no radio
no radio
STILL?
no?
NOW? [AT this PARTICULAR temporal JUNCTURE!?}
live cjly is
dead
KCR goes down
I go on
I call it on
not a nod but a BUZZ
a benign buzz
music conjuring? from ethereal corridors?
mind expecting? finally....
ahhh - taste - flavour strings, i can relate
i'm alive
taste
stale plastic blood
rush - sugar - crystallizing
sour bloodsugar sweettaste
and my hand seems interesting again
pretty silly situation, wouldn't you say?
i should get a drink of water
attention paid
but fuck, i'm HIGH!!! yes, I am powerfully altered
oh yes /
so why the backslash?
water washed me out
and i figure, bleh but, , whatever
and that extra comma is intended syntax, btw
unfortunately, so they tell me, the devil is in the details
so they tell me, so the dust and the plastic scrapings
from baggies, and needles, and other things
they come into play, don't they always?
isn't that how that went down?
self-medicated
"there's final hits and there's FINAL HITS... which was this to be?"
so open, like a fookin vein, hoh boy... fook
smurf villages in the cotton threads
i love rails, i love needles, i love the whole thing
that's why i've gotta stop - fuck, i'm sure it's very very funny
for someone with an extremely warped sense of humour, looking down
from the Q continuum
warp factor 10, cap'n
no, nix that, let's back it off to 6 or 7
even 7's a stretch, let's say six, and let's "say"
SIX
and, well,
cjly is back online but i stopped caring
but it is interesting listening to left wing freaks freak at right wing freaks on democracy now - and it's fun to place a bubble between me and the world, and profess my hatred of politics, oh i HATE politics, oh, i don't want to know
woohoo - the frozen window finally opens and i can smoke
and the night air is sucking the smoke outside and i can
spike a spike high with surplus dopamine and
i don't have to work in the kitchen, it's
thursday morning and things are going my way for a second
when people are not involved --
did my last shot of k, now i'm going straight, so i say
oh boy that's sick logic
there's a bug in this machine
says the inebriated entomologist
well past bedtime anyway
but there's worse things than that
1/29/09
1/28/09
1/26/09
marching powder
He didn't bring enough gold out of the mine, so they beat him. They didn't beat him up, they just beat him. Two beaters, a division of labor. Two beaters on the payroll. He could have brought a lot more gold out of the mine, that was obvious. The quota had been arrived at by the company's human resource man.
He wasn't beaten up and he wasn't beaten down. Only beaten. Not with fists, the company could be liable for injury, knuckles break all the time. No, he was just beaten. A solution was arrived upon. There's a science to it. Incentives, that's how the economy works. There is no alternative. And aren't you too tired and unsure of yourself to change things? What if your changes made things worse? What if this is the best of all possible worlds? And it is, by the way.
He had a job at least, and a wife. Unfortunately, this means he still had things to lose. After another beating, he was taken to the house of the foreperson. The foreperson was getting settled, making a home for himself and his family. His house was situated so that it would remain immune from the ecological consequences of the mine. The balcony overlooked the rainforest slope. The foreperson loved that slope. Most people did. There was something about the angle.
Carlos didn't care for the slope. He could take it or leave it. He was bound and gagged and placed under a bed. The foreperson came inside the bedroom. A familiar sound trailed him. It was a sound, not a voice, but Carlos recognized the woman it belonged to in seconds. It was her breath, sharp. That sultry singer of icaros. Carlos' wife with her ready-for-sex breath. Yes, she was ready.
The foreperson threw her onto the bed. The mattress sank onto Carlos - it felt soft and reminded him of childhood - then sprung up again as the foreperson climbed onto Angela. He crouched there, deciding what to tear off first. Or tear into. He was still learning how to deal with Angela. Shirt on, pants off. That wild, half-clothed fuck, yes, he bet that was how Carlos fucked her, because even though she had decent tits, they didn't do it for him for some reason. Tear into.
There was a commotion above the bed. They were wasting no time. Angela was mostly silent. Carlos studied the foreperson's rhythm. He had a unique style.
"You know he's here, you little whore?" Carlos said, nearing orgasm.
"What? Mmmph. Who?" Angela moaned.
"Him, that labourer of yours. Haha. Oh. Mmm. Yeah, he's under the bed!"
"Carlos?"
This can't be happening... again, Carlos thought. This must be a series of hallucinations.
"Again? You - oh - you put him down there again? W - why?"
"Because - uhh... aaaaaarrrrrrrrrrgh!"
The mattress hit Carlos' head again. He wished his hands weren't bound so he could masturbate. Get some enjoyment out of this, somehow, at the very least. Why not?
"Because it gets me off, bitch!"
"Oh."
There was a little more creaking, the foreperson enjoying his location. This wound down, and he pulled out. Angela breathed one of her alto sighs.
"Carlos?"
"Shut up," the foreperson said.
"Carlos?"
Carlos tried to yell through his gag and managed a decent enough gagged yell, but this was buried by a loud smacking sound.
"Carlos?"
"Why do you keep yelling to him? I'll just keep smacking you."
"It gets me off, boss."
"What? Bullshit. You're not one of those cunts, I know..."
"No, calling to Carlos. That gets me off."
"Oh... Well, let's get him out then, eh? He's had a hard day at work, I'm sure he'd love to see you."
The foreperson dragged Carlos out from under the bed by his feet.
“Oh… my. Carlos,” Angela said.
"Afraid our day wasn't very productive though, was it?" the foreperson said as he untied the ropes. Then he removed the gag. “Nope, well under quota. This must be slack off season. Or jack off season.” He let out a high pitched chuckle. “Myself, I’ve been sleeping two, three hours a night. Well, you can get up now. Work’s over.”
Carlos got up, whiskey-soaked cigarette butts sticking to his back. “Angela. Fuck. How are you?” he asked.
“I’m… good. I drank some tea an hour ago. I feel okay.”
They embraced, Angela still bottomless with a sticky leg. The foreperson pried them apart.
