Mar 24, 2017

Start

taking things to the grave. Get on what you've been putting off. After a while, you forget what was never ever ever gonna be told. It fertilizes the subconscious.

Keep. Keep it sub. The deal breakers never get dealt with. Which is a glorious thing, when glory enters into everything.

Feb 28, 2017

it's a feature, not a bug

I can make myself happy, whistle past the boneyard. As long as I keep it drafted. Keep the ASMR in one earhole. Publish in the diamond age.


Feb 27, 2017

Salierian Relationship to an Ideal of Discipline

alternate titles were.... if I can remember.... hmmm.... strain for memory, clench the memory muscles, somehow, perform a mechanical transfer of kinetic energy through willpower to some configuration of information in the brain... nope, not working, it never does - can i buy a vowel?

maybe, like,
major carousel - that's an awful one, but "salierian" probably wasn't the best either
at one point, near the middle, after i forgot the best one, it was something like, getting things done on a random walk - if i could only convey, the weird place of manic peace i felt, the near-panic in striving for satisfying an urge, acheiving that in some way while also fuming like a hugely inefficient mad-max scrap car... itchy twitches of strange tranquility - THAT'S IT. But I'll keep the title I came up with anyway, cause that was relevant too, especially during the last seven minutes.

Like an improv is some big artistic statement, a hastily dispatched doctoral thesis. Not hardly, but it's the only thing I can manage to do musically as I bank up material, volumes, for later grandiose projects. 

The exfoliation imperative. It's all about exfoliation parallel with prestidigitation. It's a seemingly pointless cleansing, lousy with weasel words. While the backlog of carbon monoxide is backed up, preserved, like a ba, for the land of the dead which is already here, ooglebooglebaka, magic words and technical terms.


Feb 10, 2017


inspired by Jimmy Dore, my favourite Bill Hicks descendant

Feb 5, 2017

Selfish fucker, smoking my selfish cigarette.
Why? Fuck you, that's why.

Trying to make death palatable. My palate is perfect. The roof of my mouth is gravy-flavoured, the crispy residue on the bottom of a burning barrel of gravy. Maybe I could make it even more gravy-flavoured with the formula for Flaming Moe's. Happiness is just a Flaming Moe away. Where everybody knows your name.

Why? Fuck you, that's why. Cause. Just cause. It's a just cause. Where are all the good times? Who's gonna show this stranger around? Girls on guy will suit this guy just fine. He's drinking a hot mug of sleepy juice and thinking fondly of theoretical scenarios. I'm the cock professor, they're my students. It's unethical maybe, but fuckin HAWT, yeah!

Hacking rants about politicians I hate, informed to the shallow extent I can manage. Fuck you, that's why.

Feb 4, 2017

Better to write about Minecraft than play it

remember, minecraft is the means - not the ends

speaking of segways, i've got a great one: begins as an andy kaufman bit, unfolds uncomfortably in borat-style cringe tragedy, the currency we're transactioning in, ends like something out of black mirror

type in a rhythm cause it's all you can do, or you could plug in the board of keys but it'd be too disturbing in a neurotic's mother-hen miserable moment - feels like aliens cracking the colony tube shell, one-eighth earth's gravity, ocular stabilizers and smart space-life hacks of doing simple exercises so eye muscles don't weaken in near-zero g - til the one arklet lands on mars, and the other rides big for clean space with asteroids to mine but no deadly bolides from the pulverized moon that rained hard on the earth, turned the surface molten past a logarithmic curve of bolide fragmentation acceleration from inception of seventh decimal place chaos to bring about the white sky all the quicker, which burned up the atmosphere in addition to vulcanizing the earth's surface - good thing a literal couple hundred eggs escaped the one basket in an almost plausible space gambit

