodeck-ize my aspirations for possibility of fun and custom-design self-monument, monatize that shit, sherlock, in a monastic way

hazing out of sleep in the day in this latimer place is surreal, half-in-half-out of the dream with house noises of all stripes, hyper communicative floor whispering into fruedian constructs in psycho-hydraulics, and with all that going on, my personalized pan asmr playlist feeding me lecture-tinged dreams, solving trig problems in ancient egypt with herodotus

Can't do that venue of the half email.





the only thing i've recorded in a while

Latimer Glitchfest

May 23, 2015

The Fog Machine

i just don't care anymore

a deep apathy

reverse psychology / self-fulfilling prophecy?

maybe wellbutrin would be different

maybe I have ADD, maybe I need speed, wouldn't that be convenient?

i can't seem to care, except to care about apathy, wonder if there's anything to add...

hiccup, comp hiccup

maybe i need a big hearty meal - well i'm connected in that regard, maybe if performing an apathy cadenza, go full bore with the actual pathetic circumstances and reduce any possible inspiration, maximize malnutrition

what good are words anymore, what do they do? they look ghostly on a screen - i shut off from scenes, don't mix it up anymore - surely it's possible, but doesn't happen, like there's this inertial certainty in this dead connection

a drink would be great right now

how can one need to be freaked out all the time? what is that little sliver that's likable about it? and then wants to smooth with booze... blend... mix it up... A splinter faction, AA parenthesis, THCok.

no outlet, no electricity, need to plug into something - words are one thing, maybe low value these days, but something nonetheless

need something to worship, yes, something other than the unknown, that doesn't cut it anymore...

I KNOW! I need to spend myself out of misery. I'm not broke, so why not? Either kilos of good drugs... or personal possessions, high tech high quality everything. Or both. Well, one of those would be inspiring, anyway. Why can't I be grateful for what I have? Because I'm not. Cause, euphoric recall of more soulful feeling times in the not so recent past.

I write blog posts, or I write letters to friends, it's basically the same thing, not very satisfying, plugging into nothing. The plug rusted down the drain. The tubes are the drain, George. THE GREAT DRAIN. Maybe at the bottom of the Great Drain is THE BIG ELECTRON. Whoam.

Not bad, I need a boardroom of yes men and liquored up ad men and one perky copywriting woman to advertize my imaged position in a self-created haze of cannabinated twilight.

Not bad, yeah. See there's a facility that edges out of the fog every now and then, but I can never grab hold of it, cause I'm too nodding out in the fog right now, and can rarely seize on any worthy seeming vision for more than a passing flight of fancy. This would be fascinating to others, if I was an interesting person, which I'm not. So it's just this fog.

How about this? An interesting fog, free as vapour, just floating through the bars in the prison wall, even squeezing through plexiglass, one filmy molecule at a time, an interesting fog like the smallest uninteresting number, and isn't THAT interesting? see? I'm pitching this as a potential euphoric feeling to my self, the dour self who's depressed all the time, unfortunately the chairman of this drab boardroom. Turn on the synthesizer machine and make an art project. The fog could be mechanized, made into a machine, a fog machine, it's what's in those E-cigs, buy an e-cig and vapourize a homespun blend of tobacco, hashish, and purple-level salvia and unplug from the program's guilt machine, can I not have a program for a while, must I run back right away?

Can I say fuck you to everyone, mainly my own feelings of paranoia and persecution? Yes, let's say I can. And dayum son, unga binga bunga!


For a moment, I just wanted to get baked and watch Mad Men for the rest of my life.


These modern UIs are screwy. Glitchy. Counter-intuitive. Google's getting rotten. Or had already gotten, I just hadn't noticed til now.

Why not write about Luc? Instead of surrendering to the getting baked and consuming other's better ideas about what makes a good story and character...

It doesn't seem quite so cohesive, a second time around. Sidetracked by potential paradigms of where it's okay to say whatever, it's all perfect, very in the moment, the knowing you're high and appreciating it moment, which is nice, when one can get it

What's all this one usage all of a sudden? Am I trying to be someone else? I successfully dileniated the chord progression there. Attaboy, me. Why does google not know that word? Tangent not worth it.

The great song, the worthy song, or even a feelingful song is wrong. Or rather, nowhere to be found. Just wanted to rhyme. What does that say about anything? What was the ticket? I had it in my hand a second ago.



