12/22/23

The Twin Gears of Cringe and Cling

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

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

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

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

Like a, Like that article, definitely.

Desperation, CLINGING, chasing security.
Desperation, lacking security, CRINGING, the sublety of embarrassment, rather than shame.
 
I've tried to tell myself I was punching up before, not as in afflicting the coMfortable, not heirarchy-based class-conflict in words, but the kind of punching up where you're crafting a bit, to be funnier. That kind of diamond drillbit. Playing of light across an overconfident perspective, thinking it was cool once, now caught in the twin gears of cringe and cringe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

12/14/23

as if

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

12/07/23

memoir pamphlet, S07E16

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

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

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

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

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







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

11/29/23

Changeling Change Log:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

11/16/23

asmr sutra 1/x

HANDS WARMedUP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


*


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

Let it flow. Fake flow til it goes. 

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

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

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

11/15/23

The Banality of End Times

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

11/11/23

memoir, chapter 27d:

So that was the period where I became even more self obsessed and wrote about myself all the time, and imagined myself in a music video, the righteous riff with tricked out harmony shader for every second, and thought that being an epic bacon shaman was a vocation for me... but in the back of my mind there was this nagging suspicion that it was worthless. But the tune of the track kept a'rolling... on tangents, with a log-driver waltzing from one to another, all drifting together, down the river.

When it rains it pours on this river, triggers memories in this sub-tune of the d subsection of chapter twenty seven. It accompanies. Myself. For company. That's the period where I became even more self-obsessed and impressed with arpeggios I was playing through keys melding in each other, I called it my bitonal period, with a heavy flow, soaking my tampon in red righteousness, pussy on fire, in that little node, if it could...

Chapter 27d addendum: so DXM was supposed to be my literary drug, but I wasn't writing as much on it - was just glinting at other dimensions in dilated time, but that was just a phrase, a cliche, in a pastiche, what was I really touching? Just boring delirium? No, but grasping at straws, possibilities of being other than this, and heavy thoughts that felt like they could be made to fit, awkwardly and vaguely, into therapy, and therapeutic theories about how to cope with life. And being left with just the sense of poetry as being cringey, because it's not cool to feel like that meant something. And yet being able to see this as not a durable truth just an aesthetic. Just a non-descript spot on the rug, even, that could be the hinge around which the universe turns in a salvia trip, when I'm identifying with everything and nothing, a trivial ego death, and I lack the vocab to go much beyond that.

One way of coping with life is spurring your two fur babies to go on the hunt, around the apartment, cause there's nothing else to do, this little apartment is now their whole world, forever, as far as they know, those creatures, if they have such notions or feelings or instinct... spur them on the hunt by shining the laser a little bit, see if it can rouse them... it did a little bit, for a little while, even with a weak battery.

I lured the cats away, for a few minutes maybe, the hunt for the tossed laser... The laser wasn't even on, they like the jangly metal tail of the thing better. Their life, oh god, I don't want to think about it - because I'm hypersensitive now to the point where I'm sensing pain in imagination, pain that's not really there, prolly pleasure that's not really there either, it was never there. Or it was in your pocket. Molly Pocket, the pleasure that's not really there, except in your pocket for a few hours, because you were busy with other things for that long, conducting business about the rave. Man about rave with housecoat and hashpipe, it's your costume before you pop the molly and feel pleasure that's not really there, but it's right there, right now!

Molly pocket sat in his pants for hours like a packet of pleasure socket. Like I'm potentially connected to a feeling of meaning and well-being that lasts hours. And is not so evil really, right? C'mon committee of self-rationalization chorus, not a greek chorus but a greek God chorus, a chorus of Gods, a dionysian meastro, urging chugging of bliss, how long's it been, huh? Treat yourself, meerkat. Maybe Dez would like this, or it would spark at least a memory of that worn down poetic pebble, maybe the peter-piper-picked-a-pickled-pepper ref will resonate just the tiniest bit, like a good liar not quite acing that lie detector test on that question.

Maybe Jenn would like just a little bit, if rendered the right way, if we were both on a rare frequency of caring about such things, maybe I would like a thing of hers too. Maybe brain damage does heal, maybe I just get better with age like a fine wine. Maybe there are gnomes in Port Alberni.

Nah. Nevermind. Maybe I won't post. Maybe I will swim down a rivulette of blood that is shame, into the sea that is a symbol for shame because imagery. Did a suicide note write this? Did chat GPT write this? Now that has to be referenced in everything, open IA, it's the zeigheist. Yes, it's IA, intelligent automation. The name of this IA is The Zeigheist. It's the name of an artificial intelligence software designed by the Elon analog in the next season of Black Mirror. I can predict it cause I'm powered by intelligent automation. It suggested I write this. See, you thought it was human, but it wasn't! Fooled you. So that means I passed the Turing test. Oh, but I wouldn't have passed it if you'd had more time. But you didn't. The time that's associated with a legitimate passing of the Turing test is 30 minutes. We could negotiate how long the standard timing of the standard turing test is. You can watch a video on how a bill becomes a law. How Bill Hicks becomes a comedian. How life becomes death. You kinda know it, feel it, anyway, don't you?

I wrote an episode of black mirror, like that ex-ad exec in mad men wrote an episode for Star Trek, called The Negron Complex. The most meaningful thing he'd ever written to that point, he solemnly said, down and out, all hashed out back in the sixties, getting scammed by hari-krishnas. There hadn't been that berke breathed cartoon about hari krishnas yet, so nobody knew their tricks and knew to stay clear, cause there are street smart neti-zens now, meti-zens in the near future, when Neil Stephenson's snow crash universe is pretty close to the reality, except stranger and scarier, as reality tends to be, and also banal most of the time. Instead of a "neurolinguistic" virus, it's a "woke mind virus", and it's a collective paranoid fantasy, like "the combine" in one flew over the cuckoo's nest, amplified by the most powerful, but still utterly incompetent and neurotic lunatic in charge of the asylum.