it even happened, that extinction, by an eternal return curse that jammed to nobody, not even fellow human jam reflected surfaces - and kicked up a lot of carbon from the ground and methane, so that even in iterations that weren't resulting in molten scenarios, you're still talking die-off rates of 90% or more, but who really cares? ancient history - it must be hard to read the tone - deal the tone - it all depends on figurations in the musics - it wanted to get overpowered, but some ego retained clenching

want to wash it all off, like captain fantastic in a philosopher king's short-lived utopia waterfall pool of the pacific southwest of me, til unignorable situations in the family bond to the world and society disrupt for good, or evil, or at least until more data can be gathered and categorized and digitized and put through the in-fashion algorithm for his subspecies - he was a "damn good driver" for a season, lasted longer than your typical bbc sitcom, innovative as it might've been

vangelish tinged a rusty main street utopia minus natural animals tin piano, analogue simulated with high definition digital recreation - it's also analogous to hitlerian onanism, it's his Achilles' heal, the blinding self-love, maybe if you run the simulation ten times, three of those times you can fight a war on two major fronts at once and even so come out on top, but those aren't good odds, but you never run out of amphetamines nor opiates in modern civilization's gray area of the law, the law of the treasonous government anyway, so jockey for position and end up in the last scandal, the one that actually ends it, even though you lean in, and push to see how far you can take it

see i got tons of mileage for barely making it one third of the way through the movie before i went on a necessary tangent and did something else, maybe a mindful place for myself, even if in the past tense, and theoretical future at once - there's always the possibility you could wake up decades later still smelling of your suicide's kerosine, in another world where there is a hilarious misunderstanding going on, the running joke, for the runtime of your typical unabridged

and some more typing, because it's okay, fake smooth til you make smooth, make it smooth like a smoothey and defeat jihad through the next scorched earth solution

i wish i could hide the clock - and remember not to look in mirrors - i've been warned in various ways, i've been attentive to the warnings, sympathizing with some as yet unexperienced except pulled from the future like a great attractor calamity or opportunity, but that only makes sense in a vision board

keep it pithy - create an account - save the night - night-time savings time's not got a lotta melatonin in it, but you get by because you got an artificial serotonin mediation bot a'buzzin round the synapses, lean onto it like a prosthetic leg, wriggle into the bloody biomesh interface, learn to love it, pay loyalty to the script that's running the show, or the parasitic symbiosis to a blessed pharma corporation, like the relationship between the adoring junkie and the almighty provider middleman, that's the best you can do is just adore from afar below, can never get up the supply chain to even the middle cause it's providence, you'd get high on your own supply and die, it wouldn't be like scarface, a dream about a melting pile of cocaine, only sugar really

the dreams where luc is back, cause he was always here except pretending he was dead for several years, i don't want to ask him why, but i do, i must.... he makes me smile, but it's also disturbing, there's a bit of the old decor, the boys are back in town, and it's beautiful, but also, something's not right, it's like, oh god, tears in heaven, that eric clapton song, fuck, can't i even think my own thoughts now?

it might make a great game or minecraft monument - luc, the friend, the dead friend, THE GAME! now available on XBOX, P7, and Minecraft Realms:
- what accounts for the missing time?
- what motivation could you ascribe to the friend who pretended to be dead?
- why are you trying to find his house in nelson, is it the victoria street house? [spoiler: it is]
- where is that damned house? oh, you were in it the whole time like you were slurring through half-awake episodes on a long-term tropane cruise but you can never remember later, your account will be reset, there's no trail of cookie crumbs, only useless microsecond flashbacks five quadrillion microseconds apart, no trace of the order, the ol' difference that makes diff'rent strokes, except on a server farm in utah in a massive cave structurally engineered to weather the weight of the crust above, in a thousand-year guaranteed self-generated geothermic energy stasis, a bit of cool subcrust and plenty of mantle maintaining a place where there's a doctor strangelove somewhere, but you just gotta learn to ignore that creep and keep looking for luc, cause he was just there, talking to me
- who is this person anymore, really, is he a thing in my subconscious? yes, information, moving forward, got the corners and some sides of the jigsaw puzzle done, it's not Swordquest-worthy not-since-the-middle-ages kind of epic beheading quest, but it's something, and worth focusing on, rather than ugly political realities, and worrying trends on just out of date extrapolation smartlines with kent brockman
- when is you? who are you, what are you, where are you, why are you, how are you, and when is you? strategic timebombs have set the stage for infinite prequels and sequels, anything could be anything, but will only be a one or a zero between a rock and a hard place, a hard look at the horrendous inner workings of the mind and a soft spot for joe - a cringe comedy with a sweet heart at its center, no cyborg-reinforced superheart powering a terminator exoskeleton, plugged into the flesh and healing a mess of shot-off epidermal rags, forming an adult male arm in about ten years, granted, it's not the latest tech, arnold's old - but not obsolete

