4 Dec 2018

(JOHN picks up a trinket 6.)

(JOHN puts down a trinket 6.)

19 Oct 2018

the leukocytes are bright tonight

i saw the leukocytes again
it's been a few weeks since i saw them
i always love it when i see them
i love my leukocytes
especially when they become visible, animate
the way they move
darting, curving in directions
as inscrutable as an insect
except i figure i could figure them out
someone has, some neuroscientist
like the etymologist figured out that figuration of an insect's flight
someone named them so i could rhapsodize
but mostly i feel a loving bond
with my body, cause they seem so personal
little people in a hurry, an ecstatic hurry
i don't know what their agenda is
but they're mine, in a sense
i love my leukocytes
they usually show themselves
for about half a minute
after i've put myself through a moment of
extreme physical exertion
but it was only a minor exertion just now
so i can't find the causation
just a vague correlation
there's no 430 nanometer wavelength of sky blue anywhere
is it the wall of mirrors, or is that just the
obvious symbolism i would use in a rhapsody?
cause I'm working in the drama room maybe?
i'm curious and yet i don't quite want to know why
and sever the bond

16 Sep 2018

"I reckon the sun's made of coal," he said, the prospector who lost his claim, on his short walk to the gallows. Poor man, no fight left, nothing for it but to muse on nature itself in the last few minutes of his life. It must be coal, like all that coal he found, had a claim on for a while, so much coal it would burn for six thousand years, give or take a couple centuries. It makes my chest ache, so painfully adorable to hear him, but I'm not condescending, I'm admiring. It's not a bad theory, there's some basis for it. He did better than I'd do, probably, in his place and time, with my questionable curiosity. 

Modern technology cured my curiosity problem, it was problematic to want to know so many things, I can instead just take for granted that whatever works works. Just works, like google said their email just works, except they have to change it every year, and I have to dig around in the flags menu for hidden options to change it back to what "just worked" for me forever.

14 Sep 2018

gotta bump

and not care, like old times - not like old times in the bad way, just in the way that i gotta unreasonably make room for new stuff, or just blankness, don't wanna be seeing the already over-exposed recent posts, so


4 Sep 2018

Digital self-mutilation as Catharsis

Ignored at the meeting by the monstrous chad because of the easily missed frequency of my voice, when I tried to be friendly and join the conversation. Just wanted to say that "drag" could mean male dressing as female, but also the other way, since you were asking - but I'm not heard. The words get lost cause my voice won't cut, even when straining against paranoid modesty to boost the signal, make myself heard... but also, be casual cause it doesn't sound friendly forced. I can see the genes in that, my mom's smile a constructed wall of teeth. I think she fakes it to make it, but she does make something, happy enough with her social life. I'm not even upset at being ignored so much as looking like a pathetic loser who tried and failed to be part of the gang - then retreated instead of asserting himself. So I'm not noticed, but also seen to be a fool? Logic would say I'm either seen or not seen, but there's no logic in this.

Now neurosis can be bootstrapped to serial murder by the internet. That's why I used that word "chad" to signal I've just become familiar with incel culture, owing to a video of an outsider with a few inside insights, exploring and critiquing the newest sickest net craze.

I try to make up for my shameful loss of face they may or may not have noticed, by reading our meeting's preamble AGGRESSIVELY: Clear yet colloquial, leaning into the severed gerunds, routing the edges with power tools. Still the wrong frequency. Can only do so much because of those millimeters of missing skull and bone-structure dictating a chain of consequences from childhood, the sledge-hammer impact awareness of being the smallest guy in every group of peers, to the internalization of physical stature, to stillborn confidence that never had a chance to vitalize a personality. The guy who reminds me of the people I counter-hated in high school is sharing, so, here's some body language for you people who are good at that sort of thing: I'm swiping this text into my phone to distract myself from your rapacious voice.

