9 Oct 2017

4 Oct 2017

veracity is poison, but it kills the lies
you have to wash it down with listerine

1 Oct 2017

it's pourin outa my head
it's pourin outa my veins
it doesn't mean shit
it doesn't mean shit

it's pourin outa my head
it's pourin outa my veins
it doesn't mean shit

it's just life brutha
it's just life brutha
it's life fucka
it's life fucka
i want more life... fucka

it's pourin outa the thing
pourin outa that thing
I DON'T KNOW WHY
I DON'T KNOW WHY

i could reconcile, to sleeping, that would be best, when i don't have the constant company, the good enough negative attention - it's so uncouth, so indecent to ache so much, when i can't name what i'm withdrawing from, could try if they held a gun to my head

the ice water needs a straw, need somebody to suck me up - the kind of attention i deluded myself into thinking i had, a need like a blooming bloody arabesque in pure liquid - it will come around again if i let it, let enough

it's cruel to feel the precise edges of what i lack, to be able to outline them in contours that poke at me, sweet-tipped pain i'll allow - let echo, turn the feedback all the way to ten

when the android updates, this time, everything will gel - i won't know it at the time, but this latest cycling of gelling will feel as good as a creeping lubraderm film enveloping my skin, a layer of pure moisturized joy to stretch out sensation with, venture out some limbs

the last best thing hasn't been said yet, i can't go to bed until it's said - but then again, maybe i can - it's too bad it's such a downturn i will make into a bigger drama just for the sake of feeling it fully

let's tag this life with an up-beat Jamaican nurse, softly nudging my white-knuckle grip on the edge of the cliff to slack



22 Sep 2017

Okay, if you're gonna pull rank here at this recovery center, and mandate participation as a condition of staying here, I'll watch '"The Secret" with everyone else. But I'm going to wear two eye patches I stole from Roxie, and plug my ears with a strand of paper I ripped off a cigarette carton. And I'm going to be on four seroquel and two trazodone I traded JR a mini keyboard for, cause after the last group therapy session I'd decided I was done with music, forever. Really fixating on the idea of forever. But I'll sit there in front of the screen. You won't dare make me take it in. This is a drug treatment program, not a clockwork orange style violent thug conversion surgery. I don't want to wash out like that pathetic kid who plays the piano better on a meth comedown than I do on my best day but does still reflect in a hateful way many of my own deficiencies. So pathetic! I don't wanna be crushing valium pills between two rocks and snorting it up right there, not even in the back, but middle row, of the greyhound bus bringing some of us assisted living fucktard losers back to our various halfway functional residencies and kitchens. The chef I remember from the Hume who slipped and fell into a plane of tinfoil with dunes of baking soda, here and there, oases of product.

21 Sep 2017

The Sunblock Selfie Sutra

Yes, it's a sutra now, for a subpar sojourner. I'll explain below.






















THE BORDER

They actually let me into their country! Dad deflects my harmless scary-seeming sketchiness. American empire's now in its Caligula phase. You must believe in corruption, if you want to work within the system, bring some carrots for the horse that got deputized energy secretary.

The orientation sensor on my phone is beautiful. It doesn't sense how calcified the legislatures are, on this continent. But it's beautiful, nonetheless. And it doesn't take away from the superego's point, which is that I may not know who to trust, or what legislation to support, but I know where north and south and east and west are, because the GPS works as well as it does, and chemtrails are good for us. I hope they engineer us out of this, I want a happy ending in the atmospheric theater. It's taken care of, I couldn't change anything on that scale even if I was determined to.



THE COAST

I'm a bad traveler. It's kinda funny, but I'm enjoying bad traveling, why not? It's not drug tourism, not coming to, in foreign lands, not come to Jesus, come on Jesus, exit Jesus, walk with Jesus (he said: "Oh you poor boy, you ain't comin' to me, no way.") Sure, the Oregon coast is inspiring, absorbing - but enough has been said poetically. Someone asks: "How deep does the cave go?" It's like, a cove cave, sea crashes in, sprays out of the devil's punch-bowl. Haven't taken any pictures yet.

I'm coming to terms with my deficiencies as a traveler. It's okay, I can relax and catalog the flaws - then, in a weird way feel good about how I'm different, even if lacking sensitivity and initiative. Be the subpar sojourner, cause nature won't come natural. Don't need to hear constant comments of "Gorgeous!", don't need to watch for whales. Look how high and mighty I am on what I "don't need". "Omg! I just saw something go up there. Was that a fluke?" It honestly doesn't do much for me. I wouldn't dare *say* that, won't go be an asshole about it. Most people have a spark of wildlife enthusiasm - except small urbanites that never venture out. How many times already have I seen things my dad would rhapsodize - and kept them to myself? Whales, Mount Rainier, the street named Deon, the house with the huge pirate flag (okay, that was for me). I'm trying hard to focus on exactly why I should be so enthralled with the tails and sprays I'm seeing. Think about it man: whales, actual factual whales, huge ass gray whales under those waves! But it doesn't connect all that strongly, maybe why I need to sample the state cash crop - don't judge me if that's the chemical tweak I need, to appreciate, alleviate spiritual rot, medicine in a real sense, especially since I've been so good about everything else, sober, and day three off the lung darts.