i'm really pleased with how many movie references i've managed to work into this - it shows that i've actually made it through a few movies lately, and that makes me as imbecilically proud as back when i managed the feat of finishing books, and full length feature films were just an everyday part of my life, no big deal, like the stuff that's probably thousands of times softer than cotton

type type type - it makes loud taps but i'm trying to compensate with white noise and warmth and trazodone - the extended bed and comatorium peripherals - not a lot of click click click when i'm in this mode - the click click click - the woman i lived with much more critical to the very idea of click click clicking a mouse, whereas, the current paradigm i bemoan so much at least features a social life, small tho it be, with people who are not at all critical of clicking a mouse in the middle of the night - try to turn the green tint knob up on that projection of grass in the here and now, the knob, make the grass greener, even, an emerald sheen of extra glitter grass that's too green to be really good, too synthetic, we're in a new iteration of the tastleless eighties and didn't even know it, people didn't know what it came to mean to be in the eighties when they were in the eighties, and just like that, we don't know what precursor age we're in and won't begin to understand until we wriggle out of it, and that's gooey and gross, and i would rather skip it, and pay a visit to the early death cafe to speed up the process of slowly dying just a little bit, perform a maneuver that makes excellent use of delta v and the distance and velocity problem is solved, easily, almost poetically, in a way frowned on by the never satisfied professor of fighting grade inflation

luc, the dead friend in the high tower, where we towered above nelson and got high, and it was also like a trump tower except it was better than that cause it was ours, and we didn't answer to anybody, we could make rules that would govern this penthouse of a tower to be high, and get high so we could be high, and keep being that way - was a splinter of a real dream i could mockup for minecraft, put a plaque in it like a magestic spot in a national park overlooking mike and mine's cold lake - in the internet of things of the future, this monument to departed people will be quaint, and if i get cryogenically frozen and thawed out in the future, i will disavow any sentimental attachment to the project, and bask in immortality, dull as it may be in the after-flash doldrums, i got the rusty green colored vangelis acidified piano blues and the eighties synths are sounding just so like it's just what it's supposed to be, like it's a currently popular map in version 17.1.9 of San Junipero, in year 356k but who's counting? the earth would theoretically be habitable, still, if it's a simulation where the bolides don't fragment at an exponential rate, and therefore, the earth is still possibly inhabited, but there's no way to know, because we're in a simulation, it's not solipsistic cause we're all in it together, it's like a designer's dream, or a hack who makes hackwork shortcuts of elegant designs, to cut up a world we can live in indefinitely, but who knows what's happening on which earth? why? tap tap tap, type type type, click click click, it's all good, stop worrying, it's not like older nightmares that were so beautiful, that i must acknowledge, that i may have botched by being far worse than imperfect, no megalomania here

initial flash, then a long plateau of thinking you know who you are, but just when the endless planar nature of the terrain and therefore all existence seems intolerable, you remember, you can cure that with a reset button, a memory wiper, it's like the bright side is suicide, it's a good kinda suicide, we call it the godbox.

