30 Aug 2007
In limbo. Could get higher, but it's a work night. But I'm high enough to want to write about the usual recreational subject. More and more, drugs are a drug thing. More and more. A self-reinforcing loop. Enforcing. Encircling. I've been carrying the angel and the devil into it. So there's always guilt amid exaltation. Gloria in excess diablo. But I know I'm forgetting certain states. But I don't really mind the self-reinforcing subject, even as the angel whispers shameful laments. And I don't mind writing portentious things that I criticize others for writing. It's all good. Taking drugs to write words to take drugs to. It's the Shambhala mindset that finch was perpetually ranting against. Well I can't argue that it seems disgusting, when the drugs wear off. It's like MSG. It's not supposed to be good for you.
But I remember things. Reasons. For being. Dead reasons. Resurrected reasons. Graves of reason. Encountering epitaphs on the oregon trail. The guy that died of dysentery. No reason, unless you look microscopically.
What I discovered, after a riverbed of carcasses. It's so important because it's mine. The stately rot on foamy pebbles. So beautiful because it's in my head. So ugly because it's mine. So important. Imagery bubbling up from the unconscious in a rotting stream - the herrings seem red but they're not - the metaphor is imposed, a false shade. Electron mace was an intended image, not tied to association. A shade of granite, charged. I'd rather have it forever unfulfilled, blueballs till the lifeforce dies. Dried stain of fecund uselessness.
26 Aug 2007
We told a story together, based on fragments of trips, and television shows, and shared mythology, and odd personal anecdotes. It was about two ninjas, except they weren't turtles. But mutagen was involved. She riffed on me, with me. It proved to be a real jam party.
This white wine tastes almost good. Blanc. The golden tint. It satiates the craving. A minute ago, I was jonseying for a beer - a beer, you can't buy beer this time of night, BEER, the designated drug of the proud working class, was not available on demand, in Nelson. But White Wine was. Another drunk jam party at Jonathan Deon's parents' house, this time with Aki. She makes everything better. It's the usual stupidity, in which I feel like I can do no wrong, or the wrong I do doesn't matter. I connect with my inner asshole, and it gets me chicks like Aki.
I'm drunk on weed. Imagining life as it should be. The proper regime of my aesthetic unit, my legions, sworn to defend the fatherland porch, a splint off faction that will spark the Canadian Civil War of 2061 to 2065. It just goes on and on and on, as journey observed.
Aliens look like Asians. Coincidence? They both have the same number of letters. Coincidence? Aki is releasing my endorphins. Coincidence? It's infuriating, how da bitchez and hos have that power over me. The Elf Tykes almost abducted me tonight, to make me face the trans-personal-oberfetus-starchild. They were going to ruin a Strauss Tone Poem for me, clockwork orange style, one Vic Sagerquist said contained the greatest five minutes of classical music ever written about fifteen minutes in, one I wasn't all that crazy about anyway. There are lysergic crystals coating the walls and DMT vapour in the air. It feels vintage. But it's older than that. It's ancient. And yet binding to modern synthetic molecules. It's the necessary prodigal perversity, to get into medieval mythology on your ass, and gnostic certainty. You don't know yet, but you will one day. You’ll snort it off a hooker’s backside, but you’ll never kiss her. Like those other deja-vu daze. The stock market will crash, and then magically rise, quasi phoenix, from the ashes.
25 Aug 2007
21 Aug 2007
18 Aug 2007
I've got a headache now. Tequila isn't kind to me. Plus I'm sick. This stupid cold I thought was mild, tonight feels unbearable. It just hangs around, an obnoxious guest making everything unbearable. Able. I'm able though, I'll bear it, what else can I do? Suck off the power grid. Can't bother fighting addiction. I don't read the peak oil bloggers anymore. I'd rather act like everything's alright. Think about what cultural items today will be delightful vintage entertainment in 20 years, when I’m watching them on whatever youtube equivalent exists on the still lit internets. Haha, internets, plural, how hilarious, another opportunity to make fun of Bush. God. How tired. How tired everything is. I still sound so much like myself.
