22 Mar 2006

How To Manual

Retarded. Out of literature, on a different flow, flowing gowns of clich├ęs. I don't know how to explain this. It sounds like some paisleyed gown of profundity. It doesn't make sense how much that makes sense.

How many iterations this phase of mortality? Once not long ago, in what might be themed a gasoline flavored peak, it seemed to me that complete understanding was present in all I perceived but out of order. The tragicomedy of my linear thoughts could not assemble the grand truth, maybe I should have taken that other hit of acid.

Just coughed, my hand is now spittle flecked. Sorry. For simple reality. Ah, the grand glut of senses that could encompass. Cryptic and lonely. Why are my egos so quiet? When did they get so humble? Bouncing words off the cold blank armor of others is a game for tundra dwellers, abominable snowmen. I only really connect to the work of the poets I KNOW, personally, and then only when we interface in those apropos motions of the ocean. Ah, assonance is trying to teach me something like McKenna's elf tykes, even in these carefully scratched up meta clauses, praying to buddha for a plastic rocket. The Shadow knows.

Could I have ever imagined novelty crusting like it did? It was a new crust, a new pattern of entropy. A half hard, not-totally flaccid bit of flesh responded, barely, through the haze of excess brain chemicals, to the pattern. Which means, to be less lonely and less cryptic, that thinking about lack of options and the running out of new things to say and see and do, led to a visual image of a transient drying out of a very limited mode of thinking. It was transcendence in cartoon form, ironically taking the form of a little plastic castle in a goldfish bowl. Oh great, Hippie Craque, a metaphor that only Raz will get. That's so very un-solipsistic of you.

At least I limboed under meta's mind. Mostly. Ah a dense hunk of useless meaning. Semantic scrapyard. Back in the control room of the Detroit Syndicate Club.

Okay, scrap that. There's doors I haven't opened yet. There's the silicon forest. Come on. Emotions in the canopy. There's a cool breeze, the void of adrenaline. There's bark with a button. The barkives. There's a swinging gunny sack, empty of extrapolations. Empty, all the better, to substance. Verbiage roughage foliage.

Tommy was a social animal. Sex drove him, as it drove everyone, in odd ways, up the walls, in to trees, into gutters, into tunnels, underground, out of the way, warsaw sewers. Cryptic, scenic route. I tripped a laser of liking my writing. For a split second, the alarm went off. It rang, reverbed axons, neurons firing, egos burning like lightbulb filament, eureka, a utilitarian use for a bundle of nerves.

Hippie Craque, what now? He's been Hector. He feels like he's flanged into third person, drooling genetic rifts off the tree of sonanmic syllables, taxonomic pools of twin slurs. He forgot to smell the roses. The scent surprised him. And daisies were in the distance, hardly suspected.

Hosebag, prosehag. Oh, the sweet gleaning of arbitrary meaning. Low-hanging fruits of synesthetic calisthenics. Yeah, I get it. Old paradigm fun, before I knew my cells by name. I still see the traps I'm in, even as I'm in them. People have defined the walls of my cage, as I have defined the walls of others. But I'm no guru. I probably make a difference anyway. Good or bad, who can say? We aren't chaos architects, we are leaves on the wind. How profound. Found.

19 Mar 2006

Raz arrives to Hector the Crow

"And to my right here we have what appears to be a mountain...

Here we have a view of bob that Nelsontowne hasn't seen in quite a while.

Watch yer step. Or else it may mean doom - the doom of your coffee.

After spending mere hours with razberrychaos, Hippie Craque is already contemplating where to hide the blugeoned remains of her lifeless body. Throw it in the water, bury it in the earth, throw it in the water, bury it in the earth...Decisions, decisions.

14 Mar 2006

MC Lars says

that Canada is America's Scotland.

Yeah, they may take our water, oil, actors, pot activists, dignity, and NHL teams…

but they'll never take OUR FREEDOM!

12 Mar 2006

The Winter and the Hot Springs, remixed

"You’re driving too fast," she bitched. I glared at the speedometer and sighed, easing on the gas pedal. We crept down toward the speed limit. Then she brought up the cliff again and I decided I'd slowed down enough. We were almost there anyway.

I pulled in to the parking lot as the sun fell behind the valley walls. No one was around so I didn't bother signaling. I caught a nasty look from Dez in my peripheral. Oh well, the springs will steep the anger out of her, I thought. And mine, well mine was already overwhelmed by a thousand memories in a lattice of scent, sight, and sound. Ainsworth was always good for that. It was a magical place, built on a silly slope. It overlooked a glacial lake appearing oceanic with its far edge hidden by the evening fog.

We zig-zagged up the stone ramp to the office. Fourteen for two? Hell, that's a bargain, I thought. There are much worse ways to spend money.

Thankfully, the change room was empty. Shower? No problem. I left the room, fearfully exposed, and handed my bag of clothes to a woman in a window. Strange, slack job that must be, I thought. I wondered if she read paperbacks all day. Then I surveyed the pool. Absolutely free of competing personalities. Perfect. Dez was going to love this. Sometimes things work out when I least expect them to. Sometimes the universe conspires to give us comfort before a long separation. Or perhaps that was us, cutting with the woodgrain of the universe, synergizing through receptivity to this geothermal nexus.

I was getting cold though. I was doing alright with the psychology of being nearly publicly naked (a rare feat for me), but physically, my body was screaming at me. I wondered if Dez had wigged out in the change room or something.

Finally she emerged, like Alice in Wonderland. A smile spread on my face. I was, however, not interested in waiting around to deliver some Carrolian non-sequitor. I waded right into the pool, rejecting an impulse to perform a racing dive.

Pleasure on the threshold of pain sprung through my nerves and plateaued to the opiate glow of thirty-seven degree amniotic bliss. I'd been anticipating this moment all day and wondering, as is my way, if the anticipation would ruin the consummation, but there was no fooling my body with contrived headtrips, the physical rush cut through everything.

I looked back to see if Dez had entered the oasis. She had and was, for the moment, lost in the same dynamic reverie I'd been in. Now I was open to the view, the sprinkle of snow, green ripples catching garish orange streetlights, and the stately conifers at the edge of the forest. And my beautiful, curvaceous girlfriend in a blue swimsuit. I walked toward her, neck deep in water. Her face seemed fresh, more open than it had been all day. Her hair dripped into the pool, spreading in an ostentatious display. Her body was refracted below in a riot of aqua-fleshtone - I wanted to touch every inch of it.

"Nice, huh?" I said inanely. She laughed at the understatement that was somehow just right, coolly under the line, like this water, warmed perfectly above body temperature. She reached out a bold arm to stroke my chest and I let her, loving her love my hair. It didn't feel like excess under her fingers. To repay her attention I kissed her lips which seemed to surprise her. Then I felt her body shudder in delight, under my hand, under the water, under the stars.

9 Mar 2006


Clawing out brains

HST: It seemed like a good idea at the time

Bottomless pit of MSG-laced misery

I wish I could enjoy it as much as some


The crying I caused still rings in my ears. Well I do have free will. I could have been a paragon of virtue, a model. Instead I behaved like myself and only abandoned the pride when the tears started. I don't know.

Oh well. I'm not entirely empty this morning. Something's still rattling around in me, making tinny sounds, irritating sounds.

But I'm mostly empty, and extrapolating that to infinity. Nothing's worth stealing.

But the nasal fixation... still the nasal fixation.

My CPU overheated. I gave it a break.