the neighbor's porch

We should count ourselves lucky. How good the time is lasting. How time is lasting good. That means something right now. Nevermind kinetics. I'm self aware but it's of no consequence. I can do anything without any repercussion I'm willing to worry over. Like my neighbor's porch. I've never even talked to those old folks. But they're kindly, I know, everyone's kindly. Like me. Let's go.

It's somewhere past midnight and I'm beckoning you, and you're enough on my wavelength to come. That old fogey house, follow me, follow my lead, my lead sheet, like it's your bible. It's MY bible after all, it's good enough for me. The world is my home. I wonder, I loudly inquire of you, and I know your answer will be golden: What ethnicity is this old couple, the Edilizias? Sounds Italian to me. Let's go into the history and what it means for everything. No, pull up a chair, it's alright, I swear, these are my neighbors, even though I've never talked to them, everything is alright.

"Bring the NOISE!" I scream and you laugh. We're sitting on my neighbor's rocking chairs, on their porch. We wandered up here from downtown and made ourselves at home, in this beautiful sloped suburb, with casual haste, blood engorged dynamos. Night. A little nichtmusik, maestro. We crashed this quiet hood, immaculate, and I have just acquired three hundred things to say about their garden. Let's have a garden party, a luau in the strawberry patch. Teach me, you wizened depression era survivors, I have so much to learn.

Now I insist we do a vocal version of the Anthrax/Public Enemy rap-metal song Rick Rubin helped engineer. You oblige, gamely, that's why I keep you around, you beautiful person, I love looking into your eyes and seeing how I can appreciate how genuine your flesh basket is. This is Window. Bring the noise. It will fuel a thirty minute conversation I will compress into forty seconds. That's how things work here. After I'm done schooling you on Rick Rubin, some other subject will immediately occur to me.

Actually, forget Rick Rubin, don't you LOVE the WOOD of these CHAIRS? This is what they call Heaven on Earth. What are we going to do when our noise wakes up these italian neighbors, you wonder. Won't they freak out? What if they have a shotgun? I scream laughter. This is Canada. We're axe murderers up here. If there's anything to worry about, it's the hatchet. We will meld with their lineage, that's all. I know that's impractical, I know there is such a thing as reality, and this is not it, but that just encourages me. I'm incorrigible. You're in my entourage. It's okay. I'm loving it and so should you. This is the only time I'm capable of commanding an entourage. We'll tour the arbitrage.

Uh oh. You notice it first, but I swivel my head in the happy jitter of knee-jerk. Reaction. They're up. Mr. Edilizias, his wife hi pitching something in the catacombs of inside. He doesn't look happy. Well why would he be? It's okay, I can deal with this situation. No, I know I can't, because despite my best intentions, my impossible to control physical jitters will give away too much context. I'll let you do the talking and try not to look too crazy.

You say, "Hey, sorry, we were just hanging on your porch for a minute, we're going now, sorry to disturb you." You always know what to do. Maybe you saved my life.

We should hang, I think, we can work it out. But no, despite how low gravity is for me, I know we must go. And that's okay. Hey, heaven is everywhere.

Although the first crack is in my head now. The sink. The drain. There's no way to avoid the crash, I know that feeling. But wait. It's gone. The good is back. It's sweet again. I feel it in my body, the warmth. And it's lasting again. Oh good, oh God. I don't thank God for heaven, that's sacrilegious. It's a sin, like the spacemen said.

But it's swirling again, toward the death, the destination. Damnit. The way it goes down the drain is so sad, I don't know what to do. When you slowly, oh so slowly run out of things to talk about, a drawn out torturous death of night, when you have time to try and find some way to be upbeat, some way that will be forever elusive, but you try. You don't try though, you're more sophisticated than me. That's why I get higher, that's why I crash so hard. The ridiculous reality is that this empty ness, this grave is the price of regaining dignity. What good is that? It's the currency, it's how we buy fuel. We gave up happiness, but we didn’t give up gas. Dignity is dollars.