Oh God. I'm already infected with incel-ese, I'm black pilled from just watching that ContraPoints video - and it was supposed to be a disinfectant. And I loved the humour that soothed her examination into such ugly psychologies of disturbing familiarity - but what's lingered for me is the incel's morbid relief in baring the hard truths of love and sex from the floor of evolution's dungeon. It can be so clarifying, if I can see it as the sociological vectors that led to my insecurities, and not as Final Truth "because it hurts the most", like hello? Epistemic masochism, duh. It can be useful if I don't take it too far, like whoever that incel terrorist shit was who was called a "supreme gentleman" by the other incel terrorist shit. If there's one thing he wasn't, it's gentle - he doesn't get to be that, even if his gentle sensibilities were so tortured by life that he abandoned them in the end to vent rage with murder. Well then, guess he wasn't gentle after all. And he doesn't get to be a man. Facing a difficult life of long lonely stretches with some stoicism is rather manly, regardless of whether you ever get the "got-laid" merit badge. Killing for self-expression isn't gentle, or manly, just gross, "like, so-gross-ah... like, wha'a freak-ah..." Now you've made their dumb comments legit, now they're deserved. Sad for you, tragic for your victims. But they are yours at least, if nothing else is, you can own the dead cause you knew you couldn't ever have them alive, so let them be your legacy, your victims.

Luc was a gentle man. He did well with the ladies before I knew him, but in the divorced dad era he was often an incel - and haven't we all been there brother? Most of us? Some of us? But even then, he had his moments. This paisan, he had some balls on him, he got out there and tried, and once in a while goddamnit, he got himself some. And on those occasions he'd put his under-utilized talents to joyful employment. He wasn't cringing from the femoids, he wouldn't shroud them in black veils to spare himself the torture of their faces - even a 2.3 was worth a double-take, many ways to appreciate. We needn't go misogynist, a gentleman can see the even-worse situation of most women in the gauntlet of impossible standards. But that's why I found the video so fascinating, because there is a place for an under-represented slice of the male perspective, the history written by the losers, on blogger. Society could do to hear more from incels, problem being that, of course, they get wrung through the internet coming out "men's rights" activists at best. From there is a sickening drop off. There could be something good to make of this incel awareness, but it ends up in shooting sprees and van attacks. Just wonderful.

Everybody, look at my Crossfit body, is all I can think of her, even though as usual, she's got a great recovery message. Cue self-obsession tangent: What kind of cel am I? Let's say, wristcel. No, armcel, it's all about thin arms, that's my glass ceiling. "Armcel", my contribution to the culture, my toxic agitprop, sui-fuel for those who have the steel to end themselves. [I don't, and honestly, I envy their strength - if it's a real attempt it really is strength, like a gun in the mouth, can't be easy to pull that trigger]. I'll draw a stick figure, except no, cause I can't exaggerate lack of muscle on a stick figure, it will need to be a drawing with some limb-width baseline. Then I can put my likeness in a bell curve gutter next to that reference, Microsoft Paint catharsis, to upload for upvotes for bright side is suicide.

On my best days, I can get real honest, then articulate the honesty, though I've never gotten past some barriers protecting little reserves of ego you wouldn't even suspect I'm harboring - see how honest I am? Except for the reserves part. At my most hope-cel, I can think of this honesty as style, a charm that could transcend hard limitations of skull to orbit sex appeal. And the stubborn faith that I have no faith in salvation through Crossfit persists - yeah it doesn't fit me, and I kinda like that I'm not into it, I got standards for myself, like it's not a good look to be looking to be good-looking. And always the shame of that, knowing how comforting it is to dismiss what I won't bother trying to obtain when it seems like a fucking fool's errand, and I'm not quixotic enough. Hey, that's my style, so fine, I'll own whatever void rushes in.