“None of that you two. You can hug on your own time. Not in my… FUCKING house. Got it?”
“Yes,” they both said.
“Especially after such a lousy day. I’m gonna get it from the company at the end of this fiscal year, you can be assured. None of your hugging, it makes me sick. Fuck, I need a drink. An after work drink. Yes.” He swerved toward the mini-fridge.
“Boss?” Carlos asked.
“What?”
“Um, I don’t suppose. I know I’m not allowed to drink, but do you have any more of that…”
“I always have more of that,” the foreperson said. “If that’s what you want, it’s in the usual place. Just know I’m keeping tabs and it comes out of your wage.”
“Oh. Sweet.” Carlos flashed Angela a look of joy and scurried behind the foreperson’s desk to rip open the middle drawer. The foreperson laughed explosively and said: “Yup, you sure know where to look.”
Carlos produced a bag.
“Ange, are you having some?”
“I don’t know, I… drank some tea a half hour ago.”
“C’mon, I’ve been working all day, I want to get high with my wife. It’s funner with you.”
“Oh, I guess. You have had a hard day.”
“Not too productive though,” the foreperson said. “But shagging your girl at the end of it kinda half makes up for it.” He slapped Angela on her bare ass, loud enough to startle Carlos. After looking back toward them, he began dumping piles of cocaine onto the slope of a green binder on the desk and chopping them up. The foreperson blasted laughter again.
“You look so… fucking… RIDICULOUS, sitting in my chair! I’d tell you to get your ass off it, but it’s too funny!”
Angela chuckled, faintly.
“And you’re drawing up lines on a binder? What the fuck? Hahaha. Of all places, you choose a tilted surface?”
“It’ll work,” Carlos said.
“Well, draw that up and meet me and Angela in the TV room. We can watch the news or something. Or she could sing icaros. Naw, let’s just watch TV. And I’ll have some of that flake, too.”
“Okay,” Carlos said. “By the way, I never got your name.”
“Why now then?” The foreperson said. “Now is not the time.”
He wasn't beaten up and he wasn't beaten down. Only beaten. Not with fists, the company could be liable for injury, knuckles break all the time. No, he was just beaten. A solution was arrived upon. There's a science to it. Incentives, that's how the economy works. There is no alternative. And aren't you too tired and unsure of yourself to change things? What if your changes made things worse? What if this is the best of all possible worlds? And it is, by the way.
He had a job at least, and a wife. Unfortunately, this means he still had things to lose. After another beating, he was taken to the house of the foreperson. The foreperson was getting settled, making a home for himself and his family. His house was situated so that it would remain immune from the ecological consequences of the mine. The balcony overlooked the rainforest slope. The foreperson loved that slope. Most people did. There was something about the angle.
Carlos didn't care for the slope. He could take it or leave it. He was bound and gagged and placed under a bed. The foreperson came inside the bedroom. A familiar sound trailed him. It was a sound, not a voice, but Carlos recognized the woman it belonged to in seconds. It was her breath, sharp. That sultry singer of icaros. Carlos' wife with her ready-for-sex breath. Yes, she was ready.
The foreperson threw her onto the bed. The mattress sank onto Carlos - it felt soft and reminded him of childhood - then sprung up again as the foreperson climbed onto Angela. He crouched there, deciding what to tear off first. Or tear into. He was still learning how to deal with Angela. Shirt on, pants off. That wild, half-clothed fuck, yes, he bet that was how Carlos fucked her, because even though she had decent tits, they didn't do it for him for some reason. Tear into.
There was a commotion above the bed. They were wasting no time. Angela was mostly silent. Carlos studied the foreperson's rhythm. He had a unique style.
"You know he's here, you little whore?" Carlos said, nearing orgasm.
"What? Mmmph. Who?" Angela moaned.
"Him, that labourer of yours. Haha. Oh. Mmm. Yeah, he's under the bed!"
"Carlos?"
This can't be happening... again, Carlos thought. This must be a series of hallucinations.
"Again? You - oh - you put him down there again? W - why?"
"Because - uhh... aaaaaarrrrrrrrrrgh!"
The mattress hit Carlos' head again. He wished his hands weren't bound so he could masturbate. Get some enjoyment out of this, somehow, at the very least. Why not?
"Because it gets me off, bitch!"
"Oh."
There was a little more creaking, the foreperson enjoying his location. This wound down, and he pulled out. Angela breathed one of her alto sighs.
"Carlos?"
"Shut up," the foreperson said.
"Carlos?"
Carlos tried to yell through his gag and managed a decent enough gagged yell, but this was buried by a loud smacking sound.
"Carlos?"
"Why do you keep yelling to him? I'll just keep smacking you."
"It gets me off, boss."
"What? Bullshit. You're not one of those cunts, I know..."
"No, calling to Carlos. That gets me off."
"Oh... Well, let's get him out then, eh? He's had a hard day at work, I'm sure he'd love to see you."
The foreperson dragged Carlos out from under the bed by his feet.
“Oh… my. Carlos,” Angela said.
"Afraid our day wasn't very productive though, was it?" the foreperson said as he untied the ropes. Then he removed the gag. “Nope, well under quota. This must be slack off season. Or jack off season.” He let out a high pitched chuckle. “Myself, I’ve been sleeping two, three hours a night. Well, you can get up now. Work’s over.”
Carlos got up, whiskey-soaked cigarette butts sticking to his back. “Angela. Fuck. How are you?” he asked.
“I’m… good. I drank some tea an hour ago. I feel okay.”
They embraced, Angela still bottomless with a sticky leg. The foreperson pried them apart.
“None of that you two. You can hug on your own time. Not in my… FUCKING house. Got it?”
“Yes,” they both said.
“Especially after such a lousy day. I’m gonna get it from the company at the end of this fiscal year, you can be assured. None of your hugging, it makes me sick. Fuck, I need a drink. An after work drink. Yes.” He swerved toward the mini-fridge.
