frivolous war

Our guilt would be somewhat mitigated, or at least easier to deal with, if there had been any real reason for this war. All wars are terrible, but some are justifiable. This was not. It was a frivolous war, perhaps the most abstract, pulled-out-of-thin-air war ever launched by a world power. It was dreamed up by hollow men who had never experienced war themselves, who made the decision as if playing a board game, and were supported by people who convinced themselves that the world was a board game.

Read this in Salon today. One of the best columns I've read on the Iraq war in years. You'll have to click through a daypass to see the whole thing. It's worth it - well, if you're the kind of choir boy who likes to be preached to anyway. Lest I sound like one of those self-righteous canucks, I don't think anyone who was or is against the war should have to apologize.

What I need is failure

I need to fail to respond. When you're predictable, people take you for granted. It's a tricky trade-off though. When you've got nothing to bluff with, no buffer to the void. Of course this is short term, cyclic. A visit to a career center put strange thoughts in my head - made me want to be a cog of some kind, maybe a sprocket, a good little machine part, do something useful.

Mining the Sky in Sagittarius

Do I have a body? No, I don't have a body. I am a body. I'm realizing that more and more now, really feeling it. You really feel it when you go psychosomatic routes. Most of what I associate with myself is the brain, that's where the ego is, that's what it rests on.

I'm feeling like a body when I see, feel it perturb, checking out appendages with my eyes - labeling them as separate in the seamless web. Language may have a rather different relationship with reality than we think. I was just walking through the autumn forest, dezcolors, thinking such crazy things as: what is real? I believe in reality in a sense, there is some objective thing out there, but then there are layers of filters and how is it possible to know what exists beyond the filters? And yet I believe in the idea of the external because I'm not solipsistic. I have faith in it. That doesn't mean I kill or die for it, unless the universe dictates I must. I can be, to some degree, emotionally detached from it (not from my delusions). But I have faith in it. My senses - they tell me things. Interpretation is a child's game, an aeon of spinning marbles.

Deep today for some reason. There are so many attitudes toward drugs. I've held so many myself, they shift with the weather, moods. Sell the kids for food. Like they take the place of religion for me some times, for so many reasons.

Almost felt spiritual when I walked in the woods today. Spiritual. A word I'd virtually excised from my vocabulary. Verboten things. Was Alan Watts a religious man? Of course that demands days of dull semantics to answer. Let's just say he was, and have it mean whatever you want. If so, he'd think being religious was synonymous with a lack of seriousness. Not lack of sincerity, but seriousness. Because religion, at least that zen flavour he loved, is supposed to be about the experience of breathing out the serious and returning to the playful. Or, well, that is my current reading of nirvana, anyway. I have no punchline here, sorry. I was just remembering when I felt strangely light-hearted, and understanding laughter as an ideology. I was smiling, knowing I'd lost huge swaths of innocence, and yet that means my laughter is EARNED now - cynicism, dark humour, it's a beautiful thing. And does cynicism mean secular? Or is it just a squinty cataract pallor, a veneer? Can one be cynical AND religious? Depends on where your faith is, what your faith is. But religion became odious in a way, in certain veneers, for me. I was thinking, does THC make me more tolerant to Richard Dawkins?

"I'm a Sagittarius. The most philosophical of all the signs".

I wish I could wear my freakish roster of paradigms like hats, put on an old favourite whenever the mood strikes me. But the brain is hard to reign in like that. Nevertheless I nearly did that today. I put on my lucky white sox hat, literally, my "lucky" hat, luck, such a quaint old idea, chuckle - and yet I feel more potent, more myself, more aware with this on. But maybe it's that plant I smoked earlier. That changes paradigms too. Different attitudes.

FiveHTP - it's helping me again, I think. For a while I stopped thinking about it. I thought, I still get depressed, and I'm really over-hyping this thing. Now I'm crediting the flux of my moods to a chemical again. Folly? No, I think it's that I've decided to blow off Nelson and get a house in Parsons for a while - spontaneous, debauched, indulgent -- but also kind of cool. Novelty. Maybe that's what's really making me yearn less for comforts I shouldn't expect, bling bling, status, rock star cachet, pussy by the pound. Maybe better that I move in with some cool people in a foreign land and write songs.

For some reason, the idea keeps reverberating loudly in my head that this is somehow the best of all possible worlds. Everything is necessary. But then that means it's necessary to complain. Necessary to change things. So now this is just sounding tautological and meaningless.

"We may die from Medication but we sure killed all the pain" - Bright Eyes. I don't care what people say, he's an awesome singer/songwriter. Nothing musically amazing to my virtuoso progsnob biases, but past that, songs, man, SONGS - taking old forms, making them HIS, things that employ clichés, but somehow transcending them. What else can the new gen do? We're trying to figure it out. Ideas are crusting, new ones are scarce, it's like mining the sky for metal.

