30 Jul 2005
to be a good improviser on stage, you must think three moves ahead, like it's a chess game - your opponent is chaos, but sometimes the shifty bastard can be an ally, if used opportunistically
28 Jul 2005
why should i?
damn, conscious of not being zen enough, ha
I'm going away - people don't do it for me anymore
I'm retreating - i'm leaving it all behind
I'm going, going going, let me be gone
no i know, i'm just posing
damn, such ridiculous sadness
i'm trying not to wallow in hollow
but hollow's wallowing in me
goddamn, what is the deal with me
i hate that son of a bitch i wish he'd go away
i want to run away from him. i hate being confined
me myself and i, shatter that perverse trinity
my ego is a rusty hunk of junk, a chore, a stone chained to my soul
obligation to do something
i should write a ten minute technically good slow boring song about wanting to be free
had a few years break from self-hate, now it comes back with a vengeance, and it tells me to hate everyone else too - but i see it as false-misanthropy, that doesn't quite fly for me any more, i've seen too much
i'm allowing myself to be trapped in my shallow wallowing, fuck that bullshit, but i don't want to bullshit myself, or do i?
different perceptives, i've lost memories, brain cells have died - i wonder what i offer
i am alone, without dez, my other half is ethereal
my other consciousness, a whole brain hemisphere in a person - it's tragic when we don't connect like we should - it's a tragedy that i don't see being so hung up on the coatrack of ego, spine twitching in artistic idiocy
i like to perceive things, experience things - i also have my habits and patterns, my playing music, my sadomasochistic relationship with music
this is what i'm reduced to, so hollow, so shallow
wondering about people getting back into coke scenes
the king and the coke castle, his rules
christmas cocaine, the reign of pointless pleasure and pain
waiting for the miracle, ah whatever
playing mars volta
being snubbed, snug as a bug in a void
i know some people appreciated, it's not enough for me, no, let me be terribly honest and say, jeffery lewis was right, you need more and more flatteries to recharge your batteries, cause now the glammer of the sell-out stardom concept is starting to twinkle into your pot sprinkled eyes, you're seeing, you're seeing yourself whoring, like you'd be a two dollar whore, maybe less...
but it's amazing what castles people build for themselves... maybe i should take a walk to the bakery
times like these in years past i'd turn to drugs, i can't seem to muster the kind of relationship i used to have to drugs, those beautiful chemical manipulators, but, but, i don't know, my shellshocked inner being blubblers - i don't know about that...
i'm trying to write a novel too, sometimes i think maybe that's what i have to offer, i should bury myself in that
but if given a choice, i'd bury myself in much deserved dez, a muff diving riff of reef-gems rifting all the way to gaia's fantastic pacific - just a small little coke-crusted sliver of a shell of a planetary body and mind you know
yeah, let's say i ain't shit, let's let the sighs die, suffocate, an eternal contrived breathout, flatline, comatastic bombast
i don't know what would remedy this impossible burden of negativity, of course ego induced, and a negative outlook on everybody, mostly, friends, frayed connections and ridiculous expectations, but i wish i had my lover here right now, she'd make me feel what i need to feel, the real
Castles in the sky, castles in the shire - a ridiculous riff, i know it's going nowhere - i'm not comfortable with nowhere, i can't articulate the most amazing thoughts, can only explain the mundane
I see potential hallucinations. Going back in time. Explaining things to the people of the past. Putting them on the same page. For plots. Predictable, prediculous.
Porn, too far into sleaze. Not there. But what? Don't ask me, I'm just a poor repressed bundle of raging anxiety, gonna explode one of these days, not that i want to, i haven't learned to love the kinetic energy.
You can do what you want, pay no mind to me. Demonstrate your aboveness, hey, do the dark trip - disillusion me nicely - i'll fire back volleys of cryptic sarcasm - i'll be able to explain it away easily cause no one understands, it's impossible to get across - i can claim anything i ever wrote or said was meaningless, nothing, bullshit, bury the honesty in crypticity
but it's true that some things seem to matter less later
and good on that hericlitian flow, i'd love to throw my lot in with the train of vagabonds
wish i had the right person to rap with -
i would forge a connection if i could - i've been living, satiated, with synthetic relationships...
then there was the organic, the reality, the content, the moments - the stillness, the timelessness, the righteousness of dez and me, the fields, the cities, the journies, aqua teen and homestar, the depths, the sadness, the regimes, the drinking, the drugs, the smoking, the hugs, the loving, the hating, the never hating so much, the binding, the strength of the string
maybe i'll go out and collect taxes from the masses, but i shouldn't - i don't want to be king - but i don't know if i'm confortable being the bum - can't have charity, want the real thing, won't say what that is, i don't know if i know
it's hard to be clear
fuck, things are so different now, slippery reality
it changed on me, i can't relate to past selves, ontologies
i don't even really write anymore, except when really weird and it seems like a good idea, i'm drifting toward becoming a profoundly frustrated musician, dreaming big dreams, concepts, failing, following, flailing in ego loops and lingo limbos
at times like these i would turn to drugs - but i see no answer in psychedelics - maybe a process...
