frightened of a feeling?

Horray for question marks!

Been egging me on all night. Might be heavy. But I wrote myself a sedative. Got bored. Realized I didn’t care about my projects. Remembered how fine it could be, to blow my mind.

Well, I’m a little jittery, hands shaking but honestly, I feel MUCH better now that I made the damn decision. Maybe it’s that I know I have a grace period. I guess I’ll go wander like I said I was gonna. Like I’m just taking a walk, all casual like, nothing else to do, thought I’d sight see. And if those sights happen to be a little brighter and more animate than they should be, well I’ll know why, won’t I? Once I know what I’m dealing with, I should get over the jitters. Once I remember, that is. Christ, I should be a veteran by now.

~~~

Oft white, soft light.
Dancing on Carbonate and Latimer.
Oil is under 90$ a barrel!
Happy days are here again, now now now.
Can you feel the rhythm? Does it have to be kinetic?

Ergotized eyes at attention. Haha. Ha. On one of those capturing missions.

Glorious to feel a glorious feeling and say it. Then realizing I’m saying glorious and it’s all been said before, better before better. When downtown Nelson looks like Vegas, I know it’s kicked in. I feel it, electricity in my body. Extra sensory. Feelings, thoughts, slip out of my grasp. I’ve got a perma grin, and when it slips into a grimace, I try to stay positive. It usually works, haha, I’m laughing again. It’s all about creating and maintaining a positive feedback loop – and usually I can do that better than anyone else can do it for me, if I maintain focus. Looks like all the elements kicked in just right, didn’t overwhelm, I started out walking in the cold which took the edge off… so it crept in subtly. And now I’m feeling like a freak, but not a god freak, so it’s okay, not a freak of godly proportions, nothing so inappropos. And anyway, this is my new home, my sanctuary. Time to break it in, get some hallucinations happening up in the historic arched interior. I feel good. Our houseguest is a fine girl, with some fine product. Double dip and a drip away from the stwawbewwy wiver. Finchy was right in saying it’s better to be able to maintain control, and not have it control you. The feedback loop – he was all about looking after me, my sober self, like my second shadow in split light, like three of me converging in snow banks, rendered poetically in the mind’s eye, with ochre streetlights, just the right temperature, minus seven, pretentiousness set appropriately on the barometer – peripheral hallucinations non threatening – you could feel the sky, in a parallel life, when loss of virginity was very definite and aquatinted, an aqualine spiritual. Feels good to be loved by the self sometimes. I’ll take it. Dramatic acrobatics. Bocceli. Night skiing. A clean definition of a klean demolition. It ain’t easy being green. Don’t hype unless for maximum humour. Ride off into the sunset, when the peripherals of speech and text tint. I know there are purer snowbanks of poetry, I passed them tonight, and have passed them so often in the past, when I worried about writing. Even now, I worry about cliché. Except when the dream unfolds. Why not be honest with myself? Agreeing, the only way I can. Heh.

Banks, and drift. I try to forgive myself amid hideous faces. Somebody describes his dream as beautiful, it’s funny, his solemn whisper. Stately, in a staggered stuttered way, the way gravity flows, I won’t grant the obvious synonym. Nichewitch. Schoolmaiden twitch, a highscore. Amazing, the situation, the circumstance, of being this person I am. It’s profoundly ridiculous, and it’s so obvious to say that. Haha. The words are mostly placeholders to waves of feeling. My giddy grin. Comma. “Where are my feelings?” he says. Chocolate coated wisdom. Haha. Building slowly, granting me time. To enjoy the marble texture of the foyer. The all foyer mansion. Dude. Yes, laughing at nothing. That’s an acid trip for you. I’m so entertaining to myself. Waves of energy I can actually assimilate as an artist, take an ego trip and be comfy, why not? Feel, analyze, whatever I fucking feel like. Guardian angels, casting paranoia on to shadows, letting them be dark, to my light. The infernal triumvirate.