“Boss?” Carlos asked.
“What?”
“Um, I don’t suppose. I know I’m not allowed to drink, but do you have any more of that…”
“I always have more of that,” the foreperson said. “If that’s what you want, it’s in the usual place. Just know I’m keeping tabs and it comes out of your wage.”
“Oh. Sweet.” Carlos flashed Angela a look of joy and scurried behind the foreperson’s desk to rip open the middle drawer. The foreperson laughed explosively and said: “Yup, you sure know where to look.”
Carlos produced a bag.
“Ange, are you having some?”
“I don’t know, I… drank some tea a half hour ago.”
“C’mon, I’ve been working all day, I want to get high with my wife. It’s funner with you.”
“Oh, I guess. You have had a hard day.”
“Not too productive though,” the foreperson said. “But shagging your girl at the end of it kinda half makes up for it.” He slapped Angela on her bare ass, loud enough to startle Carlos. After looking back toward them, he began dumping piles of cocaine onto the slope of a green binder on the desk and chopping them up. The foreperson blasted laughter again.
“You look so… fucking… RIDICULOUS, sitting in my chair! I’d tell you to get your ass off it, but it’s too funny!”
Angela chuckled, faintly.
“And you’re drawing up lines on a binder? What the fuck? Hahaha. Of all places, you choose a tilted surface?”
“It’ll work,” Carlos said.
“Well, draw that up and meet me and Angela in the TV room. We can watch the news or something. Or she could sing icaros. Naw, let’s just watch TV. And I’ll have some of that flake, too.”
“Okay,” Carlos said. “By the way, I never got your name.”
“Why now then?” The foreperson said. “Now is not the time.”
when it rains it pours
this is probably penance or paying the piper or something - synthetic chemical deposits, twisted and tangled neurons - this is the white palace of petersburg after the siege - there's been talk of restoring the amber room, it's a matter of national pride - the proles will just have to wait a little longer in the bread line
this is me grazing misogyny, seeing everything as aimed at me, reading insult to add to injury - yes, it's a sob story with ill-defined parameters, a definition with tuberculosis - it's anger, at how many times i tried, how much respect i've shown to women and how little i've gotten in return
i know what i should do, i should move to alberta and make eighty grand in a year, working on the oil patch - whatever it is they do there - i should stop being an artist - i get respect being an artist sometimes but it's empty, fucking empty
i'd just like to be a man for a day - be valued as that
need is greed, it's a needle in my arm - there's a statue of a buddha by the river - and all i can think about is unanswered emails and empty promises and people i want that don't want me - why does it ebb all at once? it's defying logic now, it's an outlier, a statistical anomaly - there's nothing there for me
sobriety will change me - it will make me even more bitter than i already am - i will nurture my anger, nurse grudges
sorry - haha - but who am i apologizing to? the great old ones of irony are smiling down on me
this is me grazing misogyny, seeing everything as aimed at me, reading insult to add to injury - yes, it's a sob story with ill-defined parameters, a definition with tuberculosis - it's anger, at how many times i tried, how much respect i've shown to women and how little i've gotten in return
i know what i should do, i should move to alberta and make eighty grand in a year, working on the oil patch - whatever it is they do there - i should stop being an artist - i get respect being an artist sometimes but it's empty, fucking empty
i'd just like to be a man for a day - be valued as that
need is greed, it's a needle in my arm - there's a statue of a buddha by the river - and all i can think about is unanswered emails and empty promises and people i want that don't want me - why does it ebb all at once? it's defying logic now, it's an outlier, a statistical anomaly - there's nothing there for me
sobriety will change me - it will make me even more bitter than i already am - i will nurture my anger, nurse grudges
sorry - haha - but who am i apologizing to? the great old ones of irony are smiling down on me
stay awake
you've got it written on your shoulder
under a picture of an alien
it'll be there for a while
stay awake
how's that going?
how's your wine holding out?
i give you credit - you're perceptive
you've got powers - freaky powers - of observation
you saw right through my machinations
you were there - i was there - that's all it was
we can both do better, don't you think?
i just haven't got to it, how about you?
i'm sure you're well into that project
or maybe not - maybe you're not doing better
just losing on your own terms
gotta respect that
let's not cling to the past
or make a mountain out of a molehill
burned brightly
caught it with a camera
digital camera
files not found
x-files videos
and buckets of paint
you've got it written on your shoulder
under a picture of an alien
it'll be there for a while
stay awake
how's that going?
how's your wine holding out?
i give you credit - you're perceptive
you've got powers - freaky powers - of observation
you saw right through my machinations
you were there - i was there - that's all it was
we can both do better, don't you think?
i just haven't got to it, how about you?
i'm sure you're well into that project
or maybe not - maybe you're not doing better
just losing on your own terms
gotta respect that
let's not cling to the past
or make a mountain out of a molehill
burned brightly
caught it with a camera
digital camera
files not found
x-files videos
and buckets of paint
of course, the good people do come through
they come around, they stop in, they ask about me
and i betray them to play with shadows in the swamps
and then i get tired, and drift into delirium
and sleep is good in the groundwater
good people, blessings
it's good to be grateful, they
infuriatingly say, those others
but my people know better
than to serve me that sap
and i betray
chasing pretty faces
and sweet voices
why do the sweetest voices
emerge from souls that are so sharp
and cold, finely-fashioned steel impliments
artifacts - facts of life
begging is good for the soul, i've heard
from rough-voiced people
---
they come around, they stop in, they ask about me
and i betray them to play with shadows in the swamps
and then i get tired, and drift into delirium
and sleep is good in the groundwater
good people, blessings
it's good to be grateful, they
infuriatingly say, those others
but my people know better
than to serve me that sap
and i betray
chasing pretty faces
and sweet voices
why do the sweetest voices
emerge from souls that are so sharp
and cold, finely-fashioned steel impliments
artifacts - facts of life
begging is good for the soul, i've heard
from rough-voiced people
---
why don't people respond to me?