something to do?
where's heroin - who's dick do i gotta suck to get some smack around here?
nah, i don't want it that bad, in fact i can't even bother to make my own pharmaceutical extracts anymore, and i don't grow plants or vegetables anymore either
no doubt to a chorus of gleeful afterschoolspecial victory huzzahs - something's gotta change i feel... something, but i don't know what, maybe everything
but at the same time, i don't want it to all collapse in a violent and savage chaostrophy - maybe it won't, maybe the momentum of society/technology is too great - but history's full of lessons, stories of people who took things for granted...
but really, who knows?
don't ask me, i'm just a novelist and an idiot keyboard player, seething in arbitrary negativity, trying to pin the tail on the dao
i know when to quit - and how
27 Jul 2005
What defines a hero?
I was thinking about this book: the way of the samuri
there's a passage in there that says something like: death must be in your thoughts constantly
you must approach each day as if it will end in death - or something
right now everything seems completely senseless
meaningless maybe, but senseless
there's no sense in that
no sense in the samuri way
except as an evolutionary cul-de-sac for some japanese cultural niche
samuri doesn't evovle of its own accord, it evolves by external sociological forces
they thought they had it all figured out - maybe they did - for their own purposes - maybe they let in a little dao - enough to fill in the cracks and let nature take care of the rest
20 Jul 2005
burning the meaning, the bridge, the past
not a song, not a poem, not a thought, not an idea, nothing
artless, witless, negative, shadowed side of the mountain
"you were practically begging me to stop"
sharp perspective, negative, downer trip
memory unclear, grungy, mucky, foggy, speckled with crusted ectasy
freckled with misery, chock-full of icky things, not wanted to be recalled
mutual guilt trips, regrets, grievances, sense of entitlement, payment
pointless semantic algebra, finance, need, addiction
morality, justice, vengeance
asshole, sellout, just a word, just a poem, not even a poem
artless, witless, negative, shadowed side of the mountain
wandered in bright forest cracks today, nobody cracked the whip
hippie craque flowed through the forest, the fly vertices, the insect clouds
the whispering woods, aware of settlers, encroching settlers, but not seeing
sentries, no snipers in the trees, wondering what flip of the switch, what switch of history
could allow guerella warfare in the kootenays, a little presto chango and nelson goes kablammo
love and hate, tripping and sobriety, just plain intoxication, attempts at music making, working, what a man can reasonably expect to get away with, getting away with insecticide on a daily basis
somedays i put up with no shit, that is, there's no shit to put up with. Other days, it's the shit that puts up with me, tolerates my non shitty existences, Other days, I do feel as if I put up with shit, and I'm about sick of putting up with it. But when I putter around the shit, on the shitty putting greens, I mutter, "shit, what is this shit anyway? Is it something to be put up with? Where does the shit start and where do I begin?" So I slather myself with this shitty metaphysics, I put up with these shenanigans, and... the house lights fade. The forest flares up. Karma doing comes to get me, the pain/shame vertice vortex, whatever I did in a past life, the price is paid. The narrative sealed. NOT!
No, it doesn't work that way. When something is pinned down, it disippates. It's like I'm trying to eat the pacific ocean with a fork. But these sorts of visceral symbols only go so far. They get sucked into the undertow. They drown.
11 Jul 2005
9 Jul 2005
so what are the stakes - in this daytime/nighttime ed wood scene?
Damnit I can't explain. I hate everything now. No I don't. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! That's how I feel now. No one cares. I don't care. It's just a moment. Goddamn. Damn God. Damn me.
How much honesty is too much?
8 Jul 2005
Whether you rally your troops against infidels or mad muslims, you're doing well. You're raking in the anger, that sweet sweet al qaida currency, money in the bank, the bank of Jihad, the Halliburton Account.
If you're into holy wars this is your time. Your stock is rising. An explosion here, a shooting there. Pick your side. You don't even have to do any of the killing yourself. Let the naive college drop-out suckers sign up to kill your enemy. Let the brainwashed mosque-warriors detonate their belt bombs. Sit back and watch your show. You just know you're going to win. Don't you?
6 Jul 2005
Writing doesn't take
I've lost a connection I had to it.
Or maybe the fog IS all there IS. Everything else was an illusion.
Hallucinations undermine the idea of reality, possibly. Everything is possible.
Possibility is a reverie. In a field of tall grass. Images and symbols and words. Chrome-steel metaphysical skeletons and great masturbators. Good music, bad writing.