Well now that I’ve gotten myself into an unambiguous goodly electric feedback loop where I feel no possibility of threat, just a billow of down home stimuli, what do I do with it? Write I guess, seems to be working. And listening to the southern cross album. Yeah. Happy with what you have to be happy with. Even if there are tri-tone guitar riffs on a parallel thought. Yes, I can actually DEAL with this. Like I’m in Vegas. Is that the theme for tonight? Stupid card tricks?! Ahahaha… Yes. I think so. A Wax Simulacra on Letterman. Feels like a communal electric current that I plugged myself into. I don’t need to be physically with anyone to feel it. I know it’s all hallucination. So what? Is that any less of a thing? Heyahola! I only wish I had three heads. Is that a theme? Archewards and balding toward timebaby. If nothing else, more possibility.

I keep smiling. I don’t think this is gonna be any kind of breakthrough, no need to tack it to past or future schemes, just a present present to myself. Nyeti yetis on the horizon. In a year, I will hopefully have scraped all the iconography from my vocab. I need a transfusion of words like Keith Richards needed new blood. But damn, I keep feeling good. I just giggled like an ijit. It’s hilarious that I’m writing all this down. Am I gonna post it? I might. Haha. I’m so fucking high. Keepin’ it real.

So, I’m thinking I might have figured why the spacemen mentioned Jesus all the time. Don’t mean to get all christy on you, but he’s a hell of a figure. He’s all things to all people. He means something. More than I’ve even come close to accepting as my personal savior. See that’s the thing. Savior? Just keep Mel away from me, okay? I got over S&M many moons ago. Let’s say. Sorry, thoughts are racing a little too fast. Lacy racy thoughts, slinking away from me, breeding with black panthers. Yes, that’s what I was trying to say. I’m creating a texture here. A self analytical texture. Korny. It’s korny. I added a few ccs of saliva. Eggwhite. Ejaculate. Third guess, fourth guess. The golden girls. Blanche. It’s a joke. Anyone want to join my jugband? It will be a niche. It will forge all sorts of providential fires. How long can a put on be put apon? Time to cut the apron strings?

Oil goes down smooth. Pumped up, mispriced. Paradoxical paradise. Paranormal, paraspsychological. Comfort. Disease. Novelty. Habit. It’s all been done before. But then why does it feel so crucial? Because it’s a feeling. Reasons conflict. Like raisons. Cinnabun. The concressional. The professional. Slick Rick recovered from a stroke. It’s different for some folks. Been trying to claim things I haven’t earned honest, man.

I’m just letting self standards fall to shreds. I don’t have to be anybody. Righty ho, Mr. A. Don’t want to be a martyr, don’t want to be a victim. None of it means anything, I don’t think. Improvising to an Aphex track. Out of tune, pisses me off, I say with a cackle. What can I do with a crazy grin? What can I do for my country? Ask not. E pluribus nukem. I’m in a real love-hate relationship with myself. I want to love someone else, but nobody is really making themselves available. I think I’m a leprechaun. I make good conversation. But all you want is me lucky charms. You want to charm yourselves. There’s nothing in it for me. Why is it so wrong, to want a body? I’m so sick of the spiritual. I ain’t got no spirit, yo. And you can’t have my lucky charms. Good luck finding me. I hide in your reality. In plane sight. You can’t see me. Wouldn’t know where to look. Wouldn’t know to look. Think you’ve seen it all. You have, you know. I know. We know. We’re in on it, aren’t we? Is there a future? You tell me.

Sticks. Remember sticks? Remember how they stuck? Candy and a currant bun. Au courant. Maybe I can do something with it. What a hellacious Monday. Another flow, haha. When laughter is good. There’s been much second guessing though, I will admit. It gets serious despite itself. It’s a kaleidoscope, it always cycles back. Sweet dub. My music is good for the moment. Sweet dub. I will seventh guess, cursed luck of the future, and edit out most of this. Even the sweet dub? I hope not. Cause if you don’t know poetry when you see it. But it’s hard to see sometimes. All the time. Isn’t it? Maybe I should read Huxley. Is that a practical suggestion? A flow can make me feel good with however I sound. Then I hit the rocks. And I worry. Jagged. Because it’s all schemes. I’m damaged goods. I have no function. I’m a squeezebox. I’m elmo. Tickle me.