it feels like a conspiracy
it always does, in the ebbs
need is fine
sublime, like grapes on the vine
reflecting sungod's light
no flaw in the design
but feels
disgusting
reveals
things about me
polish the fruit for the market
clean off the dirt and the bugs
that's what we do
that's what we're here for
that's what we stand for
fresh fruit
fresher fruit - produce
let's pretend i have everything i need
cause there are so much more needier than me
and truth be told, i'm bored with the needy
but rarely bored with my own need
dissection isn't sexy
nothing to offer but entrails
one day i'll answer the spam email
one day i'll stuff silicone in my cock
one day the desperation will bear fruit
i'll devour and be done
treat the best things
with the same disrespect as i treat everything
it's my right, i can and will, disrespect
everything
it always does, in the ebbs
need is fine
sublime, like grapes on the vine
reflecting sungod's light
no flaw in the design
but feels
disgusting
reveals
things about me
polish the fruit for the market
clean off the dirt and the bugs
that's what we do
that's what we're here for
that's what we stand for
fresh fruit
fresher fruit - produce
let's pretend i have everything i need
cause there are so much more needier than me
and truth be told, i'm bored with the needy
but rarely bored with my own need
dissection isn't sexy
nothing to offer but entrails
one day i'll answer the spam email
one day i'll stuff silicone in my cock
one day the desperation will bear fruit
i'll devour and be done
treat the best things
with the same disrespect as i treat everything
it's my right, i can and will, disrespect
everything
1/24/09
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1/22/09
i still think about nukes a lot... do you?
i know, it's passe, what more can one say?
but it's a new age, you know, it's Ophoria, the honeymoon before we realize, he's just another president
mutually assured destruction, that's why we need nukes
isn't that the conventional wisdom?
i know, arguments and rebuttals have been worked out in exquisite detail in decades past... i'm trying to decide what i think about this, getting back to basics - if i had power, decision making levers, where would i stand?
i'm thinking,
the fact that we have all these weapons lying around
is troubling, disgusting, and no, i don't fit it into some
kind of zen vice thing, "ah, well, humans are quirky creatures,
the shenanigans we get up to, it can't be helped, you give monkeys
a supercharged cerebral cortex and they're gonna split atoms
and figure out how to create a critical mass
and after that...
politics...
hiroshima
nagasaki
ended WWII?
was it justified?
NO FATE BUT WHAT WE MAKE FOR OURSELVES
carved on the wooden picnic table in mexico
Metallica And Justice For All, AK-47, Terminator 2
I can't remember if metallica has two 'l's or not"
NO!
No, it's not a goddamn zen vice, it's not something we can live with
i think we should declare ourselves sane
and disarm immediately
yes, i still think about nukes
because of that acid trip i had a few weeks ago
where i was 100% convinced i was seeing the eschaton
the sad end of humanity, we all said fuck it,
we aren't worth saving
and nuked ourselves
maybe i'm still jittering from that last acid trip - maybe if i stop taking psychedelics i will realize that the apocalypse is not immanent... hmmm....
tarik ali was on kootenay co-op radio, pakistani commentator, he seemed to know some shit
but it's a new age, you know, it's Ophoria, the honeymoon before we realize, he's just another president
mutually assured destruction, that's why we need nukes
isn't that the conventional wisdom?
i know, arguments and rebuttals have been worked out in exquisite detail in decades past... i'm trying to decide what i think about this, getting back to basics - if i had power, decision making levers, where would i stand?
i'm thinking,
the fact that we have all these weapons lying around
is troubling, disgusting, and no, i don't fit it into some
kind of zen vice thing, "ah, well, humans are quirky creatures,
the shenanigans we get up to, it can't be helped, you give monkeys
a supercharged cerebral cortex and they're gonna split atoms
and figure out how to create a critical mass
and after that...
politics...
hiroshima
nagasaki
ended WWII?
was it justified?
NO FATE BUT WHAT WE MAKE FOR OURSELVES
carved on the wooden picnic table in mexico
Metallica And Justice For All, AK-47, Terminator 2
I can't remember if metallica has two 'l's or not"
NO!
No, it's not a goddamn zen vice, it's not something we can live with
i think we should declare ourselves sane
and disarm immediately
yes, i still think about nukes
because of that acid trip i had a few weeks ago
where i was 100% convinced i was seeing the eschaton
the sad end of humanity, we all said fuck it,
we aren't worth saving
and nuked ourselves
maybe i'm still jittering from that last acid trip - maybe if i stop taking psychedelics i will realize that the apocalypse is not immanent... hmmm....
tarik ali was on kootenay co-op radio, pakistani commentator, he seemed to know some shit
doubt as religion
agnostics get it from all sides
how many times have i heard theists
usually christian
say they respect atheists, at least
for taking a stand
yeah, you can't escape religion can you
even if you can escape belief
can you escape from doubt?
how many times have i heard theists
usually christian
say they respect atheists, at least
for taking a stand
yeah, you can't escape religion can you
even if you can escape belief
can you escape from doubt?
1/21/09
1/17/09
cleaning up
shaking - worst withdrawal yet
i'm trying to get off drugs
i may be out of commission for a while - a week or more
so, cut me a bit of slack if you please, friends and family
i'll be back and improved, but for now, i must chill
get sane and sober
cheerio
i'm trying to get off drugs
i may be out of commission for a while - a week or more
so, cut me a bit of slack if you please, friends and family
i'll be back and improved, but for now, i must chill
get sane and sober
cheerio
1/15/09
black fabric
"We went right last time, didn't we?" I ask.
"We went right," Luc says. He's under my bed, somewhere back there, far back there. "We went right those last two times."
He sounds sad. No, rather, ecstatic in tragedy. The roads he’s traveling all have sad endings, but they're so beautiful, but they all end in tears, but they're so healthy, but they all get eaten, because we both have brain cancer, can't you feel it? Yes, I can, not sure who said what, or who agreed, but nonetheless, I'll beg to differ, cause maybe in quantum causality I can believe-make that despite all the synthetics and solvents, my brain tissue is still functioning as nature intended. Hopefully nature doesn't intend my cells to turn on each other.