Killing the pain. Drugs can kill pain, guaranteed. They are a guarantee. A profound thing. A guarantee that you can die in peace. Just have the heroin handy. Or fentanyl. Or opium tea. Or even ketamine, I think K's really making a strong showing in the terminal scene, a feisty up 'n comer! I often console myself with the thought that drugs will be there for me. If I need them. This way of thinking about them is kind of anti-life. But, life is kind of anti some times. The Dao has gouged itself into my psychology. That sounds kind of pretentious, but it's true.

Religion claims to kill the pain too, but in the proper way, the theologically correct way. Put down the drugs, and get a hug, but from Jesus, not the creepy Catholic priests. Jesus is innocent. What is his relationship to Adam? You know, of Genesis? See, asking a question like that just makes everything look ridiculous. First you're imagining a guy on a cross, taking the punishment, aren't we just horrible savages... and then you're imagining a guy wearing a fig-leaf, stealing forbidden fruit cause a snake told him to.

What they should have done was create a plausible Adam and Eve. Not a Terry Gilliam treatment, although that would be fucking fantastic. But some ancient myth with believable characters. You know, like Jesus is kind of sort of believable, maybe not because he existed, but because either the man, or the myth, has had a staggering archetypal effect on culture, society. He has a complex named after him. But so does Oedipus. But Freud was a fucking freak. I want his coke connection.

Christianity is an amazing thing. Just an amazing thing to behold. It's not all good, not all bad, over-hyped and over-prescribed in strange ways - but a huge, fascinating religion. I just realized this.

McKenna thinks people, plural, transcending the lifespan of ordinary folks, have a nostalgia for the archaic past. It's an epigenetic thing, probably. The garden. If you're a fallen angel, you're not doing too well, are you? But if you're a risen ape, not too shabby. I'm pretty tied to the value system I've inherited from this obscure genetic fractal. Self-important. My SELF is IMPORTANT! It must be comfortable, and entertained, otherwise life isn't worth living. Fortunately poppies are renewable. But oil is not. 

The Anglican Church

There is a carnival brewing in Nelson tonight, a queasy convalescence. People walk around with purpose. There will be parties, dangerous reveries, domestic disputes, sirens in the night. There’s a feeling in the pine-fresh moist air, a hint of ergot, fungus infections on the fringes. The Elysian techniques are long lost and will have to be slowly and painfully reinvented, truths discovered through the terror of delirium tremens. This will be a bloody testing ground, subsidized in strange and untraceable ways by Paul Martin’s government. The Welfare Cosmos will allow such loopholes as long as the surrounding woods is sufficiently unspoiled. The tipping point will be reached in 2010, at which time, the Nelson area will cease qualifying for protection from the Space Brothers. At which point, guerilla fortifications will be set up, and the contrails will become active chemical agents instead of placebos.

Tonight, one of many focal points in town is the Anglican church, lit orange by streetlights with the kind of tastefulness that only comes through accident. Robert Ashberry is “preaching” on the steps of the church, to a gathering crowd, a carnival crowd. He is speaking as the head of a group of orange-suited weirdoes, a mass spectrometer of humanity. A man in a crowd of less weird people smirks and asks Bob, in mid-rant: “Is Dali in there?”

Bob replies earnestly: “I wish you could see that Dali WILL be in there!”

There is uproarious laughter. Bob didn’t understand how he came off. Bob’s gnosis says that Dali will indeed figure eventually in his understanding of the mystic politics of things, God’s cruel love and empires of evil’s necessity, because Bob knows Dali is a part of the grand plan, like every man. But what the crowd hears is Bob obliviously admitting his own schizophrenic tendency to tie every bit of stimuli that crosses his ear canal into a cosmic conspiracy.

Bob goes on to reference Jonathan and the Christian Empire resurgence of dubious authorship. Is it Jonathan’s? As spectator, I’m surprised to find I might be the author of a Christian Empire, but then life turns out to be stranger than I imagined every second Sunday, and, case in point, this is not traditionally a party day, and the AM that would make it Monday is upon us, an even less traditional party day. Maybe I forgot I forged an empire, or at least “authored” it, whatever that means. Bob has windows so esoteric and brilliant that I’m not one to discount the theory. Of course, to Bob it isn’t a theory. It’s not “reality” either, that pedestrian word, trampled to death in disaster-panic history. It’s information. And he can use information. Many of us really believe he made MDA. There are probably documents to prove it, but investigative journalism is another skill we’ve lost in the new age. We’ll leave it to future scholars. Burn back up discs, what a treasure hunt they’ll have!