Nov 13, 2016

fickled

I was never good at romantic redundancies - excessively heart-shaped ukuleles, custom made and monographed, making one think about a last name.  My idea of a heart-felt gift was more about the recording possibilities, a high end humbucker guitar pickup, not gift wrapped, let alone monographed, for sale, baby shoes, never written.

Nov 10, 2016

Rage against the reflection

So this is what it takes to get me to write - anything - on my blog - or anywhere else - since forever. And look at this? Not even poetic fragments but coherent prose with a purpose. Anger. It's fueling me, keeping me awake, breaking the lethargy. But it's not something I can work with. It breaks ME, makes me go too far, pick fights I shouldn't be in.

Caught fire in two facebook threads today, found that I was the start of flame wars with "friends" of friends. Who are these trump-supporting wackos coming out of the woodwork, stepping onto my dad's terse message of reasonable disappointment with our southern neighbor's election? Then something flips, and I flip out. Start posting and posting and getting angrier and angrier and clicking on their links from anti-vax sites to take them apart, as if saying facts to a raving insane person is a constructive activity. Soon I'm ad-hominem-attacking the sources because oh god, of course those sites support trump because they're the kind of marks who would fall for his con, any con, any chemtrail - or at least appeal to the marks in the hopes that they'll click on the organic coconut oil ad next to the article about the jew-run media. Feeling that old feeling, of impotent rage. Sickening, finding myself in the position of defending an establishment I hate just as much as trumpers, but I have good reasons, not like them, I have rational responses, not like them. And I'll quickly descend to the ego-feeding echo-chamber to prop up what I want to feel right about, just like them, because my unseasoned psyche, knowing no way to stay calm in an escalating argument is screaming to me, HOW CAN THEY DEFEND THIS PIG? And I so want to say: I'm with you on the anti-PC... but that's not the fucking point! And I agree: He's not so bad... except he's fucking president! You'd think there'd be a higher standard than one held to a vulgar, tacky hotel magnate and reality TV star whose thing is that he fires people. Great TV guy, yeah, with real comedy chops even. And I would like to say I'm so with you when you're so right about the pathetic Clinton dynasty that has outworn its welcome, and then say that you're so wrong about how the guy who's different is gonna make good different change cause different change is good, cause just change, and he says crooked hilary's corrupt and it's true, so trump is different change, lock her up! lock her up! That's what that shit sounds like to me, but pushing back against such facile facebook banter is not an errand for this fool. And it's a moot point anyway, oh, so moot.

I want to feel right about my disgust for Trump, but I don't want to BE right. I want to be proven wrong, at least a part of me does, it's a part of me that's wedged up in the superego, it got stuck in good intentions that went by the wayside, I barely graze that old pair of undies, are they still elastic enough to fit this callous calcified person I've become? A good ol' part of me wants to believe that I've been led astray on the one hand with a kind of cynical pox-on-both-houses hopelessness, and on the other, with accepting wholesale the voices that sooth me, literally because they're what I use to chill after a hard day of work and make a pleasant numbing bed of autonomous sensory meridian response, and they speak to what's left of my faith in humanity and technology, that there's some way forward in this clusterfuck, and that it's not a rat race to the bottom if we decide it doesn't have to be. I split the difference between this one youtube channel and the other, the one is too neoliberal for the other, and the other is too crazy revolution for the one, so it's good enough for me to alternate between the two, and get pumped up with the molotov cocktail rants, then sober up with the "but seriously now..." realism wind-down that appeals to my sense of not being a fucking fruitcake, that's where I get most of my news, because it soothes, shapes and fondles my views.

But there's still the noble ol' part of me that wants to be able to accept that I was wrong, like I accepted I was an alcoholic and from that powerless starting point, with humility, make a better life for myself in recovery. Cause what if... I find out that, despite my skepticism, it turns out trump was serious about the good things he proposed, like less foreign intervention and more protection for workers, and totally kidding about the insane things, like keeping nukes on the table and climate change being a chinese hoax. I'd like to think, if that happened, I'd come around and say, even joyfully, wow, I gotta give him credit, he really is doing some good, and most of that ugly campaign rhetoric was only to get enough support from the scummy floor of the republican basement to win the nomination.