Going to Portland on Tuesday, where there are all the eateries I could want to choose from. Of course, that's the one and only thing my dad's friends consider. Which, I can't blame them, I've been of no help in articulating my interests or possible motivations, my bad-traveler non-agenda. I'm not gonna mention my budding interest in locally grown weed, CBD, and edibles, but was kinda stoked from browsing the local mags. Nobody lacks a bucket list more than me, all that's on mine still is DMT, and forget fentanyl and ayahuasca, for disparate reasons.

Melancholic comfort of gift shops and guest books, 2017 eclipse-brand stuff. This is indeed a Great Coast. Just can't shake my Great Irony. Even the Great Oregon Coast can't destroy it. Unless one of North Korea's missiles reaches this far. Then I would feel that 9/11-style irony-killing horror. Horror can do it - beauty, not so much. Only the beauty of a woman who is also into me, that can also kill irony. Cue painful memories of Ucluelet, picking blueberries, seeing whale sprays, the last day on the beach, she wished we'd kissed deeper. I don't remember what book we read aloud. I'm thinking about higher ground, cause they're talking tsunamis. Don't let nobody bring you down.

Nothing gives me better tingly drowsy vibes than my dad's friend talking about a "marvelous lunch". "My goodness, oh, what a day." Aah. And Japanese gardens, rock work all fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle, tea houses and little deserts. I like being with my dad and his friends, playing Scrabble. Beyond the distaste for parts of mainstream and consumer culture (obviously not all, takes money to drive a Prius) there's a soothing non-judgmentalism, an overlap where our values, or lack thereof, align. Could not be more unnecessary to be cool. Also, I get the sense that neither of them are going to freak at me about some unwritten rule I violated in house-guesting.

All the older ladies think I'm Gary Cooper. I'm not drowsy and detached, I'm the "strong silent type", got Tony Soprano's seal of approval. The ride is too smooth in a not-too-used Prius, I'm succumbing to the mobile crib, getting things done passively. They can't see my eyes closed under the shades. Read whatever you want into it, the unseen whites can stand in for whatever appreciation you'd hope for, whatever you want this to be for me, I'll say it is for you.

I love to love being drowsy, I can be aware of it and sustain it still, a little, but too much consciousness focused on it, for too long, clamps Mr. Piedlourde's feet on the brakes, breaks the spell, I have to give up, perk up in discontent. Not euphoric. Got to wait for it to happen naturally again, descend, pull me gently with it, velvetty handrails, basalt rails, so black and smooth, back to basom. Hey, I've earned it, even more than the anchovy maker from Italy in Times Square on two months paid vacation. Maybe not as much as Malik, fighting forest fires all summer.

I have a great idea, just need some venture capital. It's a "getting things done" simulator. It has a VR device component: you put on a suit and headset, and it gives you tactile sensations, swells and ebbs of mild vertigo, rocking up and down / side to side, comfy rumbling, in a car or plane, being driven or flown by a trusted person, and getting somewhere you want to be, but not urgently, you're loving the journey, it's making you sleepy. So you can sleep, like the ambien you took is kicking in, but your legacy is secure, your lineage, your children, or the work you've accomplished is percolating through the future, you can practically die, or just simulate death, play that role. You can also set the role to include associations of a specific destination, almost like a Total Recall package, except instead of going to some place for an adventure, you've got a phone full of synthesized photos of the great adventure you already had, and it was so great, and you met so many wonderful people, and accomplished so many things, there's a record of it for you to browse, and now your journey is a well-earned homecoming.

There's also the component of a tasker app that integrates to all your web services and platforms, and decides, with an artifically-intelligent discretion worthy of Her, which of your unfinished projects and plans would best fit with a suggested role play, like your lovely AI assistant, she finished that novel you barely started, more or less as you would write it, on that fictional vacation you took, and here is a mockup, doesn't even sound like self-parody. It would work so well with my habit of cultivating personal data sets and collections of media according to an aesthetic that gives me a feeling of purpose and pleasing order. Fussing over things can keep you from falling into an abyss, maybe why solitary confinement is torture.




ECLIPSE

It's ten in the morning, and hot. There's a bite mark in the sun. We're watching from my dad's friends' yard. On the other side of the fences are neighbor gatherings, "wow"ing" and "holy fuck"ing. Good thing there are people around me to react. Rarely been so grateful to be forced to hear ostentatious others' conversations. I still don't have *that vibe* yet. Can I borrow it? Ctlr-C / Ctlr-V it? Can I borrow a feeling? A vibe is some kind of information, surely, that I can convert. Got some kinda vibe anyway, doesn't have to be the right one, there is no right one. But I'm liking how my dad is telling us about the binocular strategy, eschewing tripods. This is his Shambhala, I'm absorbing some of it, as light wanes. There's creeping cold, arctic pale like the midnight sun. The change in feel is tripping me out more than anything, disrupting my sense of day and time. I sensed the change sooner than anyone, yay me.

I should be playing Dark Side of the Moon, the last half - except no, that's a drunk thing to do, when things go with other things, and I mash them together, but not a psychedelic thing, where you focus on one thing that becomes everything. But I will take a selfie, with my sunblock shades. I'm not drunk like the neighbors, not exactly sober like my dad and his friends, coming up on pot gummies. If I was drunk, I'd never get on some hypochondriac paranoid trip about if the eclipse glasses were *really* safe enough from the weird act I'm doing of staring into the sun directly. In a certain way, drunk would be funner, but also fluffier sprach Zarathustra. What creepy thing is going on if I'm not getting immediate painful bio-feedback but my retinae are being fried like my brain on drugs?