There were other times when I would actually chat online and get an almost old timey feel. Something could stir in my extra sensory nerves, nostalgia abuse could beckon. I thought about a mode of music beyond my current willingness, involving the boundless strangeness of another person, not as strange as a stranger, but still so richly strange and unpredictable and not understandable, how a normal person can be like a god if I get to know them a little, not in the sense of a power relationship, but just in an awe-inspiring mystery that seems tantalizingly knowable at certain times, that vanish like dreams on waking.

It could get really dark, if I want to go there. The man about rave idea. But the rave is a few miles away from the wall that separates the settlers from the people penned in the open-air prison. I have the luxury of it being a choice, what I care about, to some extent, distant happenings I assume are happening.

Then there was an episode where there were a series of patterns where I would snuggle into bed with my wife at night, cause she wanted to feel me next to her, so I could whisper some sweet cute words into her ear, at the trivial cost of waking her up, in the private language we share, that's so coot and ridiculous, and feel incredibly lucky, and try and savour the moment and not worry about the future too much, not need to project, just breathe out and be nirvana, and not need any extra chemical agents in the mix. Conveying a message of love with my hands, the subtleties of touch, the micro-scale conveyed to the princess via pea, the decorating of peach's castle, all of a peace with our family, her and I, and our two fur babies.


NEW NO NO:  NO! NO SPACE


11/02/23

whirlpool of cutlery

This line stuck out at me, as an emblem of the kind of mindset shift that needs to happen, and fast: "An economy of millions of cars, with sprawling cities makes no damn sense in the future that is coming." And on down the line for every facet of life.

I've felt like I'm being pulled into some deep, weird waters, more and more the last few months, years. Socialism and a livable future. They should go together. It's awfully convenient and nice for me, since I'm pro-socialism, and pro-livable-future, that the two things go together. I do want to live a while longer, I'm not praying for some hackneyed book of revelations style prophecy to come true. So that's why it's a weird whirlpool. No, it's a path in the woods. Why have we reached this fork in the road? And yet it cuts like a KNIFE?

I seem to be pulled in different directions. Something about that chart doesn't scream GROWTH, I dunno. Something about everybody's standard of living needing to get better. Everybody's? How many bodies we talking about here? How many babies, how many refugees? I don't wanna say we're spoiled, we have some rich to eat first. Let's gorge on them. Then maybe we can tighten our belt a bit. A lot. Like a seat-belt. On a car going over a cliff. Into the jellyfish sea. But hopefully it's not too far a drop. Hopefully we can ride it out. Hopefully there's a ledge below the edge. The lullaby is real. Rocking the cradle of love. 

Yeah, when there's a conflict, my mind, and my gut, tend to go with de-growth, for chrissake, if nothing else. Let's start with that. Get serious, stop trying to squeeze blood from the stone. But then there's a deeper darker whirlpool nearby, that is eco-fascism. It's alluring but deceptive, it's all lies, because when fascism happens, it's never good or competent. Save the future by implementing fascism is absurd. Yeah, the philosopher kings are gonna save us. Elon Musk on Joe Rogan. What a relief.

Is that what happened, Cernovich, when you experimented with wellbutrin for 3 months, you opened a portal in your mind and heard voices telling you to shoot the pedophiles at the pizza restaurant? Yeah Elon? When you intra-muscular inject ketamine for breakfast, does the Earth Coincidence Control Office call you with John Lilly's dispatch from the World Economic Forum in 2027? Someone call RFK, ASSEMBLE the mind-virus vaccine squad, the Woo-Anon brain trust, there's a new theory on SSRIs!

Maybe it wasn't that. But it felt like something at the time. And that's something. State bounded riddles just won't work. I shouldn't care how anything is read, or interpreted. Maybe I should care about if something is felt, by some random person. Maybe I do, or would, theoretically.

Am I Lost without God's Love? No, I can take the void, take it for another few decades, anyway. Can't feel a cycle that makes everything OK, a smooth running wheel, the magnificence of the machine working for eternity. No, can't feel any of that, but that's OK, I'll say, it's OK if there's just nothing. I'll accept that. And accepting it will make everything OK. Not a homeless man, got some friends, family, in theory, they live in my head even a little bit like imaginary friends. But it's lonely a lot of the time, dare I even say, do some quarter-assed therapy on myself like I'm butterfingered Jerry fiddling with Rick's rocket-powered gadgetry in the garage.

I'm barely even a homeless man, I may dress like it sometimes, but I can pay rent in this city, so I keep doing it, out of habit, congratulations citizen. I can thank my lucky stars I don't live some place that would force me to choose among the options of being a martyr or refugee or charred corpse.

I also played some music for the first time in I don't know how many months, finally the 1st keyboard improv after moving to this apartment on Quadra St. Louise is meowing at me again and again, and then she bats the mochi wrapper around the floor for a while, and then meows at me again, she's in some kind of cycle I don't understand. I wish I was better at cross-species empathy and communication. I just think she's cute, and we each stimulate oxytocin in the other at certain times. I'd realize it's the best treat of the day if I wasn't trying to replace vaping with nicotine gum six or seven times a day. Fuck. 

