shifty

where do you want to go today?
that's not healthy = that'll fuck you up

soul mate graze scrape cooch cunt
sterile

felt fertile but

nevermind, slough it off with the rounded slime
sloquezed under the cabinezed.

. . .

Dun da Dun da

Strat drop. Awareness, of what i was talking about. Here's a package. Wrap it in seaweed. It gets weirder every time. Thru every phase. Feedback. Can't think in anything other than digital signal processing metaphors... and my friends get phlanged and fasered... shitphased... and then I try to work it into some artistic scheme. Hmmmm. Is that enough Ms? Will that satisfy everybody? Creaking stairs, are they down or up? It's no longer crazy, it just is. I'm finding a zone of comfort. When I go out of my body that is. And eschew words like bleed, overpoetic romantic words I would write, were I feeling that - I think the romantic part of me has little use - anywhere? Certainly not here. Maybe the right venue. But I don't scream. But. ? Could find a tone. An amp. An envelope. I guess I'll be peaking out of this dusty membrane, with dusty gemstones on the brain. I guess it'll be a fugue state, I guess I'll make it that. It is similar. It will be. And it was. And HEY - it is, too. Also. As well. It works, as a diminished fifth contrapuntal facet. Hey. There you go. But the machine tool was too flangey, too high frequency. Volume envelope wasn't set right, so the tweeter busted, broke a drummer's ear drums. Basement AMPsimulation emulation, okay, I can do creepsynth patch preset I spent hours and hours and hours working on it on it, and hey, I'm on it, but somedays, I get off on getting on the great galactic infostream, from here, to the cosmic causalities i slewthru in fingered forks of forgummingrances foaming at the fiving givers of semblences. It looks like a potential dirty martini shining like candy under the rack where glasses hang upside-down arranged in a triangular pattern, I tell it like it is, was, flew, slew...

I knew it would get warped and it did, but I never really lost myself. I came close though. Now I'm phlangin' back, phlanger rickinbacker shitcoxer number 4, and i still love her laugh, that's one thing i fixate on, the gigglies, the giggler, that squeezebox, it's so gorgeous, and that is one of the things that romantic thing would say, that subscript... well, hey, while I'm bouncing, let's go through the trial and error process, let's, well no, hey, it's just me anyway, but say, you for example, or you, under any circum stance? how should i phrase, should i just come sly, fly by night, that shite? my head hurts, it's not bad, but it feels fucked up, i guess that's the price you pay for alternative realities, binging seems insane, which is very sane of me, yes i want a medal, or no, not really, i just want to roadblock a useless alley and a failed metaphor...

there were flowers growing inside my head tonight, indigenous flora, was florious, fucking fantorstaque, there's a little qual in us all... when i catch those glimpses, i think, i should make a note, go deeper - but the right time is hard to find, and the times that find me tend to be recreational times, mixing life up in it, associations, staying in the game, i felt the gravity, the pull of the hole, when you're in the funnel, there's porous bedrock, you can make a bed inside, find a nook, a hidey hole, slip into the grout between the tiles, like when meth was a floor clenser, we connected one night in chat, it is fragmented but it is, is it? If you don't see the sublime shape, you may need to adjust your equalizer settings.

Of course, the sublime shape is shifty

and we remember older rooms and chemicals

life rolls on relentlessly - some drop crumbs of mercy for me
i pick them up, i lick them up, i'm finding all sorts of treasures
on the tiles, making peace with the floorboards, grokking the rug, ruggrok,
and somebody found his thermostatement, turned it all the way up,
and somebody finished his thesis, and i'm at the beginning of one, if i'm anywhere
and still the romance remains, in severed gibs, and, yeah, i'll love you under the floorboards, or over the floorboards, iron ore, row my flow back to where i was when it worked, remember that? in that context?

load bearing structures... concrete... gib gen

hunter had it backwards

I think you CAN turn your back on a drug. I do it all the time. But people? I wouldn't.

