19 Apr 2006
17 Apr 2006
I'm sick of the patterns I continually fall into. Behavioral patterns yes, but mostly mental patterns. There's got to be a better way to interrupt them. I don't think over-analysis or chemical tinkering is going to get me out of the mess those things got me INTO in the first place, but that's not to say consciousness can't play a role.
I can barely be bothered to philosophize.
I've psyched myself into thinking I'm shackled to moods and mindstates, although I can also see psychosomatic tension for what it is. That doesn't really abate the discomfort of FEELING it, but I can be meta about it, mentally, semanticize it, keep it in the realm of metaphor while clenching my teeth and my soul and obsessing about puke and panic and how is death going to come and how will I deal and what does that say about me as a man, as a human being, as a piece of God, in increasingly tight feedback loops and having "sickness" resonate on every level, with every traitor cell. Maybe this is how cancer starts. Maybe it's how William Burroughs starts. One thing I know, I need to keep dreaming.
"I've also stopped paying any attention to the future, because it only makes one worry needlessly. Peace can be found in the present moment through acceptance of what is and by recognizing the amazing beauty that is constantly flowing through everyone and everything in the universe. "
11 Apr 2006
7 Apr 2006
Ties in the woods, a webwork of dubious quantum guerilla ontoloshit for brains lattice of good hearted laughter at gotten-references on poetry night at that weird vibey restaurant.
Amplitude modulation. I'm listening to that long electrodelusional interlude in The Mars Volta's Cicatriz, and writing down random thoughts. Now it's heading back into the buildup to the recap - dueling guitars, but it's not squeedley versus meedley - it's omar vs frusciante. Totally different thing. From spacey delirium to this. Fucking genius. Makes me want to quit - everything. Too bad I can't extract much literary material.
Just debris, that's all I see. Just debris. Got no meta, out of meta, thank god. I don't see how tagged I really am though. That's okay. Blissful stupidity.
The Deon family is neat and nuclear: Dad's in the driver's seat, Mom's in the passenger seat, Alison and Jonathan, five and sev...
I'm working out new ways to perform and record. They take the form of melodic fragments, half-assed renditions of half-remembered songs,...