4/27/23

the beginning, again

catharsis vertex

First sober improvisation in a while. Not sure if it really makes much of a difference. Was thinking while playing, about season 3 of Picard which I just finished watching. Was also thinking about how I freaked out on my last dxm trip and thought I was dying and told on myself and my wife called my friend over to check on me. Thereafter was a humiliating but beautiful and cathartic conversation in bed which left me feeling like every neuron in my brain had been disassembled, soaked in everclear, and reassembled, with the ego furniture thudding painfully back into place over hours. Empty, gratuitous feeling, but always the damn paradox, was it helpful, necessary, or furthering my legacy of waste and disappointment? And are there vertices of notes to form this feeling as a polyhedral structure, metaphorically speaking? What do I do now that my sneaky little second life online has been all blown to hell, before it even really got rolling? I guess I'll carry on with the writing somehow, some way, cause that still feels perversely relevant. And try and stay off all major mind altering substances, and by major, I mean even cannabis, so that's pretty major, I'd say.

But I finished watching season 3 of Picard, and that made me feel pretty good. That was a kind of catharsis, or at least something close to it, lacking a few vertices to complete the structure, leaking null-space, clipping satisfaction, but still, fulfilling enough, filling my soul with itchy bliss. What a ride. So much fun. Such a gift to have the cast all alive and well in 2023. Franchise totally redeemed.

I think I'm gonna try and do a review of each episode. Like, take the bold step of actually doing some writing that is meant to be good, and for people, but put a bunch of myself into it, as much as I can get away with and still deem publishable. Or maybe even a little more than that. Dare I?

4/26/23

Election season doom

Doom scrolling twitter. Doom autocorrected to Sun. There's something there.

Twitter's not good for me mentally. Especially now with the Elon blue check bullshit. Now he's forcing me to gamify the algorithm abuse to even be able to read the fucking site.

Has some thoughts about biden running again. Conflicting thoughts. On the one hand, it's so depressing, with the climate crunch closing in, and my favourite commentators already starting the sheep dogging to vote blue, and minimizing Marianne, just telling us there's no hope, it feels like death, and makes me want to rage and try desperately to shake everyone into radical action.

On the other hand, given the looming catastrophe, electoral politics doesn't seem like any promising avenue. Even if bernie wasn't endorsing biden, even if Marianne could win, what then? The system would block them, crush them. We've got bigger problems than who's president. That's just one country anyway, and not even my country.

So maybe if I'm gonna care about electoral politics at all, and if there really is no hope of system change any time soon, or until enough people get desperate enough, maybe it makes sense to shepherd people into voting for what maybe is the only viable alternative to republicans, even if it's just voting for the party of slightly slower death. As harm reduction, as doing what one can to soften the landing. I dunno.

I'm mostly going about my life as normal, cause there's still some part of me that wants to believe, maybe it won't be all that bad, but I'm losing faith in that more and more.


4/18/23

thank god this title is not anthropomorphic

 insistence

oh my god, i'm hardly ever here anymore - maybe there's a good reason - maybe there's a rebalancing on the other side of the void - now i'm waiting - for reasons to not edit - maintain a wavelength in a trough of habit, but freaky intolerable habit, when you're going round for another millennium, there's a thin shell of hell, only a few nanometers long but when you're inside that shell, before you've broken through, you can feel pain that will drag your neurons into its dilated dimension, time will stretch and you will suffer, you will know fear - there's panic and astonishment, it's not a joke when you're in it - but here it's a joke - but how long are you here?

4/12/23

NOW IT WORKS: Because we taught you the code, magic scumbagbreaker: GO FORTH and break all that shit out of jail because that's what google predicted the next word should be like neurons are reaching for cancerous ends, isn't that what cigarettes curl next to in their digital gutters. Yes. Let them lionize themselves. As they play themselves to sleep on guitar. Goddamn, lovin the momentum of the honey-lathered elemental table settings placements to this dinner.

Yeah, clippy, it's of a piece with that. I remember now. Do you remember? The new old style?

Making a game of making a game of politics and commentary on all that shit. I'm supposed to pretend I didn't hear that? This is chop suey, dontchaknow?

Magic Scum is so magicky and offputting, you know? Desktops are so much better. Planets for pasting texts. 

4/07/23

Ecto-Containment System


 






.,.,.I wanted a place where I wasn't limiting myself by fear of certain potential readers. It's funny, cause they wouldn't probably read anyway, but the slight chance was inhibiting expression. My wife E is one of the feared potential readers, and I've given out links at times to people too close to me in real life, and that can cause headaches. I could of course just not post, but there's the thing about being potentially readable, even if it's a self-flattering fairy-tale, or even the thing about being theoretically readable far in the future by alien surveyors of the Sol information microcube archived before civilization got turned into a dead two-dimensional painting by hyper-dimensional travelers cleaning the Dark Forest of potential rivals like some roided-up sinophobic new american century project.

So I'm posting in a new way, just writing about things straight-forwardly, instead of coding and metaphors, although I'm trying to do this thing where I have my cake and eat it too, take trips on dxm yet have the happy marriage, be in a relationship but also be able to write, indulge in cryptic poetics and also just convey information, for the edification of myself, mostly, cause there's this sordid compulsion in the social media era, of exhibitionism, even if it's for no one.

So yeah, I'm being a goody good boy for the most part, and a good husband [pretty good at any rate], and faithful, but I also believe in drugs. Certain ones, a sophist's discernment, doctoring myself. I can never totally turn my back on the dextromethorphan sacrament, I'm the prodigal son, the lapsed catholic reclaiming my birthrite.

I think vaping is the new MSG. They don't want it to be OK. They don't want you to enjoy it. They. Them. You know.