But I don't want to BE wrong in the long fever delirium of conflict. In those slurs an open and charitable mind is the furthest thing from my fingers, especially in the fevered hours and days later in a tight loop of typing, checking threads, trying to win the argument once and for all, hoping they didn't respond so I could have the last word but AH, FUCK, I'm deputized to rebut again, because I have to, because... ah, fuck it. That's why I deleted those threads, in the hopes of deleting all the fucks I have to give.

Fuck them threads. What's the point? It's not my country. It's not my fight. Let America sort itself out, let them deal with the 18% that ordered the pro-ignorance president. I offer my solidarity with the majority that rejected him. Solidarity with the young and non-citizens and prisoners for non-violent drug offenses and disenfranchised voters in gerrymandered districts and urban centers where the republicans closed poll stations to depress turnout. Solidarity for them. But my role isn't in that entertaining drama that distracts. I can affect change in the place where I live, exemplify alternatives to know-nothing foot-dragging fake-populist agendas, like other countries and states have done. Help the world get off the carbon crackpipe with or without the USA, with or without my own federal government, with or without "the leader of the free world", that obnoxious synonym Americans have for their president. I'm pretty free, maybe a little free-er than you folks in some ways. But here, I thought I lived in a sovereign nation. I didn't think he was president of me. But OK, if I must, I'll grudgingly admit that my country and many countries do largely follow America's lead in a lot of things, and a lot of us other countries are subject to pressure from said leader's agenda - so in a way, he's our leader too, if you insist on calling him that. I'd rather call HER that, but she did lose because she was a bad establishment-backed choice, and you have to respect democracy, and sometimes, you gotta chew on that turd sandwich, then swallow it with a shit-eating grin and hope you can get the people back on your side next time. And it's good to know that it's not exactly rigged.

I will vent, in any case, and not on facebook. Fuck arguing, and turning into the monster I'm attacking. I should be better than that. And I'm not fit for arguing, my emotions get out of hand immediately. And self awareness drags me down, keeps me from soaring on the delusion that I'm particularly informed or equipped for sorting out impossibly complex situations or cracking insoluble problems. I hit a wall, stumble back, disgusted with myself and the shambles of  the ideas I had, that I could indict the establishment but also, with such nuance, state how vexingly dumb it is to answer public sector corruption corrupted by private sector money... with private sector corrupters klepting the public's money.

Shit, maybe later I'll write something on nuclear arms and the prospect of this American president-elect having executive powers. No, I'm not being hysterical, I'm not shitting my pants, I don't know for sure if he said "if we have them, why can't we use them"? But A: It's fucking easy to imagine him saying that, and B: I'm more worried about a population that will elect a person who will proudly, ignorantly, arrogantly stand up in a televised interview and say that he won't take nukes off the table. FUCKING CHRIST.  Even if there was a first strike, what goddamn good does it do to kill hundreds of millions on the other side of the planet? Fallout toxifies the whole atmosphere, it's a round world, or is that also up for debate on the alt-right anti-science video streams the trump supporters get their news from? Of course there's logic in maintaining the capacity for mutually-assured destruction when the other side also has it, provided the idea is synchronized incremental disarmament, but the shit he's said on record shows a fundamental cluelessness about the basic strategic purpose of these tens of thousands of biosphere killing warheads still sitting around in stockpiles.

Oh well, I just wrote about that. There, there's that rant. Fuck, I'm unhinged. Something's really wrong when I write straight forward stuff like this, it really doesn't suit me.

Also, I know I never worked very hard on improving my writing, I'm a slacker when it comes to that, and I never evolved from comfortable indulgence in all the adjectiveful bugs that I found to be features, when they ranon to marathons of matinee timesmear jaunts. I need to get some thoughts out I guess, this is cheap therapy for me, and like most of what I do, for no one else really.