Wait a minute. Gotta connect back to that feeling. When words really mattered, individually, had personalities. Only looks lonely from the outside. Although I've made it a mystic mythology, esoteric to even myself. But I remember the appeal. Of being a shut-in, shutting out the world. There has to be enough action in the interior to make it desirable, and that's hard to sustain. My attempts always seem to become deliriums. I don't like the delirium anymore, I want to remember things, have perception resonate. I don't care if my words don't matter to anyone else, or at least I could feel above that if they mattered to me, that's all I need, but these days, it's tricky.




May 21, 2015

scalpel of reason

don't want anything outside to overwhelm and distract the inside? is that it? but what is so special about the inside? nothing, really, right? so continue to question the sidewalk, as if there's something special about the tiles, like they could animate and answer questions -

styles, used to be a glut of style, and swagger, and liquid courage

getting away with this and that, slipping under the radar of the arbiter, sneaking past the gauntlet of the accountant - before it got too real

dragged along the ice

i want it to flow better, like a song, but music feels oppressive now - why? cause claw marks in the ice, chasms, envy

bleachers, always on the bleachers lately, spectating

you know what? it's time for the rhyming of the dram. And damn yourself to a life of not giving a damn.

safe sanctioned dull sleepers and diphenhydrinate, pharm chat with r-dawg and htc, remember that old avatar?

May 9, 2015

---zing.!? what's left?

what happened to liking music? passion died, or that's one way of putting it
romantic action ranked out... yeah

words fade quickly, almost immediately

doesn't matter what style, what reference, what nod, echo
fade out - maybe not enough fades out... what could be phased out...

warmth coursing through, a bit of synthetic warmth, heating oil, but not hard - on -

stymied -
not for others
okay

full of knowledge, knowledge pouring in but doesn't wanna be received - still cold - cold hands -
doesn't matter what song, can't choose anything
can try and be entertained by other people's manias, but try and appear cool about it
not caring, but i do care about it
but, patient zero... is...
i don't know
dissolving

don't care about the new albums, not following, nothing worth following
lost identity
symbolic, but that's just noise
it's just noise

future course, barring a miracle
frozen language, meanings, head full of not much, mush
synthetic phase out course, committing to a course of slow death
really slow death, leisurely, in a way, like mint-flavoured zyklon B

string out death long enough and it gets practically palatable
a grainy strain of smeared out like stretchy taffy
why bother to construct anything? unless there's
money in it, to keep a cycle of finances and expenditures going
cause that can feel good, almost, sort of

envy for the people that can have a good time, in the full on kind of way, with all manner of intoxicants - but not poisonous, that's too strong a word - and still - cold hands, damnit, and...

envy for...

what is a thing that doesn't work? i don't understand its workings - it's a downer - a deep hole, a cavern without a tavern, a dry dry storage area - for waiting out the clock, working out the clock, then waiting again

some make more sense of it than i do - it gets nonsensed up in a nodal cross-section of the brain which likes to construct unsolvable riddles - recycled for use as song lyrics - some successful language makers, hegel and philologic writers getting lots of book sales and led zeppelin association


I don't know what to do with this iteration of life. Could feel it, perceive it, passively consume it. What is the point though? I dunno. Want to rhyme, pointlessly, in warmer iterations, righteously, joyously, but that's a drowned word, so abstract, like rusting pieces of the titanic on the atlantic seabed...

What's this gonna achieve? I dunno. Super-intelligent mush said that. Making a hash of things. A mushy hash. Almost reminded me of a time I wrote a line and was gratified. That time must have been a cross-section of booze-fueled attitude and the passive feeling area that wants and has, when dopamine and seretonin are in balance, and everything's good, just works the right way.

But again, what's this gonna achieve? When there's no right music, even lite jazz to make it right, everything's just wrong. Delusion flaws ballooning in size? Or something else, I forgot. Gotta let it go to shreds and feel good about it. Rationalize the unreasonable, with every layer of possible criticism like the entire atlantic depth pressing on the head - pop up somewhere later random

not enough random - wrote a letter to her about random number generators - well, ran out of fuel, have to switch to renewable resources of life-loving stuff, whatever that is - force feed flowers and birds - nah, that ship sailed, that trend is irreversible, barring some miracle. See, patterns?

Warming the hand. Can't achieve critical mass. Wry write about it, through it? Be content with thoughts instead? Wait a second, diphen slurred thoughts? that sweetens the deal - the goal should be dreams anyway - they've been good lately, like nearly always - the flipside, a little crack but if that was absolutely all, it would be enough








Apr 21, 2015

One year staggered stopgap for Luc papa bro Forget

Haven't remembered enough. Haven't felt grief enough. Need to plumb further. Ah. Luc was going to be a plumber. Or a pipe-fitter. Or a geo-thermal technician. He even studied goddamn algebra toward that end. He said, to a friend, on having moved to Victoria: "One day you'll see my name in lights."























