Glasswear - the meaning of the pile

Well look - it's me getting back to my roots. Whatever those are. Another entourage I'm hiding from. Too many people. Yes, I'd rather write.

Well that didn't work. Heh. I tried to swallow a pill with a swig of wine. Lol. Stupid gag reflex!

The lion doesn't lie. Don't think there's any conviction in that line. If there was, it was muonic. Gone in a flash. And the plateau is in the past.

Arpreggios aren't that hard, I tell Tony, just play them one hundred times and you're set. I don't want to show people my tapes anymore. I was ecstatically interested in that activity not long ago.

Some of it's genuine, I guess. Who burned the Reichstag in Camazotz?

Now we're drawing happy noodle boy.

Up, Down. I shouldn't worry about writing about it. Everything's all fucked up - a worldview. A self-dubbed Shaman. Vic's corrosive/expansive itinerary. Novelty Maintenance. Cancer, biological programming - the appetite of a cell. Dealt with by Shamans on the Chaos Farm. Taking things seriously.

I want to break a bottle over my head. A flitting desire. Twenty second halflife, fireworks, values. Misfit on my own shitlist.

Give me cherries Jubilee and that's it.

Downloading Nirvana from Ken is the za-zen of hacking. Za zen is walking zen. When hungry eat, when tired sleep.

I'm going to take a cyclo and shut my mind off. But not yet.

Cleaning up... cleaning up... A somewhat enjoyable activity. I need an occupation but it's got to be self-chosen and yet partly imposed by fate. Cleaning up...

Rico stares at a massive pile of empty booze bottles. What do you think of that Rico? Don't go messing yourself up on drugs now, cat, you're nice and unsullied. Stay that way.

You'll never comprehend the meaning of the pile - the grand purpose - or maybe you will, who am I to preclude your cognitive options? You seem to be the smartest cat I've ever known.

The dishwasher is babbling - a lost Atlantean language - lost luggage. Up down, the rapid riverrun halfway house hedonist. No airy fairies, not quite neutral. Chinese newspapers, thousand print delivery. Point taken.

A part of me wants to see how far I can go - as a self, an artist, an ego - but another large hunk of me is intolerably sickened when the Faustian bit progresses beyond a certain point - the ego trip is poisonous. Perhaps the ego itself is poisonous. Useful, fun, intoxicating, bright, brilliant... but... I don't know.

Gravity wells, left and right. I could shop around, find a well that's good for me.

I can't seem to find a natural way to function - nothing seems right - buried under these layers of spurious self analysis. It's good that I know people who are not so entangled - gravity wells left and right but so does hope when you know where to look, or when you're caught by a glint in your pained paranoid peripherals.

Assonance still rolls off the tongue. And it's either ether or the other.

So what do you give the man who's given himself everything in bit-sized form - a synapse crossing with much fanfare... the common man?

Perhaps I should live to start a community in a space colony. A new pile of meaning in an interstellar seedpod, hard-case, glass and solar power. Let this stubbornly-rooted nomad brand himself narrowed and provisional - nevermind a noun or a verb.

Glasswear's in style.