Bob is ranting about something else now. We missed the turn if there was one. Where’s the worm? Slurms MacKenzie knows not to ask about the secret ingredient. Bob says he was once a frequent flyer – but now he’s banned from Mexico. Though we’re not totally sure of the relevance of this statement, we pay rapt attention. Save for the smirking man, who has left to watch a DJ spin records at the Royal. Bob says he doesn’t go to New York much anymore. Implying he does occasionally. I want to ask him where New York figures in his present ideas about the world, but the setting isn’t appropriately intimate, and besides, I’m just a floating awareness here anyway.

Someone asks: “Is there any weekend around here?”

I don’t know. They shut down the show because of the Moonbag kids, street urchins who drank from infancy. You can still see them chomping on calflegs of mushrooms, silently, in the dark. They’re more than happy. After I saw them, I took a bird’s eye flight far above Nelson, wonderfully distorted, more than ever, psychological architecture reflecting and riffing on my yearning, my anxiety, my ignorance, my sanctity. I was taffy pulled through several novel dimensions, I soared across the lake and over the shoreline, beside railroad tracks, over a Grohman like area, finally arriving at a beautiful peaceful pool of lakewater and woods. I can’t remember what I did there.

Quasi and the lifeblood emetic

look at those three weirdos over there, shining

moments with an upright citizen's maglite in recordanza's extravaganza

take the veil and hail hell's frequency, a sixty hertz

refresh rate in what i've learned to believe is breath

oxidizing muscle memory, heart pumps i forgot

beatsynced so fine to time they slipped my mind

just TRY it quasi

the big picture is a funhouse, you freak, don't you like to have fun?

don't you like it when the city peels back into the hills, don't you want your

farm fresh fruit served on the grass linoleum of a famished skull orchard and

what else is there but fear, don't

you want to be

eternally confused

for the greater good and

necessary evil?

your omega bracelet’s made of fridge magnets, still attracted to your birthstone, marked

like a gnostic valis-hunter from pre-cancerous rome, you can cut the ring if you

can claw your way through six thousand kilometers of cerebral cortex, the

scissors are on the surface, lemmiwink's victory serenade

she shoots daggers into my eyes with her focused metabolic modernism

puts the fun in function and we're going to the quackadero today - i was supposed to know

and i haven't been in aeons and my balls are blue but

i don't feel them anymore, circulation was a chore so

i shrugged it off for centuries, stopgap zen retreat, and now

marbles tumble down testosterone-red carpetways, the egalitarian potential of progenetic royalty

hubris of preserving a line is hallucinogenic history's ribald rhyme sluicing fruschavein riffacials

nestled quickie, desktop triggered amateur hottie, how much

did they pay her to take off her clothes?

eternally confused for the greater good and necessary evil, cut

yourself, cut your brother, cut your sister, cut your mother, drink

your blood and purge, drink

your blood and purge, cut

to the chase, telemetric biorealized telescopic eggsized lensthru life'sbloodemetic

tasted like dark matter, hydrogenicide, and in the end

it was the xemu hubbard never knew

no less than five incarnations is what he's selling

and of course i'll take it, anita says

where would i be without her?

naughty appreciation of a full color spectrum, they

added a nother letter to the RGB trinity

a nother lever to the machine

a nother side to the square

a nother vertex to my grin stretch

ing the smile beyond my face, hypervoluminous cubic rosetta, object of ur passé

collector's item value plummeting, depreciation in the glazed stare of the collective

compromise between duty and desire, forgetting how to appreciate in a

seizure that sheds alphanumerals like sweat, eternally

confused for the greater good and necessary evil

pork tastes like pigs in a way i can appreciate when bobblehead showmen are three-quarters through their morning cycle and the afternoon sun hasn't yet settled on this pre-cancerous crowd and i forgot if we were parked in the itchy or scratchy lot

and you can even wear a swastika if you want, if you care

if your deutsche marks beat their dali-cheques

if you ran out of norton bucks and kenny roger's wisdom

and if you still haven't made it back to your comfort zone yet, go fish

sing the reds in folsom prison, sing for seconal and your next cig, asceticism

is fine till they serve dinner, you know

they put paxil in your food, don't you?

Nevermind, stay

eternally

confused for the greater good and

necessary evil, it's

really a small picture, you can keep it in your wallet

the GPS chip in the film will track you to the last frame.

Robert Newman's History of Oil

Watch this - it's fucking great. Hilarious and informative.