They betray, but k is here to stay. So begins the vitamin verse. You'll be hearing a lot of it. I prefer it to people these days. Except people who are on K. Actually no, I'm not going into Lilly-land. Just exploring consciousness, in the most literal way you can. Leap-frogging thoughts, hobnobbing with dreams and realities. It really is like that, in the k hole. I was spinning around the k hole tonight, at high orbit, like I was a marble at the top of a funnel, one of those gravity wells. Which is funny, because K cancels gravity. Which is a strange kind of cushy. Time gets screwy, flangy, taffy, stretches and snaps, then plain breaks, and an hour long trip becomes a vast soup of fluctuating multidimensional causality, or something. Oh and did I mention the hallucinations? It's not bright and flashy like tryptamines, but when I let myself sink into the visuals, they're fucking AMAZING, more vivid and diverse than anything else, like the high-definition capacity of tryptamines combined with the poly-symbolic surrealist well of the unconscious that dreams access. It turns the brain translucent. It's like a VR headset plugged into the great galactic information stream.

I should rename this blog back to uncouth, because lately people have been just shocked - shocked - at the stuff I'm saying publicly. Aghast. Like I'm on the NY Times Editorial board or some shit. Like I've got a "circulation". As opposed to an occasional ramble on backwater ezboard poetry circle-jerks.

So here's another shocker: I'm doing DRUGS! Gasp. I knew I'd find my way to k eventually. Just had to check it out. I'm really fucking with life now, getting in deep, seeing what it's all about. I'm not actually sure it's "about" anything, it's just some fucking bizarre game we're playing, because that's what monkeys do. I saw myself as just another player - and content with that, in an impersonal way, just appreciating the nuance of absurdity, of finding some pathetic niche, living in this crazy house with crazy people, and exploring consciousness. It seems to fit well enough with my "professional" niche of washing dishes tuesday to friday. It pays the rent and the ketamine bills. On weekends I anesthetize myself. Well next week will be very different, and the week after that, even more so. Things have been bleaker than ever, and I'm finding novelty in that, new chasms, depths, re-contextualization.

I was thinking, laying on my makeshift bed, that coming back to the "real world" is a real thing. It makes sense. The obligation to deal with real things, and parrot the fake things I deem it necessary to parrot. But the dynamic between reality and imagination is laid so bare and beautiful, expressed in the dance of mind and body that is ketamine's anesthetic chemical interface. Much more to explore here. As with every other chemical I've ever done, addiction is not an issue, nothing works well enough for me to delude myself into accepting it as a way of life.

ref

my fingers
remembered

lol

how about that"


haha

forgetting how to walk and talk

k

is good head medicine, very strong

ut ut ut

yes. intentional

haha

if

blaine, missouri

i accept the rejected

that's just
the kind
of guy i am

i accept the rejected

and nothing less
if you're well-adjusted
you're not in my club

i accept the rejected

but i'd leave you for aki
immediately

i accept the rejected

but i'm sorry
didn't mean to call you rejected
accidental honesty

i don't need or want more friends
friends don't fill the void in me
friends don't replace what i lost
but i can tell a friend why i've finally found a use for the word "cunt"
why it turns sadness to anger, to use the word “cunt”
and i guess i could find camaraderie in rejection

a drinking partner
and co-drawer for the bankrupt account
and guinea pig for the experiment

in homeopathic overdose, what we do is

we take all the toxins, pour them into a cauldron
and see what happens, write on these quasi mornings
between timezones and abandoned homes, guilt-stained purpose
in going with the grain of rotten wood

and drinking the blood emetic, life’s poison
and accepting
vitamins he said he could get for me

there is a poster on the fridge
a mixing board
dissolving into a temple
dissolving into psychedelic swirls
advertising a studio, a vision, a philosophy
the vault of convoluted stories
where a fuckup might have been a professional
maybe will be again, he seemed so confident in being lost
being lost for years, that loser way of life
that i'm seeing laid out for myself
cause if he can't make it
how could i
and a studio on a shore somewhere out
in the valley, advertised with good production values
if you like that sort of thing, the tacky kootenay hippie package
vibey vibey vibey, but a known quantity
i guess, maybe that's where they have yage ceremonies
those cleansing of the spirit things, those puke the
demons out of you journeys for urban shaman wannabes
i'm thinking clean as i wallow in filth and lament
the illness, i guess i'll come to accept this novelty
this flavour of noodles, drink more coffee and eat more
msg, this routine of nothing much
of staggering, silly talk and getting by
in this high traffic area

lower than a snake's belly in a wagon-rut
and just when you thought i couldn't get any lower
i turn back to spirituality

cosmic megacontext to come
psychic weather forecast at 6
film at 11, hexagram archetype at dusk.