Imagination

I used to take everything people said to me at face value, because I didn't have enough understanding of psychology, social norms, etiquettes, indirect expression, euphemisms, head games, hierarchies, all those complexities.

This literal approach kept me comfortable. I wasn't over-burdened with paranoia. If the joke was on me, so what? I had better things to think about. And so the joke was really on them. At any rate, I was benignly oblivious to other people's passive aggressive bullshit.

Then I gradually learned things, ways people communicate, other than plain english. An overwhelming amount of information, learned the hard way, sobering up after revealing drug-fueled nights, sick revelations, when it dawns on me what the truth of the situation was, is.

After enough of this gnosis, I've gotten hubristic about it. I've started to think my understanding has arrived at a level where I can deduce the unsaid implications of every fragment of conversation. The assumption isn't questioned. In social situations, which are tense to begin with, my reaction to language is colored by my mental state at the time. Could be anything from outrageously negative to pathetically gregarious.

I ask someone at a party what his email address is. He says he doesn’t have one. I immediately assume he’s just not telling me what it is, shunting me off, locking me out. My brain tells me that I know the ugly reality of things now, the way people convey their dislike of me, letting me crack the code myself, to confirm my failure. The negative thought, enabled by the hard-won social analyzer in my brain, gives rise to the emotion, which takes over. Even if I can correct the thought, the emotional damage has been done, souring future interaction.

Every paranoia that's confirmed requires a dozen unambiguously good dealings with society to counter-balance. Thus, it's several steps back every time.

A few days ago I took dramamine and had conversations with people who weren't there. It was interesting. I think it gave me an insight into what some mental conditions, which fall under the unwieldy umbrella "schizophrenia", are like. I was in a bit of a haze, the fringes of delirium, but still functioning normally, I thought. Sitting alone at the table, under the Gyro gazebo at dawn with my MP3 player, dissociated, barely feeling my body. I was seeing peripheral hallucinations so constantly that I was ignoring them now. Cars coming at me, people, animals that turned out to be trees, fire hydrants, whatever. It was all fairly pedestrian.

I guess when I sat down, stopped walking, the sedentary position severed me from reality without my knowing. I started having one of those one-way conversations that I get into when I’m by myself, and working out some idea, or problem with a de-personalized facsimile of someone I know – but at some point, that turned into me having a two-way conversation with T, who was sitting on the other side of the table, talking back – which seemed perfectly normal to me. This went on for some impossible to determine period (time can get weird in those twilight states), before I snapped out of it, and realized there was nobody there.

So at some point, the “idea” of talking to T carried over to the audio sense, which then encompassed the visual sense – so by then, you’re talking full blown hallucination – a bonafide benchmark. But senses are so slippery and it happens so subtly that even when you’re bracing for the hallucination, you miss it! It is like a waking dream. It was the mundane minutia, the patterns, with a bit of mental flotsam, fragments. Strange, and surreal, I guess, but not big, bright archetypes, like a Dali painting. But it’s that limbo that fascinates me, the twilight state, where you can drift out of touch with reality, completely, then come back a little, enough to recall what happened, what you were seeing, talking to, that wasn’t there.

It was notable for me, because until then, I never really had an intuitive sense of what it was like, for the imagination to replace reality, partially. And totally? I’m not sure if I want to know what that’s like, although I figure if I did three times the dose, I would know.

A dram is better than a damn, part 2

Plateau with columbian stimulants, mixed with common household deliriants - just like the good ol days - ah, i remember why i used to be so content with myself - cause inner space was the shit - golden - full of entrancing ornaments -- resisting the gravity of what seems to be - opting for the manipulation possibilities of the moment - you want to mishear, don't you? then keep listening, keep listening - delusions glistening

a dram is better than a gram, i keep telling myself, i gotta psyche myself into getting edged, like never before... new paradigm, fluid state of mind, all that entails, but in the meantime, i've got an apparatus that must be unearthed. you know what? dram is alright. it's a good thing to be on.

i'm going to subvert a pattern, and start using periods in place of dashes. and yet, continue to refrain from capitalization. talk in the new style. this town should shut up, get up, wake up.