He theorizes that Gulf War II is America's attempt to mete out mafia-style punishment, by making an example of Iraq. You can see how it looks good to trigger happy fools like Cheney: easy to invade, easy to destroy. (Not easily rebuilt, occupied, or governed, but THAT isn't the important part.) And why make an example of Iraq? Buying and selling oil in Euros would devalue the Dollar, with catastrophic consequences for American capitalism, or so Newman says. (Really? Catastrophic? Does that mean an income downgrade from 7 figures to 6 for the upper 1 percent?) Saddam's Iraq was the first of several nations (3 of which are now in Bush's "Axis of Evil") to consider the switch.

Yeah, but the war was a mess and America is weaker because of it. What kind of example did it set? Is anyone supposed to believe the US would or could invade every country that refused to prop up its currency? That's where I have trouble with the theory. But Newman acknowledges this angle too, by impersonating a taunting Venezuela. Maybe he thinks the ruling faction (is it the neo-cons or the Bush Cabal? Skull 'n Bones?) were so delusional and hubristic that they really thought their bravado would work - and they could actually whip a little cultural imperialism, or just plain imperialism, on Iraq and call it democracy. Sufficient cover for the sheep back home, sufficient hegemony in the middle east to ensure fear and respect. Is it too much of a stretch to think they were so lethally naive?

There's so many other possible reasons for the war. And Newman did say it was a cause, not the cause. But when you think about it, it does fit into a pattern of foreign policy. Well, I'm not a political commentator, that much is obvious. But I like to try and keep up with the world, when I can.

"Robert Newman gets to grips with the wars and politics of the last hundred years - but rather than adhering to the history we were fed at school, he places oil centre stage as the cause of all commotion. This innovative history programme is based around Robert Newman's stand-up act and supported by resourceful archive sequences and stills with satirical impersonations of historical figures from Mayan priests to Archduke Ferdinand. Quirky details such as a bicycle powered street lamp on the stage brings home the pertinent question of just how we are going to survive when the world's oil supplies are finally exhausted."

Sever the Saccharine

Or maybe not. Maybe douse it in alcohol, make a tincture. Overripe, overwrought. But having purpose in some secret chasm. If I can milk the moment, I will.

I've crawled through the mud of jaded glades before. So many times. Is it a random walk? Is it what McKenna called "history?" Just watched a two-hour speedrun of Mario 64. One hundred and twenty stars. Dreamed of crack, like I usually do. The usual metaphors.

Not severed, not cynical enough. I want to pick the vines clean, but I can't find them all. Secrets. Information isn't objectively overloaded, I just haven't grown my new lobes. Atrophy. But I know there's more. Can't be patient. Gentleman caller, flopped the riff, sinkhole, enamel stripped teeth - but not totally ruined. The scrapyard, the starpower in the scrapyard. Run, run, run! Haha. Leave my friends behind, abandon family, bounce to the virtues of the virtual, run the code, run.

Did the tryptamine intercolate correctly? What does that mean for my future? Our future? They said the philosopher's stone is at the top of the tallest mountain. Poetry won't get me out of this mess. I'll pick the vine clean. See if I can see what it means.

When are they going to build the autobahn for the collective consciousness? The internet is supposed to be that, maybe it is. Except it's twisted. Like it's supposed to be, perhaps. Like in my devil gnosis, the necessary evil, the misery I must spread before I shuffle off this mortal coil, plagued kiss-off before the fentanyl vault - the welfare cosmos. Not that I don't see stars on the horizon. Distorted through the jitters, ocular oscillation. But I see them.

re: invest your money wisely

if you want to spend your old age in something

a step above a coldwater flat in st. pete

the most important thing about being a step up

is your view on the people below because

without that, where have you arrived?

no, none of those suits make you look

dynamic and resourceful, and the green cotton

might make a great haiku but, you know

kung fu, you know where your opposing drone

is going to move the bishop, you know

there's no point wasting time

step to me punk 

and you're gonna get a beating

generic crunk rap

is the classical music of the future

i don't know quite how to feel about that

so i laugh, imagining the novelty of

geezers in coldwater flats harvesting

carbon-based energy, downloading television

(crichton was a pessimist

he never saw the use for a greenhouse)

tundra will be an ancient relic

like andy warhol

and i didn't build the orange bridge

but i drove a car over the orange bridge

so many times, sinful times, good times

and my consumption motivated those

people to build the orange bridge

so you can thank me for that

and my contribution to evolution

is to slough off survival

yes, i'm the omniscient plant

the lotus eaten, i don't care

i don't even rock, i'm pawn scum

punk scuzz with an overgrown hawk

and nothing to sell

i won't fight for higher ground

i’ll kill myself before i kill you

that's the hippie craque guarantee

when the melting glaciers drown the orange bridge

i give up

i give up on humanity, the orange bridge

necessary evil

last autumn

i somehow wound up with a zastrozzi complex
things converged:
psyche, diet, configuration, social situation
in such a way as to make me relate
to the guilt-stricken zastrozzi
tortured with the obligation of balancing the scales
with vengeance
righteous vengeance naturally
if you’re going to do something
do it right, cut that loser Victor into
32 pieces of equal size
but even evil for the sake of evil
yes real red-blooded, full-bodied evil
to avoid the saccharine hell of the
imbalanced, sick, pleasantly vague facsimile of reality