Fast friends

tonight...

Worked, spent, played.

It's what it's all about. Dissolves in a crysalis. Those old times. Big times. Eliminate a letter from my vocabulary - stress releases me to write things stretched like taffy i shouldn't say - stay? Hey? It's one of those chronodes. Torned down. I'ma gonna flow, or I'm gonna do nothing. Why not document? Hol Lie Muth Aye. Wow.

Work hard. Play hard.

But fundamentally, I miss the other.

I guess when you sinew emotions, it gets drizzen down - wow, crushed crystals can do all this? haha - right on - let's go then -- randomaze - it's how i found love - it's how i lost love - maintain, he said - i'm trying to trick out this groovy life ride between here and there, death and life, living and working, and organicking, organing, it's all meshing together, it's fucking crazy - i miss my baby, she hurt me so bad i gots to write a blues song or something

No Es Bueno

Need murals. Will lust after flotation tanks and their glitzy egocide. Waiting for the audio alert that's never gonna come. Until the time I can't take advantage. Would initiate, but I think it's already dead. Probably was never alive, but I imagined it to be so. Was adorable, precious in a ridiculous getup, putting on airs. Could never believe in the delusion enough to make it real.

Well, the tension is gone, since the last blog post. Now there's just tiredness. I don't ache as much, because the idea of being with people makes me ill. Things are as they should be - lethargic and melancholic isolation. The universe is in equilibrium, I'm supposed to feel bad. And there's no point yearning for some utopia that's actually dystopia, like hell, where they haven't figured out how to feed each other at the feast with the long spoons. The ideal is a bastard, bound for solitary confinement, where they lock up the fuckups and perverts, the ones whose dreams bleed into life.

This has been a crap weekend. I got nothing done, except enduring the grand forks trip. It was interesting enough, and useful, in terms of taking in information, seeing and hearing the band I might be in... but for a high point, it's pretty pathetic. Harvester of headfucks. Pardon my academic sense of humour. I'm furious. Had to cancel afternoon school.

It's not gonna happen in Cleveland. And I don't believe your feel-good ratios. I'll call them "yours". Their existence has been proven, in theory. Alterants bring emptiness. So does the straight dope. So many attempts at sleep, so many attempts at wake, coffee and sleeping pills, I can't do the math anymore, can't figure out where I should be, cycle in shreds, body confused, mind even moreso. All projects pointless. Life pointless. Yes, I've arrived there again, the place where I feel so removed from the world, I can see it as objectively meaningless, so detached, so jaded. But do I have anything new to say about this place? No.

I thought I'd finish my script this weekend, but... it's not happening. My stomach feels weird. It doesn't feel right. It doesn't look right. Purity through starvation. There is no right. There just was, a feeling, once upon a time. When mazes were amazing.

Wheels are supposedly in motion - but what wheels? I don't think I have any use for the ones that are turning, anymore. The ones I thought would take me somewhere are stuck. I tried to make things happen for me, but my best efforts are inadequate. Plausible deniability at toxic levels. Hedging bets in the vagaries of metaphor. Universal you, except it gets more personal than you might think sometimes. It's an electrical outlet, don't finger fuck it, it'll fuck you up.

I would try to sleep, again, but I don't have the right equipment. Maybe I will anyway, a voyage to the bottom of the brain, an expedition to the top of the twit, a plug in to the public address and a six string sopo riff. Malfunctioning comp fan sounds like a cricket, but I have pink noise to play, an hours worth, which I loop. It's starting to sound like the rainforest intro to my dreaded wakeup music. It's all so fucked, and I can't say why.