Sep 29, 2016

If it works, it works.

Maybe I've become a pragmatist.  A good ol Yankee prag-a-ma-tist.  I can take a feeling of it feeling a little better to humble myself and pray to some thingamagod. . .  And stumble a little further with it.  I was so ground down yesterday I couldn't even write much less try to be clever.  Can I be tempered? I hope so, I don't need so much ego, I could be better to the sweet others in life with less of that.

Sep 17, 2016

swiping under the table

Seriously.  Do it.  Stupidly.  Could hand even text purple.  Let's set how sick this thing auto corrected.  Let's check the betwixt of the Alcorn.  And let's Cindy earplugs. Ralph's.  The quick response to the meeting tonight at the school district so I can take a look at the school district so I can take a look at the school district.  Oh no.  We're in a lip.  We're in a lip.  Hey! This could be better than cut ups. Expert is to tuned to myself.  I could create an algorithm they sales others rhythms and rhythms to a new certain percent.  Percentage.  If the fucking gut would most keep it short.  How about suffering people with disabilities good messages but obviously aren't humble s7 all.  Cody this isn't helping.  I still can't find the fucking good out. Fitment bob you know? You know? You know /
? Next time he talks, count how menu times be days you know.  It'll now you're! . You know? Let's set is I can. For up b.

Another like nak would be prudent right now.  Let's set of o van duit they're b is finding of a comfort that I'm the only one who is anywhere near as paved of.  Fitment.  Shit up.  Shot the fuck in. Fitment could you please past past least part please shut the fucking fuck up ;n at least it's got suggesting fixing. . Or ducking. . Fucking hell. B then good tips finished.  This'll fucking good.
-
It never gets easier. Again.  Better look like I'm doing something. Again. Looking like a phone addicted gamer boy being a lesser evil than standing around awkwardly. Exposing the need and social difficulty that's back. Again.  Cause it never gets easier. There's only an occasional heaven sent flow I can rarely predict and never count on.  But that's not nothing.  Nearly

Later. Finleys.  Success in sobriety.  For the ages. Of Sagittarius.  Okay for the most part. Dawn is sweet despite my paranoias. But progress.  Like how I play Stardew Valley now instead of Soldier of Fortune. And like how I'm only angry at people at meetings who talk too long because of their cliqueish ness and obnoxious personalities, not because of that AND because of envy over money. And like how I was able to talk to Jeremy.
-
It's OK to be catatonic as long as you can leave the bar at closing time under your own power.
-
Don't be extra paranoid.  Plenty enough already.  Don't ruminate, that amplifies delusions. . .
It never feels ok does it? And it's been enough times, I don't think it ever will.  Anyways the looks. Even when I didn't fuck up.

Sep 13, 2016

just get yourself a hunk of bread and chew it like you're solving the worlds problems!

Sep 9, 2016

sickness and health - that's one way of thinking about it, maybe a false dichotomy

egging on, whose fault is it?

then there's friendly crumbliness - candid boundary breaking state-shackled conversational reality bubbles - wait, what? wha?

there needs to be more corners cut on sentences

what to do with a false pass out? power through with power nap wake buzzing - that's what you would do - write, when other avenues are exhausted
actually i would rather riff, in real time, why can't i have what i want, instantly, right now? ah, that would require even more energon cubes

i wish my partner in whatever wasn't passed out, it exhausts possibilities, get restless, want to keep riffs going, make static mean something

see what can keep getting away with having way with... draft a draft, sneak out onto the porch to pretend something different is the case - buzz can keep going but has to get soaked in who's the boss episodes? trying to impress anybody? or getting what might as well be there...

wrecked being a directive, a desirable state to attain, or, one way of putting it - navigating between fun-sized inflations of whatever i was talking about before...

another avenue of expression that's not cutting short on a particularly nasty synthetic - it was amarynth, grown in a digital garden, in a sublimely satisfying for two weeks something, but it must be gone, make way for, whatever you were on about before...

cover synthetic sadness in weirdness, cover up seretonin jinks with too true, more than i could explain, anyone ever know, like, daoist shit...