Fucking MySPACE

What the fuck do you do with that? Bootstrap yourself to new heights?

Well do you want to or not? Do you want to mis-hear lyrics? Where's your can do spirit? You're willingness to get MESSSSSED UUUUUUUP, man - totally WRECKED dude, trippin BAALLLZZ? huh? where'd that get to?

A dram is better than a gram, but it's not an easy beckoning ride filled with gritty plumping - what good is a deja thread that only people on cough syrup will understand? even more pertinent: what good is a deja thread that only selves on cough syrup will understand? well, maybe that's the key - maybe it makes all the different, man.

Okay - I guess we're in this for the long hall. It's one of those can do spirit bars. A journey within.

A dram is better than a damn

No past - this is present fix. Or eternally repaired. Golden.

It's been awhile. States of apathy are golden and hard to acheive. The currency on benzo apathy is especially high this season. This season of anxiety. Someone said it was "angsty" if i recall correctly. Seven valerian capsules = apathy, for about an hour.

So I'm just using the augmentors that I've incorporated, on an ad-hoc basis, thus far.

My own music, my own environment. I'm grooving on self-created feedback loops of personal positive aiming associations. Or some euphemism like that. Does that make sense to you? If so, you quality for application to Jonathan Craque's inner circle. Congrats, motherfucker. It's a season in paradise, whatever that passes for, in Colorado. The blue lodge of cabin fever, colorado, the rocky mountain high. I distinguish between maniacs and crazy people. I think it's true, I am going, slowly, schizo - every day I have more to be paranoid about. That's no fun. But it is what it is. Where's my seroquel? Maybe someday, I'll take the zombie trip.

I like the idea of hearing lyrics distort, according to whatever the architecture of my brain might be at the moment. Funhouse mirrors are appealing.

So now it's dram No. 2. That seems profound to me. If gravity fails. I just second guessed something. Might as well report that. Okay. Mini golf. Don't tell me too much information, or I'll enclose, get all cryptic - but I'll bust out with the main vein of plainchant and revelent sayings - pity for non delirius beings - is that a statement that would raise suspicions of a state boundary shift? yeah, probably -- it is what it is, so it goes, et cetera -- a drowning corpse, chained -- sorry to get all cinematic on you - if gravity lulls, we'll put a man on the moon in 69 -- a got accolades, it's good when people respect, even if they call it abstract - but where do i fit in - where do you? maybe, don't worry about it, so much -

maybe eat some donuts, and miss-hear lyrics. scuse me while i kiss this guy.

path

Did I do something wrong? I guess so. Might as well give in to paranoia.

My list of phone numbers. No hope there.

I'm dead sick of looking. For all those things. I've been here, I've been there, I've been available. But I'm always sloppy, sloppy seconds, backup. Put the kid to work, the one who gives you that good warm feeling. I can't provide that. No use.

I'm dead sick of looking. And fuck YOU for your unsolicited opinion. And fuck ME for being all nice about it. Stupid parties, stupid drugs, stupid habits. Conversation that plagues me for weeks afterward.

I'm going to go to sleep I guess - the 20 hour sleep shift. Why do things feel bleak? Why do people feel hostile? It's got to be me, right? My head. Or did I do something wrong, everything wrong? Nobody knows or cares what it does to my head, to show me disrespect.

Fuck you if you won't give me a place.

Maybe I'm slowly turning into a paranoid schizophrenic, developing convictions about the way the world is, how it's set against me - if I'm questioning that every step of the way, maybe I'm okay. But I'm not. And you know what? It's not all me. Some of it is the world.

I guess it's mainly me not having anything to fill the void - not being willing to try and contrive some pathetic distraction, some television show, some silly nelson circuit, sarcastic sacredity. Outside is just outside - the fresh air doesn't do anything for me. It's void time, it's the ultimate trough. And fuck the ultimate trip. What a stupid fucking song, with a horrible title. I should just axe that whole fucking relationship. But I guess I can't, cause she already did that first.