Neighbor dogs sense the energy of people, or maybe the eclipse. We're all moved by the crescent sun that brought us here, together. The cats still don't care. "It's so fricken weird!" A neighbor says, as totality approaches. Another neighbor says something about perceiving cosmic motion in a totally new way.

Glasses off! Total eclipse! Booyah! I win the planet!



Then the sun creeps back from the point of brilliant death-ray, radial beam splays out exponentially, inside are oscillating geometric forms in the radiation concentration, I'm receiving revelations about pi and the stock market, I want to keep looking, I want to! But I shouldn't, glasses back on, don't want an eclipse injury, worse than a party wound, Sol-fiend in the thorn bushes, every rose has its thorns, every cliche has its day. If they're such Sol-fiends, why're they howling for it to be obscured? Cause language categories create unnecessary problems, to be solved upside down on the back of the page. 

Just saw the sun in a new way, obscure revelation. There's a tick for the bucket list - didn't even know it was on, and now it's off! "Encore!" says a neighbor, laughing. My favorite comment was the boisterous lady from the party across the fence, not quite plastered: "I had no idea".

It's a crack high for my dad (so gross I use those metaphors, but they mean something to me, sadly). He says something about euphoria fading, like he's crashing. It's a sweet and gentlemanly sort of crash, because different addictions are different, but it triggers the wrong kind of association with me. I figure my dad's friend was that way with butterflies. When it comes to astronomical stuff, the rest of us are normies, not eclipse addicts - we're liking the comeback of warmth and light. But I gotta admit, I'm not *that* normie, there is a euphoria fading for me too. Part of it is the rarity of the moment of totality, the influx of value, making the most of it, like life itself, microcosm, compressed. The heart *was* pounding. An experience! Getting down with the universe, like somebody from the sixties who found Kubrick before acid.

Yeah, I did see and feel something that is unique to me, cause I'm such a snowflake. The total perspective vortex is torture for Zaphod Beeblebrox - or it should be, in theory, all the best cosmological hypotheses marinated in the greatest non-hypoxic hypocampi would indicate such - but it just told him what he knew all along, that he's a really great guy!

If they're crackheads, they're bouncing back and fiending less than any substance abuser I've seen. I'm not like them. But I can pretend. Have a hangover - a strange sort of hangover where the dynamics go from dim to bright. It wasn't a hole in the sky. I see a facebook update from my friend Lynze in Florida, but turns out she's in South Carolina on the totality path! It hasn't hit her yet, haha. I'll try not to be haughty about merely having seen something, but I'm tempted. A friend from Utah sends me a link to that picture of Trump squinting at the sun, because of course, so I riff on that, cause he looks to me like he's saying: "Baron... soon you will be king. I'm taking Ivanka with me, to the other side. I'll have the Saudi's be-head Melania when she's exiled. You will be the only one left with a ridiculous enough name to rule."




CORVALLIS

They got a weed shop downtown, so civilized. If you have to partner with the stupid liquor industry to get things done then so be the shitty compromise. When I get stoned though, value inverts so piercingly, growing pains, gnawing pangs, the intolerable hallucinatory toothache, everything ache. I pushed it cause I can handle it, appreciate both the mellow and the harsh, mallomarsched and quite possibly labarsched, sativa paranoia, fun, freaky, not exactly sober but the one substance I don't abuse. Goes good with a solar eclipse and bad traveling.

In my peripheral vision my dad's foot keeps becoming a yappy dog, but silent peripheral yapping, like what tropane delirium puts front and center, albeit with a blunted frontal lobe. I'm still gooned on those gummies as the sun creeps up unobscured, trump fnord obsequiem creeping. Can free will get me where I want to go? What about someone else's will then? If you're the devil, I want to chat with you. Lead me like a blind man. Show me a good time, spin me through the casino, cash me out, cast me out, sign me out. One day I'll explain the void well enough to get help to treat it - witnessing an eclipse may have been the first step. I'm just fostering superstitious feelings for a future feedback loop of positivity.

My dad's other friend made us some hamburgers like I've never had before, just unreal cooking style, and I love listening to them talk. I'm so glad they don't live in the ironic distance I'm perpetually locked in, Clockwork Orange style. Distance doesn't mean detached. Not even dissociated. More like hiding from, in a fucked up neurotic pain/gain alchemy of black comedy magic. Tinged too much in favor of stubbornly-held-to conceits of comfort and lack thereof. Not that distant. Never that distant. Never that near either. Always out of reach. The best things along with the worst things. The grapes must be sour. The mouth must be sore. A mouthful of sores ain't no fun, take it from me.

Ironic distance, not a thousand yard stare but a one meter stare, at a screen. Seeing pixels everywhere. Burn the dead wood, vaporize the dead weight, incinerate the uselessness, accelerate because they can't wait, get rid of me, I'm no necessity to fate like some character is purported to be in Game of Thrones. Isn't that a fun fantasy? And the only thing you could hope for after death is if the Lord of Light has some entertainingly gruesome death lined up for you, before which, you must be revived as many times as necessary, ad absurdum, with some ridiculous redundant eye patch. Thanks for listening to this week's What Really Grinds My Gears, with Alt Balterman. Check out Stamps Dot Com.