somehow i could relate to that imperative perfectly
when happiness was mania, everything ill-gotten, unearned
and there was a fundamental flaw in the function of feeling
life being fractally wrong
and getting wronger with every moment
and every thought

i wrote music for zastrozzi
the character theme wasn't near agitated enough
mere melancholy, though i guess it sounds like i feel
when i'm resigned to the toxicity of this
strip-mined wasteland of
gurgling information, tapwater, power lines, tumour vibes
fiber optic nursery rhymes, lenticular curriculums for
flying saucer apprenticeships and gaktastic nasal drips
post hocking knowledge for triumph of the willful delirium

today i still feel that evil is necessary
but i’ve managed to shrug off the burden
of being the necessary agent for carrying out this evil, me
the humble purple prosist from munchkin land
a kaleidoscopesmith
who would rather chill on the boards than start shit
and who would like to read poetry, and say what i like
about the poems i read
and not talk about what i don't like
cause that never motivates me anyway
when criticism is contrived and my natural
healthy flow of information is my dolce dynamics
mezzoforte, meandering, non-malicious
whatever decadence and complacency that contributes to
because someone else can be the asshole
the target for a divided puppet army
vintage allusion in ten years
golden oldey

I was absolutely crackers last night

If I said anything inappropriate, sorry. I wrote a lot of email. A lot of E mail... get it? Of course, this is one of those second guessing mornings. I love people - sometimes a little too much. Sometimes I go too far with the expression. Oh well, I suppose it's better than depression. Really, no one could possibly care how cool I am as much as I do myself. My self-imposed standards. Hey, if it's cool with you, it's cool with me.

Counting tree rings in the silicon forest. I guess I'm not totally hollowed out. I still have poetry. I have good friends, and good family. I cracked myself wide open last night. So things are messy. Don't know how to feel about it. Can't get a hold on the overcast aesthetic this morning. The crystal ship is being filled. But I'd rather chill at the harbor.

I definitely need to write something, a bulletin, navigate the 2nd through 7th guesses. Towers of glass and steel.

I might feel like hiding from the world for a while. The experiment went awry. I don't want to stick around and be blamed for the results. By that, I mean the experiment of being cracked. There's a Sonic on a space colony, solar fuel.

end program

Bury discipline. I can't stand my profile. Ground zero is black glass spray painted to look like a human life. Tendons and shards. Dirty lensgrinder. Quaint backwards password. Fragments, memories, ideas with fleeting meaning. No essay tonight. No composition. No composure. Can't be bothered to do anything. Even the song I still feel. Drowning in phlegm. Comp is being hacked to pieces at the chop shop. I'm being sold new parts by the mafia. They're going to install the bare minimum software, the rest is up to me.

How do they do it? The mafioso? It must be life force. Capitalist incentive. The kind that motivates me to quit the game. Like Cziffra motivated pianists to quit playing.

Again, I'm tempted to buy stock in the fentanyl vault. Again, a vacation, another tight circle, another tight headache. Can't break the cycle. Why does the tip keep me coming back? Crypto-zoology. Been sick so long it seems like health to me. What order can I arrange these sentences in so that they carry maximum weight? Can I create isotopes? Irradiate the forest?

Swept across the floor, snug as a bug on drugs. I can ignore the sweep of history if I have the will. The powder didn't kill me. Its function was dubious. Chemicals don't help. Religion is a joke. It's all a swoon now. A solvent swoon, solving nothing. I ran out of luck. Luck is a fortunate order of information. You can hop along the top of its sawtooth peaks until you fall off.

Now someone wants in. Habitual novelty. Nasal fixation. I want to sleep but I can't. I've slept too much already. More would be fine. Atrophy the lungs, accelerate the end.

Can't study music. I don't have the drive. I should accept that. And I should have known. It's moronic that I keep deluding myself - THIS time it'll be different. THIS time I'm motivated. THIS time is always a 13-hour Reich at best. Razed regime. For the best maybe. Who cares if my fingers can do this or that? What does it matter anyway?

I'm not used or abused. Cause I have no function. Wish I could hallucinate but I can't.