Fuck this town - fuck that other town. Fuck the people here who won't give me a job. After the 80th fucking application, the 20th fucking interview. Fuck you motherfuckers. And fuck you people who string me along with false hope - just keep trying, you'll get something eventually. Try to be positive. After 80 failures. Yeah, this next one will the be ONE man, the dice are hot! Scratch and win. Fuck your lottery system.

So much effort, so much effort, for nothing. Stop asking me to try. Stop asking me to TRY to find a USE for myself! IF THERE'S NOTHING, there's nothing. What the fuck? I'm not a goddamn salesman. I'm here, I'm available, if you need something. But you don't. So just fuck off.

Who gives a shit anyway? I don't even want a job anymore. It's no solution. There is no such thing as status anyway, not for me - employment, that will be an empty shell. What kind of "home" am I gonna make for myself? Empty people, they give me nothing. This is how people become marginal - when they give up. But sometimes it seems like the world is sending you a signal. A big middle finger.

Fuck drugs. Stupid chemical equations, leave me unbalanced. Then I trick myself into doing them again. And now all I can talk about is chemicals, fucking chemicals! Shut the fuck up already! Fuck medicine, grifonia extract. This 5htp isn't doing shit for me, except making my stomach ache. I can't even get high anymore.

Path. Etic. No Q, it's been Canadianized, I'll keep it local.

Firesign Theatre gave me some laughs today. On an upbeat note. People torture children with tickles. I always hated that. Maybe that's part of my idiosyncratic wrongness, what keeps me estranged from society on so many levels, the matrix of pathetic lust - but I never liked being tickled. It gave me nightmares. I still get nightmares from that. It scarred me. When people see you smile, they think, hey, he must be alright. Shallow, superficial assumptions. I laughed at Firesign, cause my brain knew it was funny. But it didn't change my fundamental feeling, how could it? Catharsis? Give me a fucking break. I guess this is catharsis. It's something to do. It's been a month or two since I went on a fuck everything rant. So I'm due. My internal micro-economical accountancy - a lean-to shanty.

gone under

I could nod my head, wordlessly, to trite, shallow observations, but I thought I'd go a little deeper on this occasion - not sure if it's appropriate - but I'm also not sure that living life according to some self-imposed neurosis of what propriety is, is appropos either.

Well now that I'm here, maybe I'll wrangle it till it's unrecognizable. I'm chasing unconsciousness, so maybe that's a stylish way to do it. I said "broken telephone", but I got a lot of puzzled looks and blank states, like nobody knew what I was talking about. One of those. But I've also got a cap of apa. In the figurative sense. Figurative is as far as I can sense. A pale sensation. I'm water colored, today.

The extent to which I value art is inversely proportional to how much I value society. I once said, emotions rule. They do in my little world. My thoughts can transcend feelings, but they won't change the way I feel. Meta-programming sounds like a nice idea, but it's not something I could throw myself into. I think I missed the boat on that. My ship came in, but I was sleeping under the docks. Using the techniques of Cosmic Trigger to go stone crazy. Magic works, apparently. I don't doubt the claim.

I'm still chasing unconsciousness, which is not healthy. It's going to be a long crawl back to health, sobriety, enthusiasm for the life affirming things. A long crawl out of this jagged hole. Another improv, sarcastic and sincere. One of those nights that make you want to hide forever. And it wasn't even that bad. Good at times. I only fell down once, and then I got back up and pretended I was a gymnast. Instead of the putrid perverse pederast I felt like. Dancing with Shannon and Kadafi to classic early millenium Metric.

Are my dice hot? Or not?
Charting higher than the B sharps?

Maybe the objective world is right - maybe everything is the same except my needs changed. Need creates the void. Intelligence is one thing - acting on intelligence, that's a level most people don't get to. Like solving the partial differential equation. It's more base and real to let your words slur like they do when you're in the company of creatures of heirarchy who won't hire you but will lend you a smoke - it's more base and real to realize things, but not have that affect your life any - i won't even say style. The animal in humanity. A gnostic split? I don't think there's any knowledge these days. There's nag hammadi, but I don't trust the translaters.