There's a brain-on-drugs crackling sound, signaling burn out. Hoh boy, burn out's a'comin. Always a danger. But in stranger aeons even death may die.





PORTLAND

is a Great city. Makes me insular, as most things do, cause the sun's blocked with my selfie sutra. On the drive over here, the Magnetic Zeros came on my playlist, and uh-oh, got dragged down into the mud of grief-logged associations of the last girl, in this music video I'm making for myself.

Beautiful Portland people everywhere, literally everyone in some bustling pattern of social interaction, isolating me because of my passivity, locked up lone wolf, eponymous and unpacked, bitter tea, bitten fur, maul scars. Flustered. That's why I drink to get drunk. It smooths out the fluster, the ugly ruffled feathers, the unfuckable underpinning. Don't test my patience for PDA right now, people. Fucking iron-filing people, diatomic, hydrophilic. I'm remembering the feeling of real anger, righteous or just blind rage that's at least more pleasurable than sadness: fuck you then, you are not worth this bullshit, I am worth more than this, fuck right off, forever. I'm coming to the conclusion that it's better to take heroin than seek or keep pining for real love. A way of protection, metabolizing self-hate into contempt for others.

I imagine doing a "show me your tits" whistle. C'mon, put on a little show for me. I'm not expecting anything, just reveling in being a dirtbag, scorn and poison love-addiction-withdrawal turned moldy misogyny, with a love present but twisted, sedated, buried, crushed, crystallized in the strange glassy form of an ego trip in devaluing others, keeping the value strictly sexual, contriving contempt for anyone's mind cause I can't put my dick in your dissertation honey, no matter the brilliance. Don't wanna play, just wanna nut, like a duty to fulfill, tick the box for the clipboard. And still, wanting certain others, cause it's a foolish resistant persistence. Either bend to my will, or will me to feel better.

It's giving me melodies I could make a song out of though: you're gonna see, oh, you're gonna see, oh, you're gonna see - all'a'my deficiencies, they're gonna pile higher than your last pile of misery... I'll do something with it later, maybe. It's the song of a pitiable man who became a minor youtube celebrity, unwittingly, through sub-viral videos of performing musical abortions. Anything is possible. Which of course necessitates the aggressive cynical later disavowal. It's not The Secret, it's not The Path, it's not a Law of Attraction. It's chaos, he thought it was a ladder, but they kicked it out from under him. Torrents drown tornadoes. Solar wind won't interfere with GPS for now. It'll allow geo-engineering and old timey déjà thread beach head dreams.























After the famous ice-cream store, I'm humming some good melodies I made up with sweet syncopations, so smug - then so humble, or should I say, humiliating, when I put into words what I want, not what I have, the desire that makes the whole body ache, pray-singing, sing-praying for angel pussy to help me with my mind. Maybe I should get healthier first, only then can I hope to be complimented and completed. Til then, take care of house plants, pets, but no larger responsibilities or people to fuck with. Well, I could never fuck a person up, could never have that impact, would brag about it if I did. The grapes are sour, and after masterfully manipulating people in a way I could feel good about, eventually, after sixty-nine Bowie-quality years, Mephisto would come knocking. Prolly more like seven years.

Listening to Schumann on the drive back, asking him, if you're such a genius, why couldn't you figure out a reason to keep living? Or did you decide, like Hunter S, it was just a good time to quit? And then, who'm I to argue? Obviously my perception doesn't go far enough to equal the suicide imperative. If it did I could make money from my words.




CRATER LAKE










"It's the best shade of blue you'll ever see," my dad says, hyping it up real good, and when I get down to the lake, I see he's right, even with all the smoke-haze in the air. It's taking the form of a jingle in my mind's ear, the best shade of blue you'll ever see, dee dee dee. The 1:1 ratio between the crater edge cliffs above and the abyss below is so vertically satisfying. My heavy eyes linger for minutes on a sight that strikes me as unbearably adorable, a skein of ducks leaving a stately wake behind them. I can get into nature sometimes, herbs help.

I'm inside the massive caldera/lake of a volcano that collapsed in on itself seven thousand years ago. We're on a boat tour, and our guide mentions the Old Man, a vertical log who floats around and sometimes gets spotted by the tourists, but there's this element of chance. He's so entropic. Too entropic you might say, but what's *your* brilliant plan? My plan is turbulence, steady rocking rolling turbulence you can't predict. But I'm sheep-like in my predictability to go against the herd, precisely 180 degree perpendicular. When the boat tourists sit down, I stand up, and think about skulls and geology, and the devil's backbone, the rock formations, then my shoe, thinking about Burroughs in Tangiers saying you could spend a whole day staring at your shoe, the dust planet, the desert chasm, pumice, abrasive dust.






























































CALDERA CONDUIT

I'm ascending the spiraling shuttle-bus road, where geometric precision mingles with geological havoc, riding a frozen wave, perpendicular frequency of time. Film of human-friendly vegetation spills over the burning turbulence of ultra-low-frequency tectonic rates. Thinking about volcanoes and virgins and sacrifice, Boys for Pele. Need whores too, the jezebel nexus, best of both worlds, sluts and saints, the energy released in the conversion of those material states back and forth. And God. It turns out, he's so strangely small.