Build me a woman, make her ten feet tall. I don't care anymore. Except when I care. When I get so needy, needy, when nobody's trying to please me baby. Hey. Blow me. I'll buy you a ninety dollar hoodie. I'll share my disease. I'll allow myself bitterness. The bitter property on the monopoly board. How everything's been perfected, how there was a time in history when the million dollar chord progression was unwritten and that great combination of rock guitars was waiting for some hard-livin’ axe-men, they would stumble upon a crowd-thrilling combo while a creature of instinct would accidentally channel bowie with his whiny yet impossibly awesome voice, oh yes, it's possible, in fact mandatory, it wasn't actually a stumble, it was a swagger into inexorable rock perfection, it took a little of los angeles and a smattering of seattle, and all the bourbon-soaked roots, and half the cocaine in columbia, and it probably wouldn't end well, we'll see, when China gets democracy, and the appetite for destruction is a craving for creation, the creation of a bed and breakfast chain that makes slightly different scones in each location, from the Ozarks to the Kootenays, with a slight variance of chatter over pastries and decaf, a chat about hurricanes, and sugar cane, and raising caine, a bad pun marring a brilliant song. The perfect riff, the perfect melody, and now all that's left, for artists, is to pervert the perfection, discover an unUSED dissonance, contrive the chaos, sift noise into an ugly statement on artistic overdose - what a goddamned calling it is now. Hello? Do I want more minutes? Sure, pile them on. I know your voice, you're the Holy Grail's automated calling, you're still shooting down those vintage copper wires, you want me, I'm so lucky, you called me, Holy Shit.
This night sucks. It sucks the bag. It sucks like an electrolux. Which is why I'm writing. All there is to do. It's all so unfair. The things I can't say. The excess flesh. What the fuck is it doing here? And I thought there was no more room for self-loathing. Yeah, just keep packing them in, Seymour. We'll roll another educational film. Then we'll swallow tripe. Hopefully we'll chew it up first. We'll kill another cow. Tomorrow's mills and processing facilities. I am not proud.
It's gotta get worse before it gets better. Maybe the naproxies kicked in. Headache ebbed slightly. Just slightly. But it almost makes me feel better - opens the door a crack, the sicklight spills out. The hint of a chill on the back of my hand. Teflon slip off the sensual. So aware how sick I am. Mmm, that thinkin thang. All I got is samples. That's my pocket change, mixed with lint. I'll buy you a coffee. You will give me charity by pondering the aggregate, even a little, maybe even writing about your impression of the aggregate, this dirty aggregate, this sickly gestalt, a twenty dollar bill in my space case, case o space, but don't advertise, it's not that impressive, it's inflation.
Can't savour the candy taste of casually bandied about apocalypse, a cutesy end theme, game over in a square wave cadence. It's not guilty but it's not innocent. Tell me it's just my head. Tell me it's just my head. Ugh, oh no, that didn't work like I thought it would. Distract me. Distract me. Take my hand. No, no. No. I'm not worthy. Don't do that, I'll infect you. Do you know where the flowers are? Do you know the names? I need to know the names, you must tell me.
I've lived 25 years now. When I converse with people, it seems all re-hash. Even strange and interesting new people. And yet I'm uneducated and inexperienced. Still, it's all re-hash. I made my prison. I didn't stretch. I atrophied. I, I, I, oh God. Shut the fuck up. Wishing for that great break-out that will change my style. But wishing won't make it so. I WANT to be motivated. I want it on a silver platter. Rogers and Hammerstein. Give me my freedom. Give me my dreamcoat. Delirium is something. The curdled substantial.
I wonder why meth_maker keeps the moniker. Maybe because it's so disgusting. If there's a sentiment, I can't see it. But I could imagine it, sort of. The glammer of making meth. Glammer, that cheap magic that is found art, amicably gamical, the kind you find at the red barn, the kind you strip matchheads off to synthesize in a homemade lab, if you can call that junkfuck a home, a tornado would be a mercy wind. Phosphorus precursor poetry. This sulfuric smell is my every day is a birthday bed, it's as far as I got, it's Blaine, Missouri, we make stools, we ship them all over the country. Making hash from the split sensual post-acid haze. It's admirable to express that in poetics, despite the heaviness. I hesitate to describe what meth has made, I called him "ascetic with a cigarette", that seems enough, that's my poetic contribution to the Enigma. When I try and paraphrase the maddening fragments of his condition, I get corrected or negated, generally. But that's as it should be, as he adheres to honesty, despite the confusion, the contradictions. I think there's still potential for novelty in delirium and delusion, I could go back there, get further... but... but... I don't know. Oh. Here comes a kind of rage. Frustration.
14 Aug 2007
8 Aug 2007
I can't write anymore. All I can do is work and sleep. When I come back from work there's nothing. I'd write some flowery poetic metaphor about all this, but I'm empty. I'm fingering a little rind of someone's sympathy. Why'd she mention the sky pussy? I'd put it out of my mind. Now I can't help but think about what I lack. Why don't I attract?
Stop leaving me for dead. I'm not dead, yet. Fucking patterns, tapped, tapwater, emotions on a stingy hospital drip - I'd rather they just pulled the plug. Ugh. What do I have to do? I'd like to complete the transition to being a machine, but unfortunately, for the time-being I feel things, stupid human cravings. People leave me dry.