"But that last turn, the one that looked like that part of Knee Deep in the Dead, E1M6, with the nukage pit and that maze of tan-textured walls with open-air causeways every now and then-"
"Yeah-"
"That one seemed better, like a little less synthetic, like even though it was made of pixels the air smelled fresh, like I actually smelled the air."
I insist on this. His belief radiates like the warmth of a hearth-fire, we can't lie to each other here. I've tried. I’ve managed to twist the truth a little and nudge it my way, but never outright lied. When I try, my lies take on lives of their own, come back as prodigal bastards.
"Yeah, I smelled something too," Luc says. "But it tasted wrong to me."
"It tasted wrong? Well what doesn't? I haven't tasted right since a lot of things. Nothing else has either. Except Raz, she tasted right, perfect, better than anything. Still does. Still haven't gotten that taste out of my mouth. Still can't find it anywhere."
Luc isn't listening anymore. He took another turn but I'll meet him again, on another nukage causeway, in a few minutes probably. I'm back in the autumn yard twilight where those black rainbow fabrics were, hanging from the clotheslines attached to my childhood friend David's parents' house. They still hang there. Still with their cryptic lettering, daring me to find out what they mean. I won't, not yet, although I can feel how it's part of a puzzle that will snap everything into perfect meaning, and I can taste the geometry of it, it's making me salivate, it's like vegan gravy with MSG.
But nevermind. Some of my childhood friends want to play in the basement and I don't want to miss out. I'd rather play than solve mysteries. But I'll feel guilty for not applying the intellectual potential I'm saddled with like a malfunctioning ethanol-powered jetpack to the surely society-bettering project of cracking the code of the black rainbow fabrics. And I do feel guilty. But I should forget the guilt at some point, it soaks through my clothes and into the skin, then enters the bloodstream to diffuse and contribute in microscopic amounts to the cancer that’s invading my body.
***
I'm the last one in, I'm a rotten egg. When I open the basement door, hoping my childhood friends aren't about to spring some mean prank on me, I find I'm in a dark corridor with gray blotches on the walls, like massive pixels. I've run into the wall and it's dark. I hit the S button which I've mapped to make me walk backwards. Some light appears at the right edge of my vision, it's the open-air causeway room. I hit the W button which I've mapped to make me walk forwards, tapping the D and A occasionally which I've mapped to make me strafe, useful for avoiding nukage that deducts ten health-points per second if I'm not wearing body armor, which I'm not. Haven't replenished body armor in hours.
And Luc is here, again, with his pirate hat on. He's got body armor. Blue body armor. But he's still afraid of death. Even more absurdly, he's looking to me to assuage his fears.
"Don't you know the invincibility cheat code?" I ask, hoping he does so I can remember. "I-D-D- something..."
"I dunno. I don't think there is one, it's a frackin' myth."
"I think there is. I know there was, but I'm not sure it works anymore. Anyway, you don't need a cheat code."
"Yes I do," Luc moans. "Cause there aren't many turns left. You know as well as I do, we've taken too many wrong turns. We've enabled each other. People can't live this way and expect everything to be alright. Whatever knowledge there was that might have saved us, we strafed on past it looking for power-ups and ammo clips. We shot up the monsters, sure. But we missed the specters from the real world."
"That's what those things were?" Fuck, I hope he's wrong.
"Yeah, I think so, I've figured it out," Luc says. "That's why we could barely see them. Because we're still playing this game. And they were gnawing at us but we didn't notice, not consciously. Our health points are down to almost nothing, in some other world. The real one."
"The real one? You're telling me you really believe in reality? Look around you man. You're in the nukage pit. By the way you're stepping in nukage, get out-"
Luc grimaces in pain and strafes back to the tan-textured floor.
"Ow! That hurt!" He yells.
"That stuff'll kill you, you better watch yourself. See, this is reality. Good thing you're wearing the blue body armor, you only took 5 health points for that slip-up. Anyway, I know there's a cheat code, I just can't remember what it was. But that doesn't even matter anyway. There is no death, not in this world. Maybe in some world, that mythical 'real world' you keep going on about. But who cares, we're in this world, and we have many lives ahead of us. Let those suckers in the real world die."
"Fuck, I want to believe you man," Luc says, "But your words are kind of drooping, looping over themselves, straining to retain structure."
I see that he's right. I can see their tracers in the air. The font is uber-gothic like a black metal band, barely readable - and it's melting into the air. But the air smells fresh and good, like autumn twilight, so who cares if my words melt into the air? But I care, they're my words.
"What about the 'suckers' in the real world... Don't you care about them? What happens when they die? Are they just dead? Gone forever?"
"Why am I obliged to believe in them?" I ask Luc. I'm trying not to let my words twirl into the air again, that's too much transparency, I'll try to confine this communique to sound.
"Because we've been there man, it's a real place. You don't think we'll get there again? What happens when this game's over?"
"We're back to that, are we? It always comes back to that, like we always come back to this nukage causeway. Well, but there was a time before this nukage causeway, I think, don't you? This wasn't always here. There was a time when it didn't exist."
"I can feel the integrity of that statement,” Luc says. “I would have to agree. But you would also agree that the nukage causeway will one day not exist, wouldn't you? Sure, our puny bodies are mortal. But information is mortal, too. One day, you know, it'll all fall apart. The lights will go out. The hard drives will rust. Are you going to survive as etchings on a microscopic surface? Are you going to think and feel? I don't think so."
Fucking Luc, his words have so much weight it's criminal. He shouldn't be allowed to talk like that here, it's not sporting. Maybe it's his body armor, it slows him down, makes him heavy. He's always being heavy and harsh, fucker. But I'm not done yet.