Audio records. A lazy day with Luc and Fidel. Nothing much happens. So retrospectively sweet.



"Doe, a dear..." fading into room ambiance, AC hiss and spring sounds. The spaces and silence, and mellow Luc in papa mode, gently tempering the Fidel. So much happens in a lazy afternoon, with the novelty of Luc and his little son over at my place on Creek Street, such a funny confluence, Uncle Jonathan sleeping in the bedroom - putting Ratatouille, the movie Fidel wants to watch, on what must seem forever hold in kid-time. We did watch it later though, I remember. And Luc cried, moved by how beautiful a movie it was, respectful to food, and animals, and children, and all these other things he came up with, and I just howled with delight at the scene where the adolescent dishwasher masquerading as genius chef gets his first ever wine-buzz.

Around then, Luc would sleep under my bed sometimes, the high one, making a makeshift lower bunk on the floor out of my extra blankets and quilts - because the alternative was living out of his car. He was tough, he could endure a lot, but he didn't have to, I saw to that as much as I could, because he trusted me in a pure and perfect way. Maybe that's how the bond cemented, but there's so much more, don't know if I'll ever know where to begin. He gave me the gift of feeling useful, and able to comfort someone in need. It was a pleasure. So unique, when I'm in that role. I would play Aphex Twin ambient tracks at night to sooth us to sleep, or sometimes we would listen to the chill stream he introduced me to, soma. While we talked deep and shallow and every place in between. But the silliness was the best, because it was the most like music, when words played hard and dissolved into melodies and box beats.

Yes, it was a bromance. We had some cuddles, the only guy I could ever do that with, one of my fondest memories, on the porch of the edgewood house when it was Rhi's, after a blissful day with debauched serrations, booze and barbecue, cider and potluck, kids and family that's not family, when you can feel a bit looser but still close, and that was the afternoon we wrote "Trumpet Borus" together, about his boy. And then stumbled down from Gyro that night, and ended up sleeping on the porch together.






















Step-mom Lata was going to put him in her will. But he died first. So many Forgets and Thibaults were dying around then, Luc said his people were dropping like flies. That's how I met Luc, not the very first time, but the origin of our true meeting, in that we shared the intensity that would become the norm, when he came over to my place, after his uncle "dragged himself into his cabin and blew his head off." Because I asked Luc how he did it, his favourite uncle who used to smoke hash with young Luc while they worked on muscle cars. I don't know how much of this information is necessary to whatever this is, but I'm going to spend a little time swaying to and fro on whatever twig I end up on. And we dealt with it somehow. Drink and song - back in those days, the drink wasn't necessarily totally evil. I nudged him into blowing off work that morning, I had to coach him through the phonecall, not to cave to his boss and "suck it up".

Later on, an uncle on his mother's side. It was a crazy day for Luc, lots of resonance I never recognized, still don't. Luc was on a trip. I don't know how much was real, but I'd never heard him rant like that before. This strange fractured picture of organized crime. Deep pain mixed up in paranoid metaphors that could have been true, I don't know. I was distracted by the black paint Luc squirted out of a tube into my eye after draining a bottle of whisky on the picnic table at Taghum beach, around 4pm. I don't know what that was about, but it's gone down as legend, how Rose had to drive over to pick us up. 

Then Luc's dad with the brain aneurysm. But at least he got to meet his grandson, the one time, when we went to the family reunion in Grand Prairie and took pictures together in classic cars.



















Still, Luc could be light and joyful like no one else I've known, and at least graze against the state that I dunno if I've ever reached, and reflect it back at me, so I could enjoy it through a bit of osmosis. He had a big window inside him, he could let a lot of light through. But I loved the frame even moreso. I loved how he framed everything. The goofy guy, the gentle man, baring wounds quietly, was it a rail-trip to death for him? I don't think so, accidents happen, they're cruel if there's any morality to it, and infuriatingly, there isn't, that's what I'm left with.

It's still too big for me to take on, the issue of a friend like that, like no one else, having died. It's sinking in over what are now multiple years, how there's never gonna be another person that will make me feel like he did, just being in his company. I'm still far from rising to the occasion and typing a fitting tribute, much less making a song out of it. That would take a kind of heroism I don't have. I don't know what that says, just that it's too huge for me, it's blinding. Somehow, unconsciously, I ignore the enormity of it, and go about like it's on some other plane, to an irrelevant degree. Can't make it relevant, can only feel it as cryptic mystic transcendental loss... and write a bromantic pamphlet in response.