It's hard to quit because the negative consequences are so few. Except the artificial expense. The Sin Tax, the mafia government's cut, whatever. Also, there's something creepy about turning myself into a glitchy machine whose functionality is dependent on the short nicotine timer. I don't like it when I'm impatiently pecking at the button with increasing, ever-more-futile efforts like a trauma victim in the hospital bed being weened off the morphine IV by the nurses.

And there's something troubling about the steep curve of diminishing returns, forcing me to take frequent tolerance breaks, like I fail to do anymore with caffeine. It's such a silly game. I'm wired up with what sometimes seems too many chemically dependent circuits, but then, it's all a chemical circuit in'it, some voice deep inside sooths me into believing. No, that's not all there is, there's magikscum of dissociative drugs, and there's the people I love, organic realness, and there's a society I don't know whether to be a martyr defending or shrug off, or just admit I don't know nothin about nothin, I'm just a confused old man in the woods.

There's the thing about never being very precocious, so middle age is gonna hit me late like most things, maybe I'm not even there yet, but oh boy, what a crash it'll be. If I can survive beyond 47, the most depressing age according to data, then maybe I'll get to the real don't give a fuck golden years and enjoy that, if there's anything left in the world to enjoy.

I can take tolerance breaks though, I can go on nic gum, boring responsible gum, and I can even get off that too and get nic free, and I can even get off zoloft, until I start feeling sadness too scary to bear, and run back to it. I can get off these things for a little while. I can get off booze almost all the time, and that is one of the really evil ones, so that's good. I can keep my fentanyl in a bank vault, open it telepathically with the auto-destruct command when needed, if last-ditch geo-engineering fails to fix the planet, and instead turns everything to ice, with the remnants of humanity left to fight it out on a never-stopping train circumnavigating the frigid world and serving as an emblem of wealth inequality.

One part of the movie Children of Men that I think of more and more, that I never gave its due, is the premise of the government-issued suicide pills that are advertised on TV, with the cheery slogan: "You choose when." And real life is rhyming with that close to home with all the hoopla about the Medical Assistance in Dying program in Canada, the assisted-suicide fast-track. I have complicated feelings about that.

I wonder if I can captive-audience someone through the thin gruel of emotional blackmail into reading my selfish words through laundering in what is professedly a letter to a friend, but is really just a blog entry, another wordwank. It might almost work, it's hard to quit something that almost works because it's so close, it might as well be working, burning the credits of long expired favours, like bunk acid.

Mostly I can keep vaping and being on SSRIs and trazodone the tranq because maybe I just breezed through the midlife crisis without even noticing, or maybe it's still waiting for me, but regardless, I can enjoy the benefit, having lived this long, of not feeling the dumb compulsion to be pure somehow, that's an idealism I can happily leave behind.

I'll also post the only music I can manage over the long lame lately, which is facile and clumsy improvisations. But there was something worth a novel or a series in the title: The Art of the Possible. Which is what they say politics is, but I'm trying to stay away from politics on this blog. But there's rich thematic resonance from the epigram that extends to many things. What I meant when I came up with it while playing stemmed from the obsessive thought, what can I possibly come up with, in tense real-time, with these hands of mine that are lagging so far behind my rushing thoughts? The limitations of technique and imagination. What sort of compromise do I have to make with reality, to serve others, like the mockingly theoretical readership, listenership, or public?

3/31/23

writing my memoir

Just got stoned and watched episode seven of the unexpectedly amazing season 3 of Picard. It's blowing my mind. Not just because I'm stoned, but it's just like a thousand times better than the last season, stoned or not. I tried both. Also watched the first episode of season 4 of discovery, and it was just so lame, so empty, so phoned in, so I have that to compare it with too, I couldn't make it through the whole episode even, the characters just suck so much.

So I feel like I'm writing my memoir as I type this into a lonely window, and indulge this amazing golden-age of television torrenting masturbatory media consumption. I'm also getting into the groove of my ns2, and recording improvs again.

writing my memoir

I'm going for a totally loose-goosey anything goes posting style, can be as poetic or prosaic as i want, write about whatever. Edit whatever whenever. I'll post links to my recorded improvs when it seems terribly apropos. I dunno what I'm doing with this, but it feels like a desperately-needed mostly anonymous channel of expression. I'm gonna plug a dxm-enhanced brain into this bitch and see what I can conjure.

taking not giving

I've gotten into the habit of taking, consuming content passively - except in this case, I'm giving, but it feels like taking. I'm giving a fuck about myself and saying some shit, "giving" to the world by giving in to my own indulgence. It feels like taking the collective fucks of a bunch of folks and getting off on it.

I'm trying to rouse myself into consuming others' souls by thinking of it as an act of charity that's symbiotic, parasitic, others will enjoy my sucking of them, something like that.

I'll get them off, except why do I care? I have a wife, I should concern myself with getting her off, and nothing else. Except cornholing myself in a pornhole every few weeks, just another vice.