"This nukage causeway. Could you have conceived of this? Maybe after a few malted precursors, but from scratch? Who or what could do it from scratch? Maybe you're right, maybe the hard drives will rust, maybe those people will stop playing the information game in every world and just give it up, and let it all go. Maybe. I don't know. Say it all disappears. What are we left with? Nothing. How did we get here in the first place? From nothing."
Luc chuckles, but he's not buying my theory. It won't penetrate his goddamn blue body armor. Why's he hanging out on this easy level with such bad-ass armor? He should be fighting cyberdemons on E2M8. But I guess he enjoys my company, and he's not really of the warrior caste anyway. He's more of a scholar. He likes to study the textures of the walls, especially from this classic episode, Knee Deep in the Dead, with its pastel Phobos moon-base period palette.
Luc finds meaning in the variations of texture, I think, meaning that penetrates the groundwater. Like I sense meaning in the black rainbow fabric hanging on the clothesline from my childhood friend David's parents’ house. The meaning I sense but can't find. That itch I can't scratch. But sometimes I like the itch. But sometimes I don't. Sometimes I hate it. Sometimes I just want it to stop cause I can't take it anymore! It's a festering sore and it's eating me. It has no respect for ego, it's a sociopathic sore and it's going to devour me eventually, and I'm left to contemplate this as it’s happening, over decades. But maybe I can at least speed up the process, go out in a blaze of glory, put on the gray body armor, find a shotgun and some shells and make a game of it.
But something else is playing its own game with me, a game of cat and mouse. I can't even see it as a cat, it's too big, and it's not cute or cuddly. Its eyes are cold and endless, me looking inside myself, and its tiny claws are inside my cells, virii, scrambling my genetic code. I'm sterile, I think, but I haven't checked. I haven't got the STD test, the CAT scan, the sperm counted. I won't stand up and be counted. I'll shrink and have another drink and another smoke, and shoot up some monsters, and hope I don't have a virus, and assume I have some good sperm that I'll never use. I'll create a life on my computer, that's good enough. It will live on, and I can't imagine it dying. But I guess it must, one day. But I'll be back in the nukage causeway again, even though it's a silly tan texture-mapped render of polygons at 320x200 resolution, and it feels so transient and stupid and we're getting a bit bored with this scene... still there's this echo in the autumn fresh air, something timeless about this space, like we've been here before we were here before we were...
"Woah dude," Luc says. "That was heavy."
"Was it? But I'm not even wearing body armor."
"Maybe you got the soulsphere. Have you checked your health-points lately?"
"There's no soul-sphere on this level." But I check my health-points and they're up to 176. Holy shit! "But there's no soul-sphere here, I'm sure of it!"
“Well how else could your health be that high?”
“Cause I’m high?”
“Don’t be daft man. I’m pretty straight by now and I see it too. I can read you like a book. You got the soulsphere. Or a lot of little blue health potions, but I doubt that.”
“Well I don’t remember finding a soulsphere, maybe it happened back in the exit room.”
“Ahahah, I remember that. You were gooned man. Sometimes I think you play this game better when you’re gooned.”
“Well, I feel like I do, anyway. But you know, having 176 percent health feels a little unnatural. Maybe the game allows it but I still feel like I’m cheating.”
“Stop guilt-tripping yourself,” Luc says. “You’re not actually using a cheat code.”
“Yeah, but... Just cause I can do something doesn’t mean I should. So the game allows it, so what? If I did grab that soulsphere I obviously wasn’t in my right mind. And the game’s not quite as fun with 176% health. And what about those monsters. Might they have souls? Is it fair to just mow them down without fear of retribution?”
“They’d do the same to you,” Luc says. Spoken like a true space marine. Blue body-armor bastard. “Besides, according to your philosophy, they’ll just respawn in some other level somewhere.”
“Yeah, for as long as the hard drives last. I dunno, the way things have been going... news leaks out, about the world with wars and politics. It seeps through these networks.”
“Oh, so you believe in the real world now?”
“I guess I’m not as gooned as I was, it’s starting to seem more real. I can’t smell that autumn air anymore. But I still feel the Phobos vibe, so that’s good. I almost like that better sometimes. But all the chaos, all the manias, people medicating themselves just to get out of bed in the morning, and go to work, and get to sleep at the end of the day... I know we got out of that cycle when we got on this level, and that’s good, and fuck, we’re on a run, let’s keep it going... but yeah, how long can it last? I know, I’ve said that before, and it’s still lasting. But still – how long?”
“So, we’re on the same page then. Fuck. I was hoping you could give me hope.”
“Well I still got my backup philosophy,” I say. “There’s a level underlying the computer resurrection theory, another turtle below, if you will. The nothing from something theory.”
“Oh, I remember you said that. Yeah, well... I dunno, it’s plausible I guess. But what do I know, I’ve got on all this blue body armor. I can take on this fake world, but the real world? It still feels immovable.”
“You don’t move the world, you strafe around it,” I tell Luc. “How did we get here in the first place?”
“I think we teleported, I’m not sure. I still can’t believe you found the secret exit on E1M3. I didn’t know there was one.”
“Neither did I. But I thought there might be one. And there was.”
***
“I think we took a wrong turn,” I say. We’re on the grit-textured ground of E1M5, outside the Phobos Labs. There's grumbling ambiance, monsters running around inside the nukage chamber. I like the music too. Synth strings, doomy percussion.
“Wrong turn? You still believe in those?” Luc says. “There are no wrong turns, only left turns, right turns, up turns, and down turns. Don’t impose your morality on them.”
“You’re just saying that cause you’re down to 56 health-points.”
“I’ve been lower.”
We listen to demons growl and elevators rise and fall. The music track loops.
“I miss Rhianon,” Luc says.
“That bitch? Forget her. She made you miserable. She has no bearing on this world.”
“Sometimes I think about wandering back to the world she’s in." Luc says. "Maybe that’s why I’m losing so many health points. Subconsciously, I don’t want to live in this world much longer. I’m giving up the game.”