F lock. Steak and potatoes. Finger shuffle. When you threw us to the wolves we could see nowhere else for you to end up but hell. It was involuntary perception. It was mandatory. Material to work with. Fish flap in the oceanic abyss. I want to see the rubble above my head. But being epic would necessitate a fundamental flaw in the fabric of whatever the fuck the fabric is. Form, function, scroll lock. Redundant pyramid cap, sarcophagus of refuge. How many dead lands have I travelled? It will be different when it's different. Always compound. As long as it's compound. Grammar will dictate. Holodeck, end program. End program. END PROGRAM!

Myth

Grass, herbs and fruit-bearing trees are created.

Atlantis had nothing on Eden.

I'm a quivering High Strung carnivorous dichotomy. Narrow band of jittery frequencies. Munching on a pastry. We bring the myth back occasionally. Drinking coffee. Trying to reset the circadian rhythm. In the absense of the Pharoah. He was put out to pasture before he could put me to work.

Clear formatting. Clear formatting. If only it were that easy. The plywood village still stands, mocking me - children in their new playground - my old playground. Play things.

Genetic method

Awkward, forced, sincerely moronic persuasion. If it fell upon me to prevent the black sheep in the family from self-destruction – I would give a speech. It would be lame. But the emotion might show through anyway. The genuine desire to keep a parent, sibling, whatever. If I was hanging from the rock, I’d probably want to survive. But at some point, I might just give in to gravity, let go. In the chasm, nothing is off limits.

I’ll settle for your crumbs at this point. They’re all I deserve. Your crumbs and my thumb. Momentary addiction that doesn’t touch the general deficiency. Of mental sustenance. Too many filthy words here. I thought of smiling, as a strategy. Smiling until the wavelength is mutual. I thought of applying. Applying at a theatre, a laundromat. As a strategy. But the game is rigged.

Never got to the high horse of meditation. I’m on a rocking horse. Beating a dead horse. Wearing a rut in the floorboards. Bored. Listening to pink noise on headphones. And my own words. This is where the genes diverge. But it’s a different world than in my parents’ day. It’s Hitler’s bunker. Decadent and dying. Information distraction. Now the broad view brings with it all the glares and glints of celestial reflection. 0.11 divergent. Rut run with a sidesplit bulldozer path. Closed to thru traffic.

Class war was supposed to motivate me. But I ran out of red flags. I ran out of people. I don’t want to annoy the public anymore. I gave up the smiling strategy, although I torture myself by looking when I can, for as long as nerve will hold. Then I resume the scowl, the pre-emptive “fuck you”, because you don’t like me. You’re all against me.

Wow, my mood is fucking horrible today. I don’t really know why. My life isn’t any better or worse than last week, by any metric I can devise. And yet, mood is black and bottomless. Has been for a few days now. I don’t even want to bring chemicals into it. Maybe I’m just revealing the surface of darkness. Circumference of sickness. Don’t even have any sarcasm.

Morning Depression

I'm always most depressed when I get up - which is usually the morning these days. Absolute void of enthusiasm for anything today. But finally I decided I have enough song ideas that my life shouldn't be totally meaningless. I need to take a walk first. I'm going to save 5HTP for just before bed, cause that tryptophan probably makes me even more lethargic than I naturally am, and that's pretty damn lethargic. These purposeless tubes of metabolism. They tired me out.

Cotton Mill (at least I'm not trying too hard)

Improvising on Aaron's piano

Pulpit Rock thots

It's been a while. Chattering people to my left. Mother and kids. I'm not annoyed. I can see the cuteness in their sustenance. The afternoon absorption of a luxurious vantage. But vicarious doesn't do it for me. Won't distract me from the void. This yearning for someone to talk with, a stranger, a female with whom to savor sexual tension. Maybe I should invite globber to mail me, but I can't think of a smooth way to do that. Maybe I should do it rough then. What rough beast?

I can't have people knowing the true extent of my desperation. Thus, I never know how to get what I want - penetrate the neuroses, the hangups, the social disease, the scars of having my place in the hierarchy of humanity firmly and blatantly established as a confused and slow-learning adolescent, escaping through games, films, and revenge fantasies.

I'm sitting on the mountaintop, writing in my sacred denver notebook, the one Dez got me. We had a good time in denver. We always have a good time. We're so right for each other that the righteousness overwhelms the wrong. Most of the time.

I told her of the need for novelty. Figured it was time to just be blatant about it, it was in the subtext of everything said anyway.

It's been about four years since I was here on Pulpit Rock, in total despair, thinking Dez had ditched me to live in Vancouver. But she didn't. She made it to Nelson. She gave me the gift of her love. Gave me someone to love.