I've gone under, like the rest of you.

In 2012, I will channel the saving grace, knowledge, salvation, capital G gnosis. Until then, fuck your ipod.

I don't want to know

Too much information.

The kinetics kill everything.

Well, it's predictable.

And yet, horribly, sickeningly novel.

One of those nights.

Disgusting, but a contained retch.

So am I cataloguing
the mess? I just have to find a positive spin, I guess.
I was adept at that, for a time, maybe I can attune
to the apropos wavelength - well, my head was a good
place to be, once upon a time, not like I should READ
anything into recent incidents, because words are a
medium that won't translate to reality

I'm thinking
at this point
a pre-emptive
ex-communication
myself
banished from the world
whatever that might be
are you fringe enough for me?
i'll meet you on the edge

I have webspace again

my new online achive
for music, art, and writing

i finally broke down and bought some space
now i have 300 gb to use as i see fitif anyone needs any hosting
i'd be happy to share some

if there are any glitches, dead links
or navigation problems, please let me know

highway to the jager zone

It's a birthday drink - I'm actually craving it, now that you mention it - I was considering eating some codeine, but I opted for re-heated pasta instead. Four out of five doctors recommend it. The fifth one tells me I’m a pitiful neurotic using cheap and dirty intoxicants to bring a facsimile of excitement to my life, so I might as well go into full bore debauchery and die ASAP, so my socialist state doesn’t end up taking care of my failing lungs and brain well into middle age.

I’m getting sober and thinking a sip of jager would be nice – jager and red bull – stay alert, stay drunk (to a child safety jingle). I’ve got my new power jacket on, the bold black beauty that I picked up at a kansas thrift store. So I’m opportunating under the dangerous assumption that I’m Player One online, playing the game, the one that’ll take me to my end, waiting for the rain, to wash who I am (poorly translated entheogenic lyrics, infected mushroom goa trance, innocent teenage sound, when psychedelics are trippy dude, trippin ballz).

Ripper is a gangster. Even in death. My patron sinner. Forget those columbine fucks, ew, that’s so 1999. Gross. Ripper is a gangster in a glorified crew. There’s no scraps in his scrapbook. Ripper is my homie, I doused the pavement with robitussin in his memory.

What fun is getting fucked up, if you can’t post fucked up shit online? I can say anything I want, this space is Uncouth after all – so you can too. Reservation? No reservation here. Don’t be reserved. Second guesses are the first step toward third world perception. There’s no scraps in my scrapbook. Don’t be reserved. It’ll all be preserved, but omniscience is God, and God is good, right? So it’s all good. Just don’t fuck with me, fool. Be aloof, a backwards fool. Unless aloof is fucking with me, don’t give me no cold vibes when I don’t want them, you aloof muthafucka. Just don’t fall into what my definition of fucking is, at any given moment. Don’t fuck around on me. You’re my bitch now. Your soul belongs to Jesus, but your ass belongs to me.

So what do I do as Player One, Online? Pshhhh, I dunno. I get da honeys G. Livin like a star, drivin in my car, ice on my fingers and my toes and I’m a Taurus. Check check it. So near and so far. Glazed lust, eyes bugging out of my head, the words won’t do it, won’t substitute. So maybe we fucked the sky God, maybe that’s what we have in common. But it was no goddamned substitute. It’s HER city. Her city. Not my city. It’s the promised land, but it was never promised to me. It’s got a window online, but Player One Online can only do so much. He can be a voyeur I guess. Alpinistic heights of voyeurism.

It’s a Hoegaarden evening, I guess, this sickly side of the clock. No sun yet, just fine Belgian ale. All ma hoes be chillin in da garden. If I didn’t reference you, I apologize. You were referenced in spirit, anyway. Hey, I’m at your service. Any requests? Do you accept mastercard? The card that’s hard?