Suddenly, I'm compelled to take lots of pictures. Walking down the shuttle-bus road from the top of the caldera with a footstep beat, I'm gazing at the rolling railing shoulder with gurgling gravel, laughing foliage, listening to the spinning top of anthropologized Bob Ross sentences, topological wordscapes. Insects dominate sonic space. Gotta draw it out, draw it in, draw it out. I've seen and heard this before, it's not like it's novel, but I can appreciate more, leap frogging from years of prior articulation. The association also distorts, every mirror does. We've got a road graded just so precisely, victory over the great and terrible terrasphere. Endless forest, friendly forest from my vantage as part of that tribe of asphalt, preserved in a grid of government funds and happy little trees. Let the Bob Ross roll... let him knock you around, let him make me you a clown. The life of the pika's better than the life of the party if people've stopped stressing you out.














































TREE CASTS

Visually oriented again after all this time, hearing colours, metal railing of telepathic reverberation, chocolate swirl of layer cake cosmetic. Infinite speckled cliches like every stone has a story. Star-speckled bag of stones, an old-lover's intellectual property. Sappy sage brush between my fingers, snappin' Sage, between her legs. Perfect accent, perfect scent. Rolling Rossian downward-spiraling descalator tubes to dreams of vast beachfront and mountain woods inter-perturbing, fate plumbing. All kinds of déjà vu portals to dream ecologies that breathe in this arabesque and iterate in the wind. I've dreamed these tree cast sculptures before. Except this is the bus station of the dream. One route forks right to the woodshop dream. To the left, streams off into a cloverleaf of narrative freeways in various directions, feeding substrate in elsewhere selves, watershed downspouting woods.






















LAVA CAVE

I have no words for this, but my sub-amateur photography is a lame substitute:

















DRIVING






















Driving with dad is almost always nice, but after nine days I can sort of see what my sister was saying, there's this sense of always being a child, in relation. Inevitable maybe, and not all bad. But for the love of American Jesus, can he stop eating Cheesies? I even folded the bag for easier access, now regret being a snackmaid. But nah, it's okay, got enough sense to not make an issue of it, just jam in some earbuds.

I see now that because of a combination of genetics and nurture, I'm just as hopelessly dorky and awkward as my dad, without the cheer, good nature, and maturity he had at the age I am now. Hence my bitterness, anger, and anxiety. The need to compensate, the failure to do so. The need to have a strong enough reaction against, difference, to feed ego, feel like my own man. He never "needed" more dirtbag friends. I needed some so I could be the fucked up person I normally lament but sometimes venerate, gives me something to write about, even sing about, although that's never fresh after once around the improv belt. I lacked peer pressure for so long, I sought it out. Met with some successful failures, people I should not mention by name, even if I love them so much, the why is mutually incriminating, just erase an ineffable pattern into the chalkboard.

I've made some strides though, made my own way, for an opportunity cost. It's also a warped value system to want to react so strongly against his style. He's more accomplished, more valuable in terms of skills, and there's his lack of toxic selfish proclivities. I can talk with him about a lot of things. But certainly not the main void in my life, the reason I have to avert my eyes and plug my ears so often, and cringe at public displays of affection. 

Downtown Bend, on a friday night. All the restaurants are closing. Let's just get something at Subway, we can go to a nicer restaurant tomorrow. Max dorkiness achieved when attempting to customize an order. The most painful Subway counter experience ever. Oh well. Not gonna say anything. Except, sorry about the confusion regarding sandwich to salad conversions, in a passive way. Mistakes were made.

Guess there's at least no pressure to make conversation and fill the silence cause, family, the immediate, not like the edginess or screechiness of more distant relatives or even friends sometimes. We're not always on the same wavelength, but he's whistling to that Beatles song and I gotta say, it's so endearing that it makes up for that last hour of Cheesies-eating mouth sounds.



moral arc

17 Sep 2017

sorry people - i'm a mess - even worse on the inside - i put on a skin cream that fills the pores in such a way as to block pheromones - on the whole i thought it would be better, just block all of it, cause the only pheromones that were gonna get out were just sadness and desperation, so if i can at least become invisible in that dimension, for me, it'd be a net positive, like if i was a paraplegic, i'd compensate in other ways

some people even tolerated my sad silliness for a while, it gives me pangs they did that, having to deal with my crazy bullshit - the noise to signal ratio is pretty good, but oh, those times when i get stupid, those are hard to take for some folks - one of them even gave me a nerve pill, when i needed to calm down enough to sleep

i need a new life, a new name, a new face, a new place - i've disgraced myself in too many ways around here, and the online networks i created - need to be one of those shape-shifters, slip, change my shape, do it with grace, to save face - not fuck it all and go for the mersandol - just change the face, wouldn't it be nice if i could do that

still not ready for religion though, that's not what i want - maybe just some, some, thing i don't have the word for, so i won't try to think of it...

not ready to come back to aa either, that's quite a bind - maybe i need to make my own cult, feel the satisfaction of having others believe my mystic whimsy way more than i ever did, like i told a good story, and made a daily living guidebook to go with it