“Well, shit, I can understand. I miss Raz a lot too, even though she was a black hole. I think about the good times, ache for what we had, imagine what we could have again. Sometimes I get tired of fighting monsters. I did dream of Raz during the last intermission screen. I guess it was good. And bad."
“Any details you want to share?”
“Well, I was back at the nukage causeway in E1M6. Except, instead of taking a right turn, like I usually do, I went left. I was reluctant to do it. My left brain told me not to, but my right brain screamed go for it! My left brain reminded me of how I supported her financially, devoted years to her, wrote her reconciliatory emails, tried again and again to re-open dialog, at least re-kindle friendship - and how she answered me with silence and contempt. My left brain holds a lot of memory. Every insult. How she mocked me for being childish, and not being able to handle her leaving me for another guy, like as if it’s just life, you little twerp, shit happens, get over it.”
“Dayum, dude.”
“Yeah. Well my left brain, he’s a fucking hard-case these days. I gotta keep him on a leash. Anyway, my right brain, she’s more mellow. She had her own agenda, and was strong that day. She reminded me of the cards and love letters Raz made for me, her little crafts, her books of poems with lace binding and clever names, her pet names for me, her little pekinese dog Peekers and her cat Mini-me, her sweet, stormy relationship with her adopted family. She reminded me of what Raz looked like, and I’d forgotten how beautiful she was, and still is, surely. I knew my left brain was living in the present and my right brain was living in the past. I knew if I turned left, like my right brain wanted, I would get even more lost in the game, and never return to anything resembling reality. And I guess that’s what I wanted. I said fuck it, I’ll turn left. And so I did.”
“So what happened?”
***
So I played pool at the Royal. Me and Raz teamed up against Tony. It was the last time she’d come to visit me in Nelson. She’d just flown in to Spokane the other day, still jet-legged on central time. I had a bit of money in the bank and was spending like crazy, buying everyone rounds. We drank and drank. Then we went to Finley’s and drank and drank some more. We got so drunk that the booze got boring. Raz said what I was thinking: “Lets get some E. Or some coke.”
“Fuck yeah, E would be nice,” I said. That’s when Tony bugged out. I didn’t realize at the time how insidious coke addiction is, and how he panicked and left to stop himself from getting back in that game. I’d been having great fun catching up with Raz after months apart, feeling the love-buzz up close. It's the best drug in the world and goes nice with booze. But once the seed had been planted in my head, of doing uppers... that’s all I could think about. And the few people we dared ask had none. “Wine? What do I need that for?” So I became depressed and irritable. Raz started to annoy me and I annoyed her. Good drugs were the only thing that could save this night.
The bars closed. We couldn’t even stay drunk. Could I find anyone with booze? Well... No. Maybe... No. So we drove back to my place, saying nothing. But I had a plan. A long-shot... My downstairs neighbors. Their lights were on and there was dub-step music. Looked pretty hoppin’. I knocked on the door, feeling like a jackass, desperate to keep the party going.
Someone I didn’t know poked his head out. He didn’t want us to come in. I was sure he was doing blow with those slutty-looking sluts. It looked like the set of an internet porn video.
“Ask if they have any coke,” Raz told me.
No. I almost did, but I didn’t. As we walked up the stairs to my place, I was thinking I could have bought at least half a gram with what money I had left from the bar-crawl. Then I remembered I had cough syrup in my bottom drawer.
Raz scoffed at my syrup, as I knew she would. But we were both drunk enough to drink it. We each drank half the bottle of Robitussin. Raz hurled ten minutes later. I was amazed she lasted that long. I held it down, but felt nauseas for what seemed like forever. And tense. I really really really didn’t want to puke. I didn’t want to party either. And I didn’t want to fuck, which sent Raz into a spiral of self-loathing depression.
To cheer us up, I put on some Aqua Teen Hunger Force videos. It half-worked. She laughed. It reminded us of the time we lived together in Nelson, in the winter, in my parents’ house – a totally pathetic, untenable situation, but we didn’t care, we had each other, and our grandiose art projects, and a big bag of weed, and cartoons. We smoked some pot for old times’ sake. This ended our craving for uppers, while putting me on the verge of madness. Then the dextromethorphan kicked in.
I felt like a helium balloon. My body went numb. I lifted off and floated above the room. The weed synergized fiendishly with the DXM. I robo-walked around my dollhouse-room in spring-loaded leaps, launching myself off the bed, falling back onto it. I was an angel... in a Christian Rock Music Video directed by Satan. Raz laughed at me while she wrote a letter to her mother on my comp. I lay in my bed, looking at hallucinations patterned after a drawing I’d been working on that morning.
But Raz was here. She’d come here to see me. She’d paid a quarter of the airline ticket - and brought me presents, a Shadowy Men on a Shadowy Planet CD, that Red Vines licorice I love, and a Philip K. Dick novel. And a card saying “I love you” that I would throw away years later, out of necessity – you know how it is. And she would only be here for a week. And here I was, lying on my bed, looking at my own artwork in hallucinogenic form. Eyes shut, hallucinations writhing, I said to her:
“I’m sorry Raz. I’m sorry I didn’t hardly ever sleep in your bed. I’m greedy about sleep, I need ideal conditions. Good God, it’s not like I didn’t adore lying down with you and cuddling up and stroking your hair, and feeling your warmth, and listening to your breath, and your night-time whimsies, and your childhood memories. But I need my sleep, you know me.”
“And fuck, I’m sorry for a lot of things. I can understand you chucking me. I love your boundless nymphomanic energy. Sometimes it exhausts me, but I love it, especially when I’ve been away from it for a while. I remember how much fun we used to have, what things we got up to. Our tent at Shambhala the first time we went. It’s been, how many years now? Feels like a lifetime. Certainly not too early for nostalgia.”