I dunno what I'm gonna do, but i'm not gonna let paranoid thoughts rampage, not fun in my book, good thing my book is worth ougats! the street value is -24 decibals. let's see what we can get it down to, i'm not responsible for my actions, i look for weak corners that i can tear down, for the good of all mankind, in my personal perception, at this moment, whatever is groovy with gravity

it can be hard to do words, when easy paths beckon, but could don't mean should, but then, nothing would ever be written, ah, how achey-breaky-quaint, to reference quaint-ness autohyphenated for your pleasure, who is this? share and enjoy - ah, wink, you knew it was me all along

anything could be laid bare, and why not, but who cares? nothing, words are practically ghostly, i ghost-wrote my autobiography, actually i had it subcontracted to a team of ghost writers, back when that meant something and i had to treat myself to trazodone....

well christ, i might as well at this point
be a slave for schemes to prolong a means to an end... that's ok, i guess, right? i'm asking, but i have no sarcastic rejoinder, it escaped me cause facilities failed me... stretched into a drop

wow, how lite and useless words are, a husk of, well, my feeling for them fell off like a limb blown off, cause that was apparently necessary to say like that - hope i took that traz, i can report on this, cause of the way the value of a reader inflates, or amasses to the size of the ideal, in the rareness, fragility, did i use that word too many times, should i be saying this? what does it matter - ebbs ultimately in the bitcoin, when belief in things melded with words about things, of course i would say that, you gotta sprinkle it all with salt until it dissolves into the soup it propped itself above in a bit to see how a last transition could be inflated above previously considered mandatory negative abyss... could should whatevs - let's just let this loop, or limbistically flallop, this proves i'm not serious, it needn't be said, it'll be taken as evidence!

but i'm trying to serve a moment, where things are measured in coffee spoons - morphine is theoretical, but gravity well happened deeply, it's thankfully not important, needn't be taken seriously, it's what you can get away with and timings, and alarms, and imperatives, better not go in any mephistophelean directions - get wacky subjective searching nevermind....

but somewhere in there is all this, and all that, that passed, but can be remembered, if called upon

i better not let it get to me
better phase seamlessly into amnesia, like it was thankfully for nothing
create a buffer with a combination of white noise and trancy music in a dissociative way, i guess which was what i was looking for, if i was smart and took the traz, i'll be edging seamlessly into just give way to what always turns out into the best dreams when i've acted the worst, maybe that says something, a lesson we can all learn, a doug stanhope bumper sticker - i'm sorry i reinvented the wheel in a craven way, but that's what happened, that's where we are... that's what i'm doing, nursing hops tasting goodness, i needn't freak about navigating others' neurosis, i got plenty else to worry about, that's how i'll all lean on, to hypnotize myself into insisting that i don't believe this or that, feelings are deceiving, even when they rule, master, then reason tries to, fails to, weakens - struggle is tiring - maybe it's good the body sabotages me, or the mind hijacks whatever is responsible for the latest terror catalyst - i will need that traz, but first....

need more perfect syncronization of understanding that will happen with merciful angels who were there in the past, cannot be entirely forgotten

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 pra-pa-lEE! shy bow bow, fuck you cigarettes... yeah ya, this'n'that and never mind whatever's involved, detach from realities, make the warning on the pack as big as you want, cause 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, punch up occasionally with thc and don't do coke unless 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 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 possibly 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


\
| --- --- --- --- |
   -   -   -   -
| --- --- --- --- |
   -   -   -   -
| --- --- --- --- |
   -   -   -   -
| --- --- --- --- |
   -   -   -   -
\\
|
\



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