What's the fucking point? Corrado Soprano's question, an old mobster crying at a funeral. They milked it for laughter, but they didn't turn it into an easy irony. It wasn't a transient moment, between the switching of mood medication. Corrado did get back to pseudo-health at the psyche ward, for a time, roped the guards into his card game, but the alzheimers caught up to him. He never remembered owning Jersey. There was no fucking point. Or maybe there was. The question seems pointless.
My grandma's been slipping. Alice. Well it's been happening for decades. It's so slow. A little piece at a time, a little subscript of the mind. You can't call it dying, cause you can't really see. But whatever it is, I think I should face it about now. Cause I don't know what to think, how to feel. I get uptight when I get deep into it, so I avoid it. She had a stroke of some kind, a minor thing, but now she's confused. I'm prone to feeling better about the situation by callously jumping the gun on euthanasia. Like, oh, what's the point of trying to live with this inevitable decay? It's just increasingly desperate and futile. And then I scream at myself. Futile? To strive for what quality of life you can in your closing years? But the ugly details of life weigh me down, despite idealism. It's awful to be this negative, because it's not. But it is. We still visit her, and chat - she's not completely deaf, just 95% there. But she's still herself. She still enjoys her matinee smokes. But she can't live by herself anymore. She's going to have to go to a nursing home. One of those places where people go to die. One of those clichés I don't like to be real, one of those shitcrumbs bristling from the asshole of truth.
This is disgusting, I'm using my grandma for... the Cheese of Nihilism, part 2: The Expired Provolone Experience. I never wrote about her before. So I'll try and do her some justice. She's a wonderful loving woman, very loyal to her family and friends. Well it's symbiotic loyalty. I've seen her contacts shrink, as her mobility and verbal facility have narrowed, what old age does to the brain, constricting thought. The immediately family though, we've been there for her. And she's been here for us. It would be wrong for me to sum up the situation in the negative way I did, as if there was no other way to look at it. It said more about my current mood and insecurities than anything else. But it also said some stuff I've been suppressing for a while, so it must be worth something.
So I'm just shuffling around nihilism again, the same dance a billion people have tapped out, and a million are probably doing right now, but I came up with a few keywords that make my variation slightly original, enough to make there seem some point in typing, as opposed to lying down and...
Everyone feels like a traitor. Gained my confidence, stoked my hopes. Love is not symbiotic. There's no scrabble tonight, even. No messages, no mention. Zero. I hate coming home from those eternal shifts to nothing. So I fill the void with food and pointless writing. Food, the slow slide to obeisuicide. I work off a high percentage I'm sure - but the trend has started, because the craving has outpaced the physically intensive labour. It's all downhill from here. The decline will be rapid once I fall off the wheel, another shitheel slipped on a banana peel, but this one stays down, decides that was his last attempt to be real.
Let them flock to the peacocks, cause I don't have the fucking tactless hackdress to be a magic act and attract like a professional.
Look at them all, how they're better than me. Hey, I woke up on the chasm floor after the encore. Funny story: I always knew I'd be a Great Man, I just had that feeling you know? That I was destined for some Great Destiny - and here it is. I'm the greatest loser. The absolute bottom rung. Last in the race of six billion. Just happened to be. Dead Last. Didn't I always feel it though? How I always took the path of least resistance, like it was fate or something? Like I'm teflon. There's all this theory, supposed talent, and oh, what things I could do with it. But what I do do is never good enough. How could EVERYONE be better than me? That’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it? I dunno, they just bubble up around my gravity well. Yeah, the gravity of being me. They all have it easy, I'll say, being their less fucked up selves. Problem is, I can't even say I'm the most fucked up, cause they do fucked up better too. They're fucked up, and yet they maintain more successful or stoic or stylish fronts. And maybe backs too. Someone's got their back. But it isn't me. I got nobody's back - I want to, but they won't let me.
The writers' circle jerk pisses me off. Every little mutual hyperlink an injustice. So I'll write my own, non-hyperlinked monument to pettiness, name-drop no one. Or everyone. What do you want, your name or your avatar? What does it matter?
Can I talk about my dead relationship? Everyone knows it's dead. But what do you do with that? Offer empty encouragement. I'll use said encouragement to strike up a conversation with someone, whom I might otherwise not have. That will lead to nothing. Pluck a feather. Take a pebble. Stop craving. I wish basil was as good as paxil. As least AS good. Then I could get a feeling of well-being - well, adequate-being, and also feel like my nutrients crucial for enlightenment were being supplied via a natural source. No point in this scarring, except to habituate sore fingering, again and again, rubbing the pain, soothing with stinging prolongation.
Licking nipples in the air, on the chasm floor. Sneering at the sensual and subverting with cerebral, on the chasm floor. Dreaming of dishes, on the chasm floor. Wishing on the cement floor, on the chasm floor.