27 Aug 2018

for the profit of robots

the machine rolls on
for d-grade oil
the puffins roll up
for the clubbing of seals
the ski-doos roll out
for homogeneous commerce
every culture must die
the best stuff's inside
but i stopped looking
though monument valley did kill a few hours...
dreams keep the rest alive
for a life
sleep when you're alive

20 Aug 2018

Flying East

Finally, I've done all the work, got myself in the air, now given over to professionals, above the smoke plains, the new normal. Can relax and actually meditate, think about this new normal, how I help insulate the ceiling with extra bigass carbon layers. But at least I'm not trying to block solutions to the heat-trap atmosphere problem. It's a pathetic defense that I'm addicted to this life, but I'm not going to great effort to prevent any sort of scaling back, like many of the plutocrats, even if we all have the human condition, sure, we're all afflicted. Weaponize my human condition against me, blame it on said condition.

I'm swiping this, so the extra time it takes to correct auto-correct is frustrating. Got to try and be succinct, sidestep filigree fjords, can't make time for artistry, just gotta render the thought as best I can. So, looking sideways at the sky, I'm imagining Elon's rocket passion and can't entirely hate the guy, figure he must have some real depths and heights when I want to see this horizon-spanning smokeblot as a spot in context with the province - and how many times higher would I have to be to see? Out of the blue, into the black, 90x maybe. Didn't think it was possible to get giddy over simple scale since quitting kidhood.

Nothing but ash from Nelson to the Rockies and beyond. Still waiting for it to descend upon the zeitgeist. Where are the ten inch headlines? Social media diluted them to a trillion petabyte pixels spread chaotically through the slowly choking human world. The new normal is... just is, keeps rolling. You can gawk, or go about increasingly meaningless business. Or, the business is too full of meaning, hurts too much in the context I can only sense, driving by the rear view mirror.

Atmospheric haze is still a mystery to me, don't understand why I can't see the ground but if I was higher, would see it just fine. There's such complexity, such riches in this landscape that even I, after all the cartographers, topographers, geologists, geographers, satellite relay and people on planes... still even just me, could find something new, a connection (like the west-africa / east-south-america vase-face) except subtler, like the math could convert to intuition and back, left-brain / right-brain windowpane, going clear. Somewhere there's a reason why those natural lines are almost right angle human kinds but not quite, and in between are yet less straight nested crinkles, rock cracks between the millions of lakes. We could all have private islands in this tundra, or at least maybe every extended family could have one, cause the rolling carpet under my eyes is a flow of literally millions of lakes.

This is the future land rush, this tundra latitude I can see thanks to the efficiency of the great-circle flight-path cutting into the arctic over James Bay. When the vast band of temperate nests for populations becomes a wasteland, the endless rolling carpet of fresh water will be swarmed, maybe even somehow made small. How this must happen seems horrifying. Don't imagine it going in a very Canadian way, except in a precursor canadian casual slaughter and post-canadian see-no-evil rape of the land we're well into, post. "Supernatural BC" is still good marketing! The exclamation marks, when I don't mean them, are embarrassing to read later, when I'm forcing that friendly appearance in text, when my friendliness is genuine, don't need to bedazzle in synthetic gem crust.

Look at me, I'm looking out the window instead of being so bored and wanting to get there already. I'm not wondering why I can't dredge up the wonder, cause I got in such a rut that the jarring fact of being so literally high actually jars me! I'll even grant the exclamation, not friendly-like but accurate, even sleepdepped as I am. [Gutrot turbulence is perturbing suggestions into half-sleep, like I just remembered that the hip-hop artist del appeared for the first time ever in my dream career, I can place it to somewhere in the last four days, and then there was a version of anderson street turned tunnel unfurling fractally toward hex corners and a vr game with roman-polynesian monuments and rail conveyor shelves, important shelves that become salvia walls for a second, seems impossible yet I shift up the shelf backwards, a station ruined, always connecting to the schools and minor work stress, now chronically the janitor in dreams. All models are wrong, some are useful, he said, my new digital dad for lack of any better unnecessary substitute. I covet model airplane glue. Is a close bracket due ]?