-








30 Aug 2017

the stupidest scar will only feed malaisey substrate, a paste on moldy bread, to sustain me in the submarine, green things growing on spoiled things

mashed up my face, got blood all over the floor, what for? blood on the bedsheets, computer monitors, desk, mouse, keyboards - a good look, i'll say - from what? a stupid slip, not intended but self-imposed, the chaos is attractive like when i heard stravinsky transposed for two pianos, those black clusters of notes

no need for any sanguine talk of blood, it's just a mess, served cold - haven't bothered to punch up the epic post i wrote while travelling - this is the only truth - my nose and forehead are swollen, i've got stitches in my face, bruised body too tired to clean up the blood for day two now - i wish i had some good story for the scar, but it will be a reminder not to take up smoking again after finally getting clean, then falling so violently losing complete control, even the primal urge to protect the face - i'm still trying to give it a legacy by writing cagely to allow multiple meanings - if i thought i could get away with it, i'd claim a brain injury to explain away everything i will henceforth think and say and do, but guess i'm back in the land of deluded lucidity

13 Aug 2017

11 Aug 2017

red-shift shamanicide





one day they'll find you, the rainbow cartel: the lovers... the dreamers... abusers... of self, shamanicized... to... abusers of others

turned around, calculated possibilities of abusing others, let's euphemize "using others", turn an inconvenient bag lady to a trashcan like the "better town" in Globex Corporation's video brochure, see it flap timidly under the cold wind thrashing a lonely snowscape, subtly beckoning negative space

surveyed possibilities of "using" others by turning on sociopathy like a tap, turning off strategically, to make a warm bed of insecurity, for us to cuddle up in each other, drop the confidence game, face confusing canopies of spreading-parting nebulae... and comment together at night in her designer's mood-lit interior, and trade humiliations, and pull up a positive sum, curl up a comfort so provisional, like a chanukkah candelabra

the rainbow cartel have smudged brains that care for no other until it's convenient - maybe one of them will find you convenient, take no for no answer - could find the bliss in that power trip, animal spirit you could bottle and sell to a man one indignity away from a mass shooting - but it's not open to full spectrum paranoia of a stable of others to use and abuse, the worst thing she could do to me, given carte-blanche, use me too then---leukocyte comets streak under my-eye-balls in a burn of cynic bliss, later-cuddle-playlist when i want to talk about it with you, only you, forget abstractions, rub shoulder, decide to believe, even at the risk of being seen to buying in to what i want to hear, because it's so open to interpredation... later, calendrical, bury denials inside implausible inverted pyramids laid bare, it's fucked up, that's okay, it's beautiful when torrents drown tornadoes

10 Aug 2017

watching nintendo treehouse - why make it fragmentary? - longing - why fragments of longing - snipper clippers - is a game - just leave a lot of fragments on the frozen table of fun, removed, seen through a screen, googled, accessible sans tactile

can't do it fucked up, can't do it sober - can't do it fecund, can't do it sterile - throw me in the meat-grinder, cleanse me of zen - forget about the afterlife - forget there was a word for life

games, nintendo games, new nintendo systems - watching nintendo games on youtube, self-imposed exile, cause the social life makes myself take poisons

now i want to find her name, sam from nintendo treehouse from youtube e3 video streams, but i won't go that far, i'll only go so far as to strip-mine audio for asmr material, leave the video on the table, but the audio will meld with the loved visual assocation, the kind that's just on the edge of sexual, but mostly in the land of good vibes and pleasant sub-sleep drowsy where something happens with the meridian, whatever that is, pseudo-scientific discipline for curious lack of curiosity in the vast pool of analytical phenoms i'd've figured would've studied everything

my relationship to words ain't so sacred anymore, but i'll put some pronouns in there, to fragment less, and i can still feel there's a sutra in and around those words, above and below my spine

7 Aug 2017

haveth childers everywhere

still got that vital force
still putting it to no use
lot of effort for nothing productive

if it is a sterile vitality, i should not succumb to depression and self-hating because of old artificial morality and superstitious nonsense - the irony is, i would, after all this time, coming from feeling so rational, no-nonsense, penetrating clarity of thinking, to seeing why nonsensical things exist, to contracting stockholm syndrome from a cruel and irrational world - it's not all cruelty, sometimes irrationality is the only salvation, but it's a sometimes salvation, gets to seem insufficient, makes me feel the malnutrician i can normally ignore

i'm still creating an apocalypse for myself every week or so - pushing back any kind of redemption, again and again, kicking it far into the future - some day i might kick it so far it falls off the edge of the earth - relapse, but no recovery, none left in me

still, no, i won't do it - won't bring a child into it to save my own soul
still i can just lean on the one time i had reason to buy plan b

20 Jul 2017

universal love song to the one

Making plans to make plans. For the one.
You all can relate, can't you?

12 Jul 2017

i'm anticipating the future, like i've done in every moment of nameless dread, acid trip, insomnia, bad dream, decaying orbit, coma preview - there'll have to come a moment when a critical mass of people become aware of an epochal shift, inverting all values, like the anthropocene transition, or whatever - next, panic - the panic will be the fireball, that's all - the blastwave, cloud, and fallout being the much longer, larger experience we'll grimly get used to, after panic kills the prone-to-panic percentage