Here comes the headache. Damnit. Why can’t I be a high functioning alcoholic like Christopher Hitchens? A professional asshole? That would be nice.

Low

Where do I go now? What corner? I’m utterly unenthused with everything. All I can think of is to do drugs, but I don’t have any I want. I don’t want uppers. I just want a good downer. I have an opiate but it’s not good enough. I’d take gravol if I had some. I wouldn’t mind hallucinating. I’m tempted to do DXM. Maybe I should do it when I’m tempted, and not when I’m not, like when I usually do it. When I usually do it, I practically have to force myself.

Quite honestly, I feel bad from the pot. I’m a bit drunk too, but it’s really the pot leaving me with this nasty physical mental feeling. All pain is amplified. Aches everywhere. It’s a feeling like crap stone. Really nasty. And it seemed to burn all the creativity and enthusiasm out of me, too. I’d take 5htp, but I worry it hurts my stomach. I kind of crave delirium right now. I feel blah, and a bit fucked up, but at the same time, way too lucid.

My blog seems so lonely. Message boards desolate. Nothing satisfies. I just want to be on some good downers. Not the boring old mainstays of pot and alcohol. Large doses of legal pharmaceuticals would do it for me. DXM, dimenhydrinate, xanax. I wouldn’t do E if I had it, I don’t want to be up, involved in some stupid venture. I just want to retreat deep into my head, my subconscious, surrealism, cryptic symbolism, meaning that I feel, but don’t understand. Give me a twilight state, please.

Maybe I’ll take some more vallies I guess. Never mind naproxem, pain medication seems a little strained, a stretch, gratuitous. Silly, cause I’d do smack if I had some.

My home is an empty shell. My computer is an empty shell. My self is an empty shell.

Maybe I should buy lynze that book about the giant redwood canopies.

Sopranos is over, I’m starting not to really care much, good ride I guess, move on. Sniffing my fingers again. I can’t seem to stop, been doing that a lot lately. It’s like pringles. What the hell is that? Why am I addicted? Is it the smell? Yes, but maybe it’s also the feeling. They work in tandem I guess. It’s weird. It’s my secret habit. Never been caught, as far as I know. But I am routinely so compelled to do it, that I risk it all the time, in public, with friends, etc. Although social situations often suppress the need, get my mind off it. I mainly do the finger sniffing thing when my mind, and my hands, are idle. Not always though.

I’m so blah and blasé. I just want drugs, drugs I don’t have. Fuck it, I don’t want to swallow more vallie caps, but I will. Cause I’m restless, and sluggish at the same time, which sucks. I want to tip the scales to down, so I can sleep, and then get back on artistic and creative things. At least states where I crave stimulants anyway. I was gonna drink coffee all night and work on the script, but I drank some tequila, and smoked some dope, and got this dopey despair about me. And that nasty tension I get with cannabis. There isn’t really good pot and bad pot for me. Pot is pot. Fun sometimes, enhancing sometimes, but often enhancing the wrong things, psychosomatic grit, sore noise generation, weaving patterns of paranoia I can feel in my joints, reworking of jittery neurons.

I can’t listen to any music, it’s all bullshit. All my art is bullshit. Tired, pointless. I don’t feel all that sad though, just blank and bored and blah. It’s sad, but it’s not that deep sadness, that sick sinking feeling that I get on a crash. I don’t feel crashed, I feel like I was never up to begin with. I’m just low, dirty, mired in the mud.

Certain fingertips smell good. Steak and potatoes. Filling, vital. Like they’re the only thing left with any value in the world. Pennies, currency. Current. Au Courante. The drug that satisfies for as long as a sniff. So I keep sniffing. Cigarettelets, vapour snuffs. The drug that makes the inside of my nose sore. That I worry is responsible for me feeling congested all the time – maybe fingertip bacteria is infecting my nasal cavities, or maybe that’s just hypochondria. Maybe my recent chronic seeming congestion is hereditary, faulty genes passed down from my dad. I’ll be bald too, some day. But my vision is strangely okay. Adequate, anyway.