Emotions continue to dictate a grotesque portion of my thoughts and behavior, but I know that although soul-mates are rare and precious, sex and flesh are terribly tantalizingly omnipresent, and I'm going insane in my complacency.

Omar Khayam's mountains grin smug crinkles of continental drift. The sacredity used to be enough to sustain me. The sanctity, accredited by me, of my home, my town, my valley - it was all I needed. Now I need more. It's not that I'm so burned out I can no longer appreciate the mountains and the woods, and the big pink government building I'll be entering to try and acquire EI money on Monday if I can get off my ass to make my weary pragmatic way down there. But another void has opened up in expanding human experience. The goddamned glory hole. Do the schizo-affective asperger-tourette's twist! It goes like this! You got it!

Ah, don't mind me, I'm just a hungover crybaby this afternoon, paying dearly for my reckless and futile pursuit of pleasure. I should take up meditation, if I can ever manage to stop feeling breath as freaky. Maybe I could reconcile with consciousness.

Insincere obeisance to the secular divinity

I let the eyepowder steep for five minutes. An angel told me I had to chat with the devil. Who am I to argue? I know nothing. I think a lot, what else can this stubby lil entelechy do on the fringe of the vermin vines? A biological pattern, locked in slides. The warm bath of the capitalist west.

Obligation by obligatory tendons drive the dagger-wielding arms of shaking, duty-bound delinquents, delirious, agents of the ultimate frill, the necessary thrill, what you can squeeze out of this frilly biofroth, this mass of conspirators, use and abuse, kill because you're alive.

It's been a long time since school. Back when I read books. Nature doesn't need another book reader apparently, I wasn't cut out for higher mental functioning. I should be running with the wolves, howling at the moongod. An offering.

Ah yes, it's amazing what you recall in certain states. State dependent learning. Hopeless deja-tower, escherian, non-linear. Let Ms. Mensa figure it out. I give up. I fucking give up.

Pedophile memories echo throughout the solipsist's apocalypse afterlife. At some point, they should become a cartoon genocide. A lesson on a Grade 10 history teacher's chalkboard. Is it "holocast" or "holocaust"? He's not sure. At least two of his students think that corruption is what you can boil all the worlds problems down to. Killed a million Irish, blighted potatoes.

The sacred denver notebook

there are some things they can't take away from me - vintage investments, emotions built to weather the storms, dissolved in hydrochloric acid, the nostalgia needle

State Bounded

I'm still shaking. Somehow. Externally? Internally? I can't tell which is which. I wish gravity was less oppressive than it was. But aphex lightened the load a little. A lot sometimes. In those xtal peaks. Really. It should pique everyone's interest. A sparkly cavern into the pulsating power of the mind. Or olde golde words, powdered off into the night. See, this is a perfect illustration of "state-bounded" learning, encoded into my opening statement. You have to be in the mental and physiological combo you were in when you learned the thoughts, the feelings, the behavior, the, whatever... sometimes, the imprints don't imprint, unless you're in a finely-tuned state of mind. Thus it becomes a deja-thread.

Revelation was right behind the corner. But it was shaking. A seizure. Ego-bounded, state-bounded. It's all quite relevent, even if poorly expressed. In mishapen order. It's been a while since sucrets. I regret getting rid of my last batch. It's calling me.

Escape mechanisms. How can you escape if you don't know what you're escaping from? Maybe that's an escapist thought. And state bounded. Muddy the waters, intentionally, consciously, till nothing can possibly resemble truth. Reveal the rusty anchorage biases of those past plastered futilities of thought. Fuzz. If the abyss is near. Need it be?

Moodlights

and resolutions to ride out whatever reality throws at me
whatever perturbations create sublime spline curves in the sickening nature of perception
if it doesn't sound profound, you aren't here right now.

I need a new paradigm. A new place. That will change everything. I can tell.

Ah ah. Soulseek seeks on. Digital music. Infected with sublimity. Brain patterns never tasted this good. Is this hedonism? It's fantastic at this moment. Beautiful. Is beauty chemical? Haven't I exhausted this theme? Can I milk another song out of the fucker? Would anyone want to? What to do, when pink has turned to blue?

Maybe it's time for me to get wrecked again. I lost the algorithm. The key to society. Maybe I should freak out and be a freak. Fuck it.

The stoic freakdom of fuckedered up fringe flange functioning. Haha. I like the sound of that. Is it pro or anti hedonsim? Pro, I'd say, if that means anything.

Silverfish, on the top of the toilet

I'm gregarious tonight - so you get to live.

divine hand

I think that the current administration also believes that leaving now would provide unassailable proof that the invasion was a bad idea in the first place, and that consqeuently, the Presiden't actions are not, in fact, the works of a man who is guided by the supernatural hand of Divine providence. - David Flores

Waiting in the last entrail

I know you'll think less of me in the morning light - syncoptions, perpetually trailor tracing with paths of here we go. It's so easy - to liberate - the instability. Who mistook this steak for chicken?

