Falling into patterns

What am I looking for? The words? The soliloquy. The fragments. The meta--crack resonance, daydream shining through, thick sick-light. I could annotate but... why? The soliliquy. The fragments.

I could rhyme but assonance won't drive me today. Sometimes words mean something. Sometimes in brief moments they sum up my thoughts, feelings, self, and by extention existence. A human conditioner applied to a planet's hair - there - a pun. Because it's there. You could find a reason for it. You could look at it anthropologically. But why?

A pastiche of fragments, beaded together along a stretch of time so gerrymandered I can't call it a "moment" with a straight face - but my publisher will market it suitably. Where there's a will, there's a way. And will I wander astray from that will with its posioned well? Well if I do, the assonance will still be there to entertain the patrons of this sad saloon with its piano plinkin' honky tonk blues, like "Hey Jude" in Tull, like Steven King in 77, retro and records. Like a grocery list trasmitted to a hapless ham radio operator from a tilted-axis planet.

I'm making a barely-conscious effort to keep this on some kind of theme, which is funny, because the best chance of that is to effortlessly flow with this bastardized "moment" in its failed state status, in its hackneyed civil war, done before, four score and seven years ago. Falling into patterns, yes, stranguled on the sutra of life. Never heard anyone describe it quite like that before, though Blue Oyster Cult came close.

Now what? Must write... anything... it helps me ecscape my real visceral problems, my career anxieties, my rut-dwelling routines through angsty abstraction.

Waves of stupidity. Profundity in feeling enormous idiocy. I can never predict them. They just arrive. If there's any pattern to their occurences, it's too complicated for me to have discovered it. They look to me like a random algorithm.

I felt one of those waves about an hour ago - they never last longer than a few minutes, mercifully. But there's always something strangely wonderful about them, even when I swoon in terrifying nausea over how absurd and awkward and pathetic I feel as a person. Because along with this feeling is an invitation for me to detach from being that person. The feeling doesn't demand this, but it suggests the possibility of me viewing the stupidty externally. It allows me to contemplate joining the objective universe in laughing at this abritrary ground-zero of I. It almost made me crave the nihilistic pursuit of psychedelics again.

"The horror is so beautiful". I haven't yet come up with a good image to directly convey what the "horror" represents. Maybe I should just mine Marlin Brando's improvised dialog. Maybe we need another "real" Vietnam. Maybe the horror is contracting to an ever narrower niche, becoming all things bad for the bourgeoise as the unthinkable grows in scope, codes in computer simulation, re-invigorates a tired film industry for a few months. There's still new takes on nuclear war. Where's the definitive speculative movie about war between Canada and the U.S.?

Expression. What can I say about that? I'm just about fully apathetic, but I wish this pain in my lower right abdomen would stop. It's not that bad physically, but the mental worry that goes along with it is really marring my enjoyment of life. "Really"? Well I wouldn't go that far, actually.

I could talk about the unspoken addiction. That sort of fits under the umbrella of "falling into patterns" but... no. I'm just going to sleep now. Without editing. This will be forever unedited. I intend to maintain the integrity of this entry's spontaneity.