There's so many sides to a person, I know so many people had their own angles on Luc. Of course I treasure my own vantage on the man, even knowing how different it was from others', how I knew him in what he ambivalently called "the bad ol' days", often down and out, both of us taking solace in a perfect blend of music, intoxicants, and sketchy edges.

Nowhere close to knowing what I can say about his death yet, if I'll ever be. But Rose is good about stuff like that. Grateful me and Luc had some amazing mutual friends with hyperkinetic expressive abilities that figure in to my remembrances these days. There are obvious implications for all of us. There's morbid curiosity I'm not expecting to be satisfied. Like in that letter he wrote to me near the end, in pretty good penmanship, but that ambiguous mark, was that a lower case h, for heroin? I'm not sure if he ever went there, and what does it matter, but some of it does matter to a dark part of me that turns to blinding deadlight like a sick plant pining for an alien homeworld.

Apr 20, 2015

essential oils

Inutile.

If it was a little more butyraceous, maybe there'd be some use in it... maybe it'd taste better anyway. Certain words have lost all magic for me. Even worse, certain words that had none to begin with, now charmed with an inverse sort of magic. Bacon zombies.

There's a whole tangent on waffles in the crack between the rug and exposed insulation. I care too much to compose a daft draft with a limp wrist and lame-duck dick. There's words I can write if I can manage it, a new style prior to inspiration.

Misery. Miserable times for no reason. Maybe things just got all zombified, but it doesn't feel like that, only looks like it, doesn't seem to deserve the zing of a word that begins with a Z.

I could spin straw into gold, by writing as if... acting as if, going against the flow and spinning lies from whole cloth that turn into the truth for existing in a Cartesian way, the way he would argue for the truth of God, because God must exist, because a perfect being would have to exist rather than not exist, existing being part and parcel of said perfection, the whole kit and kaboodle, like if there are unicorns, you're damn sure they have the one horn, otherwise they wouldn't be unicorns, but if, and hey, wait a second, I'm reaching back that far, for, what? Almost not a tautology? I missed something terribly important.

Missed the boat, lost a chromosome, pretended I didn't need to catch that train. Novelty is habitual, another stripe on the lolly, everything's so sweet and bone-corroding, mimicking carpal-tunnel and fibromyalgia - two-hundred flavours of dishsoap on one aisle, clever extracts, facsimiles from flowers and fruits I didn't know existed with florid latin taxonomy.

How's this for an aside, I'm so atrophied, even though I thought I expressed so hard, tonight, well, I did. But this is different, it's a lost art, tantamount to tautological corpse-fucking nostalgia abuse. I could clean it up, but whath the point? When the world'tho full of crap.

The best comedy sped to me through feeding tubes, a depraved density. I got all laughed out. Never been so free of chemicals but still filled with other kinds of synthetic. So what do I expect?

Misery. For a moldy crumb of reason. Not horror. Been here and there before though. Texan and Mexican decorated tiles polished with stainglass subterranean xenonic light. Cause that could just about mean something. Well that's not the point, it's that I created that image in my head, but that's not the point either, it's that it made that sound, describing the image, pretty words standing around on the fringes of a social situation, a wingding with drunk F Scott and caricature Hemingway and wisecracking Joyce and an illuminated salad bar glass cover of commentators.

Might as well say some things straight out, but, nah. Where's the fun in that? There's some fun to be had trying to keep it all under cover of circus tents. That's not it either. It's the late late after ramble coming ghostly after what was assumed to be the last ramble, after such an out of the blue pall of silence and no scaffolding, no technique, and why would anything ever be read? When you got your Plato and Aristotle and Vice columnists and the crowd source for list-based click-bait articles. And colleagues who are mostly theoretical, albeit being a click away.

So, synthesizing a connective tissue with weldbond, here I am on Latimer street in a new place, and it's never been a shabbier novelty. I blinked, I blunk, opened my eyes and had a personal best beard, just about. That's how you get one of those, you've gotta care so hard about not caring, until itchy stubble smoothly transforms into an oblivious chin-mane. Caring all the while, not allowed to have a breakdown. This is the habit of staying sober, and being lucky to have work, and not caring to spend money on anything, nothing to buy, nothing will buy me out of this pointless purgatory, there's no purging, only becoming one with ammonium chloride. That sounds about right.