I read chelsea’s blog a bit, wondered if she read my comments. I was happy to see chels, one of the few who commented on my song. She intrigues me. I like saying her name too. Thinking it. But I can’t read much in this state. And I haven’t been reading much in a while. I can’t absorb information that way very easily anymore. I can do it, but I tend to have to force myself. What does this imply? Did I just get lazy? But that means I lost my passion for reading. I just don’t really like it anymore. I prefer to read in little chunks, magazine or message board format, articles, columns, posts. Although I can barely stand poems. To be honest, I’d much sooner read a short story than a poem. And yet I’m a poet. I participate in a few circle jerks, I see how cynical and sick it all is, but it’s something anyway, I’m coming to accept it, so what if it isn’t perfect and pure?

Pabst drinker celebrates Pabst purchase with Pabst

Lone Man with Six Pack “partying”

Yes, I’ll have another. Why wouldn’t I?

I’m stealing my life from bits of the others. There is nothing new for me to do
but there are new things to feel, through doing the same things. A sentiment. A stunt double on death row. I’ve seen people try to reference others, sharing – why apologize for empathy? It’s one way – I respect it – maybe I respect too much. Sometimes I feel guilty for not being enough of an asshole.

The further I go down this path, the less I can say, the words drain, feelings amplify. It becomes a blooming buzz to behold. Escallates the war with myself. Why don’t I just call bad writing “first principles” and start from there. Justify everything, but not rationalize. This is way too fragmented, but it’s honest. We all have our paths to honesty. I’m transcribing my stream of fucked up consciousness with fidelity, although it’s also filtered through stylized, over-written prose. I have referenced real people in the past

It’s sad that such passions seem so illicit when certain states wear off. “Certain states”, heh, pussy boy euphemism. Like I can’t say that I’m talking about being fucked up, drug induced. Like I’d rather encompass that, but make it vague, so it could mean more things. Well, drugs were romantic for me once, they still are I guess, but now they’re more like romance novels, daniel steel paperbacks, worn, trite. But I keep reading them. Writing them.

Well that’s because when I’m fucked up, but still articulate, by some stretch of the imagination, I find it very meaningful. In fact the only meaningful thing is to talk about my warping state of mind. It was profound and it is profound, but I can’t really do anything with it. I can’t write any satifying whole here, cause my outlook is changing too rapidly, and yet there’s a general fucked up mood to this situation, I’m failing to encapsulate it, but maybe it comes through anyway.

Sometimes I get so needy it scares me, but the need evaporates eventually, mercifully, to lie dormant for a short season, the manic end of the two week cycle, to strike again, when I least need it. Voids. There’s got to be a level of mental weariness never felt until this time. The imprint of the information age is just beginning to be noticed, I think. But theories end up disappointing. I guess everything ends up disappointing, because I’m in a fucked up state of mind right now.

Tonight, I did the open stage thing. It was one of those. Some music. Nothing I need for my scrapbook. I want to let my hand slAck, let slip the expectations, all of them, feel the weight drop. My lovely lack of need. For memories. For people. I’ll forget them all. Lest I be vexed. Even if they’re good strong memories, good strong people – so what? I’ll let them die anyway.

Now I can’t help thinking about death. Remember, adults, considering suicide isn’t the same thing as wanting to kill yourself. It’s just fun to think about. The ideal of peace. It’s funny when you think about it. A short term solution to your problems. But it’s also emblematic as something resembling “eternal peace” – emblematic, who knows what it really is? But you’d think it would be a pretty lasting decision, in some kind of way. It’s fun to think that I’d rather kill myself than continue to look for work – the whole thing is ridiculous. I’m utterly perverse in this society. I don’t belong. And yet, I have integrated vastly – I wasn’t “born yesterday” – I now have massive empathy with all kinds of people – understanding of how they think and feel – and yet I’m still out of place. Let’s not call it aspergers, cause that sounds like a vegetable, and I don’t want to ride the short bus for chess masters. Fuck that. And my eccentric suit hasn’t fit in years. It’s not my strong suit. I just love the idea of dying – it’s a beautiful idea. I’m just fucked up right now, that’s all. But now, I won’t disavow this, I’ve already signed a waver.