Beautiful Hell

This Robot Gives Good Banjobs

or

Beautiful Hell

a song by Hippie Craque and Midlope.

***********************************************

We've been doing online messenger jams and accumulating material in a way that's totally novel for me. Chaos and creativity are making life very interesting. The majority of the voice is his - the remaining, thin-sounding vocals are mine.

This is to be the mid-section of a larger song, inspired by my last Shambhala and its corresponding impersonal network of cosmic cause - synthetic chemicals, emotional extremes, hedonism, sexual neuroses, all that jazz.

[ Meth, I need help transcribing some of your words :]

***********************************************

open wide
open up my magic window

it's a beautiful hell

open wide

it's a beautiful hell
to be locked inslides

gnashing teeth and mashing eyes

it's a beautiful hell
to be locked inside

rooftop rumdrops

the magic window of one johnny speedwalker
gnashing teeth and mashing eyes

it's a beautiful hell
to be locked inslides

serotonin’s still flowing
and everything's alright
the night's still glowing
everything's out of sight

emotion is chemical
this is my ex-memory

dendrite snow, pale confusion
red sky
red sky

if you're happy and you know it, grind your jaw
the iron fortress of your jaw
the iron fortress of your jaw

architrave, arc-en-ciel, argus smiles at you

the robot gives good banjobs
everybody needs a banjob now and then
don't remember the first time i smoked crack
but i sure do remember my first banjob

banjobs for everybody
everyone should feel this good
dopamine is foodstamped today

try your luck with me today
my good news gospel - MDMA
is on full display

keep the buzz going
keep the buzz going
the buzz keeps going
the buzz keeps going

serotonin's still flowing
and everything's alright
the night's still glowing
everything's out of sight

emotion is chemical
it's the guilty reality
there's no point denying
what the window has allowed me to see
cause it feels alright
it feels alright

it's only been three and a half hours
surely this is just an ebb, not the end
just an ebb, not the end
just an ebb, not the end
just an ebb, not the end
it's just an ebb, not the end

please don't take away my magic window
now i have no god to pray to
please don't take away my magic window
the iron fortress of your jaw
please don't take away my magic window
now i have no god to pray to
please don't take away my magic window
it's a beautiful hell

the skills to pay the bills

How would I say it, close enough to the point, and garbled in an unfriendly idiom? I’m straining to regain access to states of inspiration, when words had meaning. But those are old paradigm things. I just don’t have the energy. What is this? Inability to adjust to dayshift? Chemicals? It’s lame, but it’s better than mania. I’m self absorbed and moody. But not feeling guilt or fear. I just feel empty, blank, dead.

I don’t have the skills or will to change things for me. Made coffee, and now I’m just staring at it. All my projects seem so full of shit. Just this ridiculous person I am, of no consequence, why should I continue any of his activities? I’d rather just be someone else, anyone else. But how I would do that, I don’t know.

Could write about my life in larger context, but I’m too lazy to change focus from this microscopic slide. That last line was almost poetic, for a second it perked me up, actually got me interested in something, felt like a writer again, had some purpose. But it was a blip. I’m writing this in microsoft word, with the assumption that I will copy this into blogger, and post, for others to read. Without that connection to a potential audience of 3 or 4 people, I can rarely motivate myself to write anything.

I can’t analyze the economy, or the empire game, or the question of how necessary is corruption, and is there a better way… so I analyze my moods, and my writing. Just what the world needs. A self-absorbed moody writer, writing about his self-absorbed moods. Yes, the grand purpose. Hey, this sarcasm actually tastes good to me, feels purposeful, in a narrow, first-person way. Even as I’m aware how pointless it is beyond the microscope slide (wow, actual continuation of the metaphorical thread) and how lacking in taste and decency this is, and how it rambles, and how the word “ramble” is the height of amateur self-deprecation, and how this is not good enough to justify editing, and how… okay, this device is dumb.

Dinosaur Dumb. Sino-Persian crumbs on the rum-sticky floor, vapours pouring from under the crackhouse door. Ramen noodle hallucinations, randomly placed in a Nielson Family’s living room. Scored for Banjo and three warbled french horns, time for my bug-powder snuff. I guess I had faith all along that this session of tired writing would yield something of worth. Not that I can DO anything with it. It’s a troll under a bridge.

Johnny Speedwalker's Magic Window

A drawing I finished today, inspired by the last Shambhala. Just a quick and dirty digi-cam shot for now, hopefully I will get a good scan later.