Whatever else, I won't be the smug wonderer, wondering at everyone else's lack of wonder, cause we're in the sky, pissing in God's face, and I think I can see the earth's curvature. And I hate that cliche, that people have lost their wonder. I wouldn't wonder at it since I embody it most of the time. I've come out the end of that wonder, ditched into the mundane miraculous, so just cause I had a moment of goggling at the crazy situation I'm in, something akin to a God's eye view, doesn't mean I'm gonna pretend I'm so much better than everyone. But I will pretend I'm better for not pretending I'm better.

Maybe the smug goggler, if she really is wondering, is not actually smug but seeing more than me, all intuitive perception on the Meyers-Briggs, in a boosted moment, NP but not proprietary with that intuition, wants everyone to see. So many better people than me were so much humbler. Oh yeah, and sure, some of the patriarchal shit can go. Then I get the feeling, it's all been said before. This is a lukewarm mess, should edit the dead hell out of it. Edit: I did.

28 Apr 2018


it's a bad start on a blank screen to crumple bits of text into bins - float a few tens of Ks of money toward a vague vacation, towards a tank of flotation, find some way to escape the mundane that isn't the done-to-death substance slaveways

the modulation wheel finally died, end of an era, the original keyboard is accelerating toward becoming a carcass - i can't remember how many letter ems are in that word - there's no kinetic decay here though, nor controlled demolition - i'm trying to write about this, this, it, as i feel the disgust of being passively vague - sober depression with no drama, no good reason - hope things go well in korea - there's never been this quick of a shift from winter to spring - i get high on spring for half a day, and then a noveaux green depression oppresses, a snap back to perma-depleted baseline, a feedback loop of warmth and light and sweat and short-shorts and me outside this, incongruent, why can't i enjoy nice things? can't enjoy green things, smoking grass would help me but i'm forbidding myself half-measures, they killed my spirit for: cleanliness and godliness and dignity and i don't even mostly mean that sarcastically, a good life, and being good to good people in my life, etc... yes, getting into the half measures, the codeine and kratom and cannabis and cough syrup and that quickly spiraled out of control, and i don't have any better way to say that, because i'm riding the worn rubber of the wheel, the turgid death of the wheel spinning because inertia

16 Apr 2018

pulling teeth to answer all these step work questions, don't i like being interviewed, doesn't it stroke the ego, even if it's a cock-eyed narcissism? not if it's a book interviewing me, really me writing some shit about myself, that i've pretty much already explored and done nothing about - but i can use the urge to deflect obligation to finally write something here instead of there

it's exhausting and i already lack energy - trying to get through it quickly but feeling deeply bogged down - can't bother coming up with any artful or elegant way to say any of this - hitting a wall - when i'm analyzed whether it's others doing it or myself, there seems to be nothing there, ultimately

hard to get into the spirit of it - can blast facts, be pretty honest, but it doesn't feel good, doesn't feel hopeful, can't even fucking articulate why or how... maybe should just be honest with my sponsor about the process, the paralysis of pointless perfectionism, too many questions, too many angles, don't know what is most important... been thru it already a bunch of times... don't feel much from it... maybe it's just this lame weekend of being tired as usual, but it's worse being tired with time off to be tired, time to do nothing

5 Jan 2018

There's something better than sex
There's something better than love
There's some things better left unsaid.

There's something better
when my phone doesn't work.

If it's just dreams afterword
I could live with that.
If there's no reason whatever
to believe that, that's okay.
Still mighty strange, all this, what I can't say
what CERN hasn't said, explicitly, yet
just chemical experiments that are interesting but just experiments but interesting.

1 Nov 2017

The Sunblock Selfie Sutra

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


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.


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 that doesn't even sound like 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.


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."


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. 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.


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.


"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.


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.


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.


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


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.

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 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.

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 useful 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 interpredatory ratios... 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