Crack in the Kootenays

music, lyrics, vocals, and recording by Jonathan Deon
some cool madtracker sounds by Cpt. Orr



listen (mp3)



***

this is a dream
there is a girl
a deadpan girl
a hollow girl
a hell of a shell of a local girl

i know this girl
from homeroom class
she seemed so fragile then like she was made of glass
she cracked, she cracked
but now she's back

this is a dream
but this is life
there is a girl
a hollow girl
i want to know what's in that void
i want to know what's in that void

she says hey, you wanna do some blow
i say i don't know, oh hell let's go

she says sheepishly
she says actually
she says that it's really rock, it's really rock, it's really

it's the
crack in the kootenays, it's the
hole in my head, it's the
chemical solution
to the problem i never had

rock and rock and rock and roll it
rock and roll

it's the
crack in the kootenays, it's the
hole in my head, it's the
chemical solution
to the problem i never had

rock and
rock and
rock and roll it
rock and roll (just give me a taste)

i hit the pipe
it hits me hard
i'm on fire, i'm on fire
not like pryor, it's figurative

i hit the pipe
it's in my head
the answer, positive, affirmative, the pain is dead dead dead

solid joy
pouring in
concrete pleasure physics, mechanistic bliss


rock and rock and rock and roll it
this will end soon
rock and rock and rock and roll it
this will end soon

where can i get
another hit
my life is strobing now, i need to find the switch


did you learn the diamond sutra in pre-school, or was it assumed?
i'm not sure what color eternity is
mental, physical, vegetable, mineral
lottery-winning animal
still primed for pain after all this evolution

what do you do with endorphins?
maybe you've done too much
rubbed out your spots
changed into the veil, a mucus membrane
between life and death

vitamin c will not fill the void
but i chew the tablet anyway
tasty citrus, and my health is improved, by micrograms
that may tip the fractal scales, turn a bad day into good
yeah right

you don't wanna see
what's inside
you don't wanna know
how it works

inner workings are a jerk off
in the land of hysterics, the stoic is king

i must simulate the innocence, simulate the innocence
cause i'll be guilty
to the end of this peaked earth

candied cortex tastes so sweet
peak pyramid scam, the pharaoh’s curse

drowning in embalming fluid
drowning in embalming fluid


searching for the genuine ethereal joy
concrete doesn't satisfy
eden's lost, eden's lost
and the machine is broken
concrete doesn't satisfy

searching for the genuine ethereal joy
novelty is old news, innocence is ancient
thinking man is just a broken toy
i am not a tweaker, i am not a tweaker

searching for the genuine ethereal joy (i am not a tweaker)
concrete doesn't satisfy
eden's lost, eden's lost
and the machine is broken

i have come
to the canadian land of the dead (i am not a tweaker)
via the rosebush covered tombstone

i have come
to the canadian land of the dead
via the
rosebush covered tombstone
via the
rosebush covered tombstone
through the crack in the kootenays

it's the
crack in the kootenays, it's the
hole in my head, it's the
chemical solution
to the problem i never had

rock and rock and rock and roll it
rock and roll, it's the

crack in the kootenays, it's the
hole in my head, it's the
chemical solution
to a problem i never had

rock and rock and rock and roll it
rock and roll it, yeah


life is a pretty sweet fruit
for as long as it lasts
are you living anymore
are you living anymore
life
is a pretty strange fruit
when you're hanging from the noose
are you living anymore
are you living anymore
life
is a pretty sweet fruit
when you're gorging on an orange
are you getting any pleasure
are you getting any vitamin c
life
is a chemical flux
are your chemicals fluxing
are you living anymore
are you living anymore
are you living anymore
are you getting any vitamin c