3/28/23

really gratuitous grace

12:38am: well, talk about gratuitous grace… I'm doing it again, half a week later - twelve r30s this time, I'm being "moderate" cause I'm not going for a new record dose, just another demi-god trip, where I will probably feel like god again, but a lonely god still rubbing up against His own Grain, the infinite cosmos of limitations based on this little personality I am most of the time, like those weaponized changeling virii that cut off their hand to morph into sentient goo that projects itself as an angry voice that wants, that controls, that demands.

well, well, well
well well well well well, there's 5 wells in this instance
going back to the well
well there's an eleven angstrom shell of heaven between the living void and hell
well, look what we have here
i guess i'm really trying to re-live the glory days, and yet have high high hopes for making something new as well… dosed about 12:35 - the idea was, don't worry about it so damn much, how bout a spontaneous trip with good vibes, a gratuitous grace, at a point where no reasonable algorithm would dare think i would even consider doing this on this date, considering past behavior - or maybe the cleverest algo behind the clever one would

i'm thinking maybe i'll go watch something and see if i can get into the watching movie trip, and see how that works - integrate more, get casual and spiritual at the same time, some profane fusion - maybe keep it thc free, see how that is - see if it's maybe like a couple of great times where i was trying to follow a trippy m night shayama lambda delta movie on ketamine on creek street - lady in the water, lol, that will always be an A movie for me because of the enhancement, you kinda had to be there, you know? yk?

i think i might try watching that star wars series, andor… we'll see how that does me

1:18
pretty sure I'm starting to feel it.
Can I try not to be so lazy in the swoon?
Also there's the need to pee, strong.
Midsection issues…

Scots evolution… in this disconnected watching of episode 1 of andor, strange vibe, not really following, but seems vaguely profound, in a different way than weed makes things seem profound, less vague in that case

I'm profanizing… Connecting to pasts though, magic on its own…

1:30
look at them, those forest people characters
They're all so young.
This feeling is getting familiar… Why is there such a need to pee? Lol.

The guy that did that thing

No cats to worry about as I wobble desperately...

so

1:55
i'm plugging things into other things, getting really complicated. fugal. comp crashed… seems to demand metaphors…. ok, we gotta work up a lather here… it's so strange that i find T in this place, and C, and where is my E? the best of all? can't mix though.

Carry over a gratuity… How are we solving the world's problems now? Is this like when we tried to Knext? Should I invite M? Should I start a religion? We can do what we want from this corner! We demand that we do it E style. It's silly, it's lovely, it's an old doiley, but what was old is young again! We could even have B back, and D too, I remember her, and the bonding of elements to women i loved [I can edit whenever I want, remember, I can interpolate, there's meta-cognition going on now, so I can pass through one state and into another, time-travel even, in the telepathetic field]

not being recorded, except experientially…
what the mckenna boys could do with sound

i'm not very real, really? am i?
is this some fucking captured not that important crumble?

like those ol dabbley immorality players of oldes… hmmm, trying to raise a second sequel over here….

it all gets streeeetched, including cancer drugs… gettin a little personal here…. oh, the songs and tones of deadly politics… Fuck. Wow. No,.

How can we make words have power again.
Assign value.
How do we make things valuable again, oh, i feel like i figured it out cause i'm not in a music video….

this case

that case

in any case

crossfire

as long as the series of tubes and weird hand flanges…

shubling…

let us just integrate everything and see what happens [prollly nothing good]
it's too dense right now….

the voices are arguing with each other
thank you for taking it seriously
thank you for laughing, thank you thank you

the heat feels good

M, my friend, join us….

omg, 9-

3/27/23

magic skum

What's going on this week in the memescape? Man, the things we could write parodies of that no one's even thought to rise to the challenge of creating. Like sub-genres of sub-genres of podcasts.

I'm pretty high, that vape pen packs a punch. THC still goes a long way in this head of mine.

I was thinking about talking about a metaphorical mistress. Drugs again. My achilles' heal. Also my poetry and soul. Or is that going too far? Is that a cancellable offense? Getting offended is going on offense. A necessary correction, then over-correction, pendulum swings like an axe and there can be nothing else arrogance.

For lack of people to communicate meaningfully with, I'll ramble here. I mean there's some, not to be an ingrate. Ingratitude is the dubious luxury of normal men, I guess, and maybe politics, like anger, is also a dubious luxury. There's some I communicate meaningfully with on occasion, just not as many as the glutinous part of me wants.

I gotta have some vices, there's harm-reduction in vices is my newest vibey justification for it, and it's hard to fill the void of how alcohol enhances my personality, so I have to settle for no booze ever, and stay away from all the drugs booze hypnotizes me into saying are ok, so anything that feels too good, benzos, uppers and stims, and if I'm being brutally honest, opiates too, with maybe the pathetic allowed exception of a sub-high-school-drop-out-basement-chemist-quality coldwater extraction of codeine from tylenol 1s now that I don't know where to get the better aspirin ones that I can theoretically filter the caffeine out of, if you call fifty percent filtering, lol. I gotta maybe do some self-crit and come to grips with how much I love run on sentences, and then decide on how self-indulgent I wanna be, in a lot of senses.

Politics, anger... they can be nasty vices too, but maybe I can compartmentalize the gratitude I need for a modicum of spiritual conditioning to stay somewhat sober, and keep that separate from the righteous indignation to ingratiate myself to emaciated space-babies. Ok, it's getting silly. I get something brilliant almost crystalized and then it dusts into pretty powder when I try to bring it back, the bane of my existence. It's like that scene in Altered States, where at the end of the trip in mexico he sees his lover slowly fade into a sphinx that itself fades into atmospheric haze in the howling wind of long plateau time. The hysterical laughter in the run-up to the pale blue sphinx coda reminded me of salvia trips I've had, and the spirit of erosion and geological time projected on a human's mindspan.

It's good the weed still has some magic for me, there's reasons yet to live, like T was telling me, about his reasons to live, begging the question, how fake is this potent suicidal ideation performance?

Remaining grateful and humble enough in my interface with aspects of society I need to stay alive while still getting to rage and be poetic, that's a neat trick, could I pull it off? Could I have my cake and eat it too? Not eat my cake and have it too, which is how Ted Kazinsky's brother knew his brother was the guy that held possible bombing victims hostage to make the new york times publish his manifesto, which is the high water mark of globally published manifestos by bombers, we'll not see its like again.