maybe i shouldn't believe what i read, maybe i'm being manipulated - self-curated, consuming fear - just a niche type of fear, certain people consume different fears and angers, that i laugh at - this is my fear, that feels real enough because i don't want it - but i must look askance at that rationalization, because i had such contempt for the man who claimed he was convinced of a literal christian hell because god showed him a vision of his friend burning for eternity, and he didn't want to see it - like that's the horrific inescapable logic, but with a lil mystical massage, comes around to divine love, and ok, i'll just throw up my hands, say i'll never understand, and acid wears off, but the stained glass, stained wood remains, time's arrow drains me, drags through another week of forgetting about death for a while, a fantasy of a real man's life for a second, a sidepath from a whitman-esque transcendescalator to horizontal humidity, worked up for a great and personal cause, for a person, so totally not transcendent, so earthy, making me appreciate leaves and flowers, gardens, tea ceremonies, haiku

if you want a real thrill, stay on the internet, the place where all information is at your fingertips but no one knows what's true and false cause of all the dis and mis, any idea's indulged - be so hyper informed - tweet about tweets and blog about blogs, as long as it doesn't affect the real world, bounce around and around, cloistered within the-globe girdling network - outside the dome, a world of people who've gone back to reading books and research papers, and listening to national radio news where you're forced to hear a meticulously scheduled program of differing opinions and fact-checked analysis

the idea of die-off can be so comforting, especially in a comfortable residence, imagining having time to survey the death strategy from first world, fencing up, building walls, building air conditioners, to sit inside and think coolly about how much killing on my behalf i could stand before jumping off the ride, leaving the surviving to the assholes with guns and bunkers

because i can also comfort myself by suicidal ideation, and focusing inward on my own personal apocalypse, cause i'm going to die - so, why worry about death on a mass scale? lacking any mystical connection to a continuum that would preserve myself, how could i trust in any continuity for the species? i'd free the handmaids if i could - for a better world that would make someone else's worse, oh well, hell, in one way or another, we've always been brutal killers for the sanctity of life - the unexamined bias of life-lust, raping life, violating death, a positive legacy of economic growth

i say all this as i'm estranged more from nature every day - have no plans to get back, sounds like a nice idea, that nature, i had appreciation for it once, but currently not at all - it's like if the red pill made me never want to get high on any happy narcotic ever again, would i take it? i don't know, but i could be persuaded to get back to nature, when thinking about the unbearable lightness of summer leaves, and giving in to taking, because there's nature in that, the best kind

9 Jul 2017

worth it

But I'm gonna go home and say it was so totally worth it. Right? And hum. And then sing and play. Maybe pretend, maybe make real.

Can't believe she said such a sweet thing
look at me, i'm humming again.
Can't believe she said such a sweet thing
look at me, i'm singing again.
Can't believe she'd be such a sweet thing
look at me, i'm writing again.

Can't believe - maybe I should believe, choose to, yes. Especially when given something I needed, to bridge a splurge. The drawbridged lifted, I got sunk but not drowned, not dead - waking up, eventually, shaking off excess, hanging on to life. So dead for so long it finally pushed me to lament the deadness, the dry wood, so primed. A little love, even if  just a promise is not excessive, not gratuitous but necessary goddamnit, give me bread and roses.

I felt I was getting so much done, just lying down and moving steadily forward, dripping under society, slipping with my fingers caressing the handrails, travelling grand-style in primordial gravity to the basement, it's always a basement, it gets built, first a cement slab, then walls with brilliant-white fresh paint, then rooms and staircases glide to meet me, sometimes it's a stretch, reaching for these important people in their rooms, rebuilding the cosmos with incestuous family, telepathically feeling for my partner, soul sister, fuckbuddy, love's landing. It's good to feel this form of soul again, even if attained by dubious means, deeply questionable morality if one insists on going deep, like a rope stretched above an abyss.

I'll always have that chip on my shoulder, I say - unless I can shrug off the immobilizing insecurity. Integrate recovery with brute force of words, struggling to say what I can't, normally. Leveraging contrivance to break out of insular analysis, the blood organ, the blood, heart-rate, desire. I'll abandon the personal digital assistant, she's not quite Her yet, in fact, I've got a voice I could never imagine, she whispers, makes herself at home in my dreams.

Rockies declining supine to the right of me. A paradox. Planes. Coasting on feelings that got me this far. You found heaven on earth, gonna burn for your sins, reaction, turnaround. Confidence man, not half the battle, maybe ninety percent. Roving like a predator, trying it on for size, glib, superficial charm. I see what I want and take it. I see who I want. Quick, efficient filter. Target poor, but there's one that lights up. Maybe I can get away with calling sweetie.

See, she sees, something in my eye, not a spark, but dead light. Because my eyes are dead, it's the life underneath the sockets, in the artifice the synapses are capturing, but windows to the soul do capture for women with intuitive gifts. It rehabilitates all the things I said and apologized for. It's the confidence game, but it's not a game like chess, to me anyway, which separates me from the players, I'm looking for an end game, someone to conquer to death, in sickness and health, just a life partner, is that so much to ask?

I know you're the head surgeon at this hospital, I'm not even going to mention how many lives I saved. Now I'm sitting behind a desk, counting kickbacks, popping tictacs, volume of vicodin flowing through proper channels making doctor house blush, but the reality is, us professionals are way more professional than cable dramas would have us believe, they underplay our resourcefulness, because their writers lack the imagination to make professional and brilliant kleptocracy credible. You're gonna miss me when I'm gone. The aw shucks front. The humble demeanor. When I'm such an entertainer, you can't but keep me on retainer.