I’m not all about drugs. I just return to them, like inhalation. Like breath. They’re so part of me. Entirely. I gave myself to them, they gave themselves to me. They’re all I can talk about. I’m neotenic, married to my neurotransmitters. That’s what stunted me. I’m nursery tripping, navel gazing. Nursery neitzche, self parody. It can be so pretty, still. Loosening faucet, spraya, I wonder if that magic spell I repeated in the royal alcove did anything? I could almost believe it lately, been a weird week. Maybe in concert with the local psychedelic chemicals. But it ebbs and flows. Not bad for 2/5s of one hit. Made me hungry for more. I’d take the rest, but.

My hand is a rubber glove. It’s cute. Tremulant. I love my hands. Feeble. Fragile. But they’re mine. I have control over them, for now. Hands are easy. Faces are hard. Hard. Hard to have to be expressive. To function that way.

Aye matey. Here’s the rub. Here’s the thing. It stings, and it stinks, and it soothes. Like whiskey. I kinda like this guy I am. I want him to succeed. I want him to be taken seriously. I want to take him seriously. But he’s too ridiculous. And how can anyone else take him seriously then? In your hard playing games. Too bad he’s me. His options are mine. I want him for a drinking buddy. There’s an option.

I’ve got that tryptamine feel in my cells. It’s a buzz. It makes me swoon. It’s nice, when it isn’t too much at once. When it’s not propulsive, but a plateau. When I don’t have to do anything. Just feel, and think. Lay down on the living room floor, my new home. Feeling kinda spiritual. Little dirty thoughts in the corners.

Girl, why don’t you come on up to the house? Cause I won’t write to you, in my questionable state of mind. I’ll just let it wander, and think of how well you would ornament this new place of mine. Think of healthy. Healthy things. Not narcissism, just self respect. Paying some attention, attention to breakfast lunch and dinner, and every tendril that dendritically extends from that. You could help me with that. If you were here I wouldn’t take drugs. I painted over the agendas – the walls are looking fresh. I bonded with the rug, in front of the fireplace. I go about things in the wrong ways, cause I’m not wizened like that, I don’t know all the tricks. I don’t want to trick anybody. But it’s all a trick to begin with. You can’t trick a trick. The trick is – embracing chemicals, in that nameless, transcendental way. I love how you laugh. What do you do with that? It spills – into the void. I grab at crumbs. Hallucinations. I remember though. Some things. Can I send vibes? No, I don’t think I have that power. What would I do with it anyway? The thoughts are poisoned anyway. Ashes to ashes. Biblical brutish truths.

Four hours later. Let’s be honest here. I hate who I am. Everything that reminds me of me. Blech. I kind of like just the feeling, of being alive, but everything else. I hate the way I look. Hate what I say. Where’s the point? I don’t function normally. Not that normal people do either, but, there was some unique insight there, that I blunted, undermined. Oh well. Trying to force a smile, but I can’t really. I feel empty. Ugh. All this writing, what am I gonna do with it? I have a day off. To do what? Maybe I’ll drink. Drunk dial somebody. I dunno what happened to the happy. I just can’t function, man. I can’t. I dunno what to do. I can’t do it for myself. I taste blood. Maybe I’m chewing my face off. Like old times, a little more to chew on. Sticking to my gums. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have… et cetera. Hey, for a second there, I found a reason, to post something. Reason is reality. That’s the only hope for me. That it’s hopelessly real. Purpose in honest and accurate transcription. Let God sort it out. Yeah? I’d be Anon, I wish I could be Anon. But I’m so tied up. I don’t even know what freedom is, can’t imagine what it would be. Who should I call? Who would want to talk to me? I didn’t freak out. But I hollowed out, somehow. I think I’m just hollow, and I realized that. I’m a chemical agenda wrapped in some arbitrary artistry. A collection of mp3s, a pastiche of musical taste. I wash dishes for a living. Holy living fuck is that weird. I’ve been brought to existential absurdity, and it makes it all the worse to call it that.

I’m so angry at these words, now, for meaning nothing, now. I don’t know how to live, now. I need to be someone else, I guess. Now.

One thing remains true. Aphex Twin’s ambient music is absolutely perfect, for a good trip, or a bad trip. I’m getting to love volume two. Getting to live volume two. It’s voluminous and ruinous. Ruined city reverb. You don’t second guess detritus.