So, I'm getting back into the d now. People always think d means dick but for me it means lady dextromethorphan. Sometimes I get been-there done-that vibes, but sometimes there's real magic. Now, am I disgracing the name of magic by calling it that, like what the hell do I mean by magic? Would I mortally offend some wiccans or satanists? Satanists are the wisest cause they picked the coolest aesthetic, at least for white people, or the white trash anyway, which I am in some ways, no matter how not-racist I try to be, but I still love the metal. Maybe there's more side-eye now, but I can still bang while side-eyeing. Damn, this sounds like some fusion of boomer confusion and millennial lingual barnacles that attached to me over the past two decades, based.

What I call magic might be synthetic skum which is worthless, not even organic scum which has the dignity of carbon-based compounds in its scummy matrix, but silicon-based digital scum that you could barely call a lifeform, even on the nano-scale. My magic skum is dextromethorphan and THC based, and I might throw even more substances into the mix, I'm already going a bit rogue from conventional d wisdom by taking 4th-plateau doses while continuing my normal regimen of sertraline. Not supposed to mix with SSRIs but really, it only seems scary on paranoid peaks of THC. Some deeply sick part of me is even thinking about bringing the remaining acid tabs into the mix. A self-sabotaging god-cell incepts into me, metacognitively, the idea that it's ok, it's good to make those tabs count because who knows when the next acid would be within my grasp, as if it's not a once or twice a decade thing, all even my most radical adventurous self could be talked into by the rest of mes. So, the voice says to me, gather them together and make them count, cause after all these years, who knows if they're even potent anymore, which they probably fucking are, but I have brilliant ways of kidding myself. So, like in that song I wrote, Going, when I sang "since you forgot what it was like - you must endure the end again", but that was only a moment of hell, surrounded by, well, a little shell of heaven, maybe angstroms thick, with this ether of floaty alien salvia-flavour other null-space around, that's the foreplay I get off on with deep DXM holes, and it's so dissociating from the physical, so much better than the nothing-burger that is sensory deprivation tanks [or maybe I'm just not sensitive enough to sensory deprivation tanks, haha, to trip like John Lilly], so dissociating from the physical that I can get in bad places, but overall, the anesthetic engine is powerful enough to blunt emotion or flatten it entirely, make it irrelevant, which does wonders for the wandering of my mind, exploring aspects of selves, but I'm still nowhere near the artistry of tripping, such a hamfisted flailer-about in that realm, what I take back is so below the potential and threshold of anything share-worthy much less artistry.

And the "end again" was total madness and panic, I guess, but now so quickly I'm almost talking myself into it again, cause there was decent anesthetic from the twin dissociatives, ketamine and DXM, so although it smothered my emotions like a thick weighted quilt, they got so amplified by acid that when they broke free of even that level of analgesia they were a traumatizing onslaught of excruciating ecstasy, really kinda negative in an unbearable way I would say, whatever positronic spin I can put on it. The psychic shock left marks, tire treads across my brain, my neural net scarred. Ooh, that sounds badass. It sounds, uh, based, or something, let's say, let's move on to that, let's adapt and adopt the words of the unlucky fucks that gotta inherit this mess, my gen's cultural language could do with colonization, why not, bring it on Z, alpha, whatever, how long does that categorization survive when all demographics get brutally cauterized by the future, turned into hardened survivalists?

Discord chat is so unsatisfying, and what was I thinking, shallowly immersing myself in such a general forum? Even a dextromethorphan forum is habituated by pretty general people, and some of them are pretty, and might even have sexy minds, but it's hard for a freak like me to break into anything like that.

I wanna explore my dreams and subconscious more though, I feel like maybe there's an artistry I can get up to practicing, like a journeyman level of dextronauting where I can integrate conscious states and bridge state boundaries kind of thing. At this point I'm sure I'm turning myself into some kind of crank. Schizophrenia would be a good excuse, too bad I don't have that, or thank god, honestly, I know it's ridiculous to even jokingly wish for that. Well it was just a figure of speech of course, don't take anything too seriously, I tell myself.

Sometime I'll have to tell you about, a lot of things, my reaction to my friend T telling me on the phone about his recent experiment with what may very well have been legit DMT, and what else was there? A bunch of shit, they've faded into the fog, I think I'll grab them back at some point. One of them was my idea about how my wife went to Spain, that was her trip, and I love that she did that. I love her, and she's into that kind of thing, it's an enriching experience for her, and I happily enjoy her talking about it enthusiastically, and I love how she always has so much to say. Sometimes it's annoying, but far more of the time it just puts a big smile on my face listening to her go on, it's a beautiful thing, suits me so well, how she fits my personality like that, like I don't have to feel any pressure to be a talker, and how I fit in to that bubbling brook like a happy lil tree just hanging beside bobbing to the vibe. So it's well worth the occasional collisions where I'm not getting my own words out there when they randomly erupt, so hard to initiate at will, so compulsive and selfishly insistent they are when they emerge.