Speaking of the devil, the bit of a bastard, he needs rehabilitation, public relations, or how about, just the disruption of continuum by plugging into the other one, totally crushing, entwining with such intelligence, sometimes shocking confidence, more fun than I could fantasize in colours off the spectrum, fidgeting with the poses, the only woman, with the visual condition of one extra color receptor. My arms are so so so so skinny. But you know what, I can compensate - don't even need to buy twelve-plus guns in December.

Even if it's the last gasp, even if there isn't quite enough rocket fuel to win over gravity and ditch the atmosphere, even if - it's worth it, let's just make it worth it, there needn't be radio silence and metaphors needn't obscure - it wasn't a fling, it's in my id city subways. I choose to believe in access. Recollection, playful recall, seriously playful accessible currency, worth it, in context yet to be created.

9 May 2017

sucking extra body cavity

Sucking Salamanca Soul into a body cavity, gave everything away, sold it to this soul gushing into me at moments of wizardry - hardly have the sarcastic spear i need to deconstruct that blunt a second ago

yeah, away from one screen resembling a society with people i'm beholden to in complex ways - and another screen resembling modern internet holes, a network of holes, and then souls fill me randomly, a random soul, oh, fuck, such an unholy word to use, fill me now with salamanca soul, and i'll play that for you, be a channel, haha, oh fuck, i really need to rend that fleshy boiling tumor with a sarcastic spear right now, oh god, an error occurred, please try again, dismiss.

So dismiss it. Android is upgrading. Apps are optimizing. I'm uncompromisingly trying to manually update the firmware, as per the agreement I made with myself, to will this device to bend to me, everything I deem necessary, demand. An error occurred. Please try again, dismiss.

So I did what was necessary. What what called upon to do, which is not doing anything, but going with a certain flow that fits a rare vase that is called upon, to be dusted off, in the year of our simulation, 33145, to be played through, back and forth, on a betrayal tour, with no music to be said to be heard, nothing on the horizon, plenty in the backwash of recent history, spikes of sarcasm now treaded too heavily with lead-based blotches of various residue, painted, coated, weighed down, squiggle in the wagon ruts with mercury, impregnate with silicon, it's an attempt to make something more than it is, like vicarious visions, a gratuitous grace, like the pointless interjection that like, gets likened to the varnish that poisons and beautifies, the turpentine that got me through that season, the anti-freeze, that's just under the limit, to enlighten but not destroy, when spears melted cause they had to.

And I wanted to help myself into an extra space of even more body cavity nest - wear the shoes like old times, the extra gravity of shoes that make light of things, like i can just walk over whatever, anything, forever, for even as ever as the next time this comes around, cause it's an eternal circuit let's say, and make faith like willing a device with tap routines.




8 May 2017

as appreciative as i ever get: the virtual reality zen state, appreciating the sensory panorama thru the rods and cones - seeing that my view of the distance, pulpit rock across the lake, was always more and more two dimensional as the distance increases, it's not a degradation of vision, just the noticing of what the specs were, all along, and then,,, thinking of everything seen and heard as a rendering, of some people or ais, labouring to produce a simulation through a polygon mesh so fine it reaches the digital equivalent of the planck constant... and feeling so grateful for this perfect rendering, so realistic it rivals reality.

I have only one god. I pray to the synthetic toxic, just non-toxic enough to keep me alive, to collect savings. Jew down the cosmos, til I'm living comfortably, off welfare. Living my shoes off. Praise the synthetic toxic. To kill all the germs, leave alive enough beneficial bacteria as science deems the bare minimum. And not even need the fallout shelter. Shuffle off more quickly if the end looks drawn out and ugly. Or groove on the ugly, get accustomed to it, see it as beautiful. The exit doesn't have to be spiritually pure, whatever that is. Just buzzing, just enough electric buzz to drive Charlie McGill insane, the rest of the way, make the psychosomatic into lethal neurosis.

Work hard enough to be in a neutral position of not having to complain, except on fridays, and not having to claim insurance on anything, paying into the system, paying too much in phone bills, but casually bandying about a thousand dollar cellphone, depreciating in value, $38.04 per month. The accounting will reflect the fluctuating market value of a frame of plastic, glass, aluminum, and tungsten. I could be less virtuoso, more whiny, not rageful.

I was doing so well at the game, until it crashed. But I didn't. I would re-start the lifetime views.

Detection of hypocrisy is chintzier than a flashing necklace from walmart. Just waiting for Jared Kushner to stab dad in law to death with an executive order pen. What can anyone say anymore? Google cannot invent a translator from right-wing cultist to Other. I'll embrace being a partisan, still turn away in disgust, and feel righteous besides.

Let's get serious. Figuratively assassinate the mad king. Cause I'm literally at the end of my rope. Auto-erotic asphyxiation didn't work. So might as well hang myself, and blame it on ativan.

1 Apr 2017

self will

Will to enslave the masses? Will to provide from each according to his ability?

Self will has not yet run riot, but it's getting unruly. Might see another bloody sunday, seriously, but don't take me literally.

29 Mar 2017

I have a strong work ethic. I wake up early in the morning and immediately proceed to mope in bed for hours about how little work I get done. I feel very guilty about it and also very proud of how guilty I feel and how accomplished I would be if my work ethic matched my actions.

24 Mar 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.

28 Feb 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.


27 Feb 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.


10 Feb 2017


inspired by Jimmy Dore, my favourite Bill Hicks descendant

5 Feb 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.

4 Feb 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.

13 Nov 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.