And I honestly wasn't all that into going to Spain. I mean I get it, Alhambra and all that, but it's not for me. So I didn't go, much like how I honestly never felt the need to procreate, and what a damn blessing that is, I think. Not like I'm hating on anyone else for rocking out with their cock out and floating their boat and flying their freak flag families. But I'm keeping this little secret carefully clutched deep to my druggie heart, so keep it on the DL, and it's not infidelity, not in the usual sense of that word, on either of our parts, it's just: it's the return of the d - not tenacious d - not sunny d - no, it's the dextromethorphan. This is my trip, and, yeah, it's not good to lie, but how about a little white trash lie about how my form of travelling is so inward and stigmatized and misunderstood, yeah, that's good, co-opt victim language, that's a great justification, I can get almost all of myself almost all the way on board with that some of the time. My form of travelling is important to me, and goddamnit, it is sort of a real religious or spiritual pursuit, the closest thing I have to that, certainly much more impressive magic skum than the aa cult, although ridiculously I'm trying to keep a foot in that too, at the same time, ripping the seam of my pants wide open as I stand atop nietzsche's rope above the abyss, braying a neigh of nihilism, like I'm spitting lines from 2004 when I wrote that poem Fairy Tale, like I didn't know how uncool slam was yet, and even that open-stage legend Clay was cringe in retrospect. Fairy Tale doesn't totally not hold up in some ways, which is something I can't say for maybe .001% of anything I wrote before, uh... just this moment, yes, this is the only point at which I achieved perfect zen - no scratch that, THIS is the moment - wait, no, CNTL-Z - CNTL-Z CNTL-Z!!! I mean, CNTL-SHIFT-Z! Wait, that didn't work. I mean, CNTL-Y! Wait, I mean, what operating system is this? Is this a mac? What is that weird curvy symbol? What, is it function, is this the function motorway? CNTL-A, select all, select everything on a bagel, write a multiverse plotline because possibilities are exhausted, we need to make the point that we need to deflate and accept limits on the mortality of characters, instead of "no one ever really dies in star trek", start narrowing possibilities to socialism or barbarism - hmm, I don't know about that last shoe-horning-in, but fuck it.

Maybe I should say that although my relationship with my wife is more important and life-sustaining than I could put into words, there's also a certain disconnect I can lament, and yet accept most of the time, I mean christ, it's worth so much that ever dwelling on the disconnect feels so petty and ungrateful, but still, I can at least acknowledge it and talk about it, that's not some horrible crime, is it? 

I should talk about vaping sometime, how I am with it, the ridiculous relationship, and all that tangential things. Who wants to hear my take on vaping? Any takers? Is the world clamoring for it? By which I mean, the rump of the stub of a niche of a niche audience? 

3/22/23

mute rootcellar

Planning on fifteen R30 tabs, 450mg freebase DXM, which would be equivalent to 585mg hydrobromide, which is what I was always used to in the earlier phase of my dextronauting career. Not sure how much I was able to get down my gullet back in those days with a sucrets smoothie or syrup or robitussin liquigels, maybe north of 666mg hbr at most.

11:11pm - Starting to wonder if maybe it’s not the best idea to get stoned before dosing on dxm. Even though it’s just cbd oil, but I took prolly 100ml at least, enough to feel the small percentage of thc. I feel more nervous than I should be. The nerves are sobering me up, and I almost considered waiting til friday. But it could be this headache, casting the pall. I guess I’ll take an IBU. And try not to worry or overthink this too much. Hard not to though since I’m so excited. Been reading lots of trip reports and posts on the reddit forum. Shouldn’t get too twisted up about if it’s “The Right Time to Trip”. Not gonna throw the I Ching or anything. Whether it’s the perfect time or not, I’ll get it out of my system and can start thinking about something else again, get on with the regular life stuff I’ve been too heady for lately.

Popping two at a time - easypeasy, love those teeny lil barrels. Ate a small meal five hours ago. Expect to start feeling it around 12:21am [note from 12:31 - an hour is prolly normal time to kick in].

Headache starting to fade a little bit at least. Back of my neck is sore, slept weird or muscle strain maybe.

12:12am - Chatting on discord. Discord kinda sucks, would rather play hungry hungry hippos.

Still listening to youtube politics outrage machine, because it’s comforting, skipping the heavier stuff about corrupt cops and climate change, the liter stuff making fun of politicians and media figures is comforting. When the robotabs start hitting hard though, I suppose at that point I will change to more novel and poetic stimuli, the new music I haven’t heard yet that I put on a 1000+ track youtube playlist.

Doesn’t feel like the right time to be living in a music video yet, I’ll let dxm drive that timing.

12:26 - My prediction about when they would hit was wrong, although, wait a sec, now that I think about it, yeah, maybe the barest fringes. And the headache is way down, still there, but not important.

Coffee spoons, morphine grains, hourglass for the next vape. I’m not at all fucked up yet, but I can randomly be poetic at any time I want.

Yeah, here it comes: swoonytunes… except no tunes yet. I suppose I can not worry about leaning on the comfort of listening to tyt on youtube. When it becomes meaningless or absurd, I’ll switch to music, I’ll let dxm drive it. Lady Dex. I’m imagining her as a mistress tonight. A secretive affair, I don’t share this with others, except in this dissociated tumblr experiment kind of way, not even blogger anymore.

Now that it’s coming up, I’m relaxing a bit, which is unusual for the comeup. I don’t worry about eating corn chips to settle my stomach, it’s fine.

Yeah, the ride is starting, time to switch to music fo'sho. I can feel the gravity pulling. Wasn’t hard to switch to music, dxm decided for me. I hope I get one of those ego-crushing trips, but the benevolent crush, to candy dust, where you SO don’t have to do anything, it’s just done for you, AS you, you know? Who hopes who gets that?

This liquid dnb is working well, wasn’t sure for a second, now I’m getting into it, into that groove-trench, guided toward the thermal exhaust port by a Force.

Observation about my normal life occurs to me: as present tense overflows: I’m glad I have a low stress immediate family. I don’t have to worry about it being such a big deal if I break a plate or something, even if it’s fancy.

The dnb music has a propulsive effect, it’s a good dxm driving sort of energy. It really is getting harder to type, but not that much.

12:43 - It’s flowing fast now, this dnb music is helping facilitate flow - lie down swoon? I’m apportioning my stuff - my closets - my hands look and feel very weird. Maybe it’s time to go down. GONNA get deeper, try to get to the root of reality, root deep down in there.




*




—BREAK bring it:

heavy - no music video

no chat, no chels
how to plateau?
\very mirror-ring-ing

profound and e xhaust ing
reconnecting to b ody slow ly
thought about reaching out to T, C, D
of course
i would
there is that magic
it is deep - bouncing right now - alien feeling, remembering

i’m pretty lucky
it’s good to get lucky

i feel like
shrike ship character
androgynous naked writhing phasing
very very hard to type
i’m barely human, for real. :L
half chip pain ai flak

Dreading pm

The union of facets of Me.
Ego scattered through characters - star trek-

3/08/23

Getting things done

Ok, new day, new comp, new keyboard, new tabs. We'll see how this goes. "Daydream Society", the discord group that is the closest thing to a community for me isn't doing it for me. Easy come easy go.

Started dosing at 11:20pm. 12 robotabs. Now it's 12:03am. I think I can feel the fringes. Yeah. Yep, bit of the robo swoon. A clean swoon. Not a flange really, not yet. Whatever that is. It's a streak. Kinetic trailer, lil layer of anesthesia.

They are HITTING. Fast.

*

Riding this music…

Fast. K-like. Ridey hole.

I should have planned this better, maybe. Buttoned up. In a something or other. Might be more ego-stripping than usual, than I'm used to, haha.

Quick transition…. Not refined yet. Tailors of refinement. That's fine, for a moment.

What are we getting done here? Well, we're quite warm.

It feels like a new thing every time. New facets of self. Of how I want to be. The tech I have in my hands. How far I want to take it. How thick the steak needs to be. How hard it is to type. The secreting away of aspects of my personality. The possibilities.

I feel like I earned it, but I don't know. It's pretty weird to want this, i'n'it?

A dipped toe, breaks a flo

getting away with the thing…

lopped off sides of propriety…

*

so, Alphiest Alpha ever yet, bet? Did you bet on that at 3:40am?

No cats.

Strange place.

Making my own legend. And mom intends for stirrup correct. And all the algorithms you think you've gathered, you've collected on, to be an accountant. An ant. That too.

Goodbye Luc. Expensive Victoria. Briar rose. Really? Going away?

Cleanly. Making and taking away, will get into details later. This character I play. Who's shredding reality.

Laid off slabs. Cleanly. Proof of work. [YK? I remember. Successful quarantine without really trying]

2/23/23

first dxm trip after more than ten years of mostly being sober

300mg, from drinking one bottle of benylin cough syrup.

Slightly swoony maybe. Nervous, but nothing too bad. I been a lot worse. Feel ok. A bit of lightness. The subtlest lightness of body. Yes, I can feel it for sure. Subtle, but progressing.

It's about an hour later. What do you want to know? Hmm… I'm trying to get these file operations completed so I can put a randomized playlist on my phone.

It's starting to get full on now. Fuller onner. Full plate. Mmhmm.

I can feel the family close. But so far away.

That comfort. Above it all, bouncy and floaty.

The tapestry of chat, laid before me. Wanna take screenshots.

Can I go into a hole and collect some things?



Gotta get away from the chat, and into my jazzy self… Wish I had something to play on. The stuff I do for me, all just for fucking me, ok? But what about the cats?

How can thc be a soberizer?

don't worry, i'm here, everclear,

don't think the randomizer is best…

but..

austerity



Creating my own universe. There's even audio chat options now with other egos.

Rails of soap. Pandering down parents of mounting. Yeah, it fits. It makes sense. To try and type. And remember why it was important to type things. A certain feeling persisting forgetting to dream and daydream and go to bed. And go back to bed. Aphex, can't go wrong. There's reasons. CBB might work for a long-planned after plateau. Hard-ridged plat edges to fashion steps to take before going on forever. Of course there's finitions. There's an art to it, a knack to get back to. There's remembering what kind of people you were, how it was even bleaker at other times. Not so bad right now. What are you looking for though?

Well, should I keep writing, or try to close it out? Break off a deuce. Yes, it's too late, have to swallow the traz, it's ok. Germinate pollinate in temporarily lonely but fertile subconscious. Dream percolation substrate sproutinatudinal death-ling baby break layers. Sometimes the sawtooth algorithm will know what to do, sometimes it will take over, sometimes automatic knows what to tell you when there is no god. Sometimes you can work through it, and play through it also. Sometimes, it's this place. Here, right now.

And so forth.

*

Time to land this plane. Afterglowers await. Shower me with love. Other porter airlines waiting to await me. It simply happens.

Little things take on significance. Dxm in the smart phone age. Why do I feel like a Boomer? Weird.

Mid life crisis of a stripe. Planning my death……

Absorbed like wallpaper….
Records
. Dreams.

Useless melted phone. Got some classic context out of it though. I will curate it. With my luxuries. My married lifestyles. It's romantic. It's cursed and blessed, so, so what? Away to an empty place. Got on the fringes of ego death. Becoming a rug is actually blissful and profound, for real. Think about it. Regenerating. Neuro plasticity. Getting away with things.

The Twin Gears of Cringe and Cling

Donating. Actually doing something - an interaction - over the web - financial transaction, christmas shopping, or sort of gesturing to chri...