“And I’m sorry I couldn’t match your libido. It’s not that you’re not hot - you’re stunning, someone I never imagined I would get to be with... And me, I dunno, maybe I am a sexual infant, like you said. I’m stunted, I’m a midget, that’s my little niche. You taught me a few things though. I've still got your taste on my tongue. And I know it made you feel sick and purvey when I became irritated at your healthy sexual energy. And we tried so many times to find some kind of compromise – but nothing really worked for long. And maybe I didn’t try hard enough. I remember when I was in the spare room, trying to get some sleep one night, and you threw my porn CDR at me. Well, we have our vices – you have your booze."
Raz lay down beside me, more stoned than drunk, now. She was an angel, as they say. She looked at me and I looked into her eyes. Sometimes I can do that – but only with her. On special occasions. It blows my mind, to look into the soul of a woman, the one who will allow it, and have her look back at me, and recognize my existence, and make me feel real, and make me feel like a man. She was timeless Raz, she knew my past and future. She knows I’m recalling this moment now from a place of pixels and bitterness, years later, Episode One, Knee Deep in the Dead, Mission Five, the Phobos Labs.
“You still play that exploding body game, you silly?” she says to me, cracking that wide smile of hers. Nicotine stains wink at me.
“Yeah, sometimes,” I say. “A lot, lately. You still renting ten videos a night, and watching three of them, and losing two of them, and returning the rest late?”
Raz laughs in spite of herself and looks away. “Stop making me laugh. No, I get most of my movies on netflicks now, or watch online.”
“That’s cool,” I say. “Do you still drink?”
“Sometimes,” she says. “Do you still drink cough syrup?”
“No, I do a lot of ketamine now. Today I’m quitting though.”
“Yeah right.”
We laugh.
“I miss you Raz. You don’t even know how much. I wish I could make you understand.”
“Yeah, but it’s all fucked up now. Like your song ‘I haven’t felt right since a lot of things’.”
“That’s your song too,” I tell her. “The title comes from something you said to me on the phone, when you were talking to me from Kansas. About how nothing feels right, and things decay, and our minds are poisoned by this bender we’re on, as a civilization, and microcosmically, as individuals. And how you were abused and raped and all that. And how I can’t seem to feel real happiness anymore, or remember what it was. I thought you nailed it with that simple line. So I used it for the chorus of the song.”
“You’re still waiting for the miracle?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I say. “That’s the one song I wrote that stays relevant.”
“Come here,” Raz says. “I’ll be your miracle.”
“You were once,” I say, wrapping my arms around hers. “You could be again. I’d believe it.”
I kiss her and she kisses back. It feels right. Perfect. It couldn’t be better. It’s not fucked up. It’s so real.
But it’s not.
I try to hang on to memories – sometimes manufacture them. But I always come back. To the nukage causeway of E1M6.
***
“Fuck man, that must have been an intense, dream” Luc says with an empathetic glower.
“Yeah, it was,” I say. “Now I’m all fucked up and thinking about her again. I should have listened to my left brain.”
“You should go give Tabby a call, like you said you were gonna. What are you waiting for? She’s on the market, man!”
“Fuck... I know. Well I don’t know. Maybe she isn’t. Or maybe she’s looking for someone else. Who the fuck am I?”
“And who the fuck is she? Who the fuck was Raz? You need a new miracle. But sometimes you got to meet the goddess halfway.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right, you fucker,” I say. “There’s wisdom under that body armor. But it’s so easy to dispense wisdom. Much harder to follow it.”
“You’re right, man,” Luc says. “Anyway, I’m gonna jet. I gotta be a dad, pick Fidel up from pre-school and then get bitched out by Rhi for forgetting to do something I was supposed to do, whatever that'll turn out to be this time. I’ll meet you at the Deimos Labs, we’ll have a drink or something.”
“Sounds good,” I say, hoping for K. I’m not quitting today. Luc disappears.
1/13/09
clear formatting
sufi rocker's gonna put it all in context
it's pixels... perfection...
it doesn't matter until you wake up after a twenty-seven year half sleep on the bathroom floor - you've fallen - you were never an angel - you were never even an ape - you've fallen from what grace the horned god allowed - and you can't get up - it was those liquigels, they fucked you - no, you fucked yourself - this is the last straw - no way out, you've got to either kill yourself or go to rehab - you can't even puke - binary bugcrawl through the bathroom door, falling on the handle, slipgrip saliva, but no fluid escapes, you wish it could but it won't, you're high and dry, still under the wheel, the wheel of life and death, transcendence is a sick joke
the bathroom floor - you're used to be able to getting up - but this time you can't
but it's okay, you're on the up, your stock is rising - it's a bull market, you needn't think about the crash - you can consign it all to second person - you're rocking - you're a sufi rocker, you're putting it all in context, shaking it out of context like dandruff, scraping it off the bathtub, trying to dispose of it, finding it caking your skin days later - you can't get rid of it, even in second person
well dude, here’s an idea
get all the stupid shit you’ll regret later out of the way
then you’re a blank slate, buzzing on pure dopamine with no subject to bind to – the zen crackpipe
it's pixels... perfection...
it doesn't matter until you wake up after a twenty-seven year half sleep on the bathroom floor - you've fallen - you were never an angel - you were never even an ape - you've fallen from what grace the horned god allowed - and you can't get up - it was those liquigels, they fucked you - no, you fucked yourself - this is the last straw - no way out, you've got to either kill yourself or go to rehab - you can't even puke - binary bugcrawl through the bathroom door, falling on the handle, slipgrip saliva, but no fluid escapes, you wish it could but it won't, you're high and dry, still under the wheel, the wheel of life and death, transcendence is a sick joke
the bathroom floor - you're used to be able to getting up - but this time you can't
but it's okay, you're on the up, your stock is rising - it's a bull market, you needn't think about the crash - you can consign it all to second person - you're rocking - you're a sufi rocker, you're putting it all in context, shaking it out of context like dandruff, scraping it off the bathtub, trying to dispose of it, finding it caking your skin days later - you can't get rid of it, even in second person
well dude, here’s an idea
get all the stupid shit you’ll regret later out of the way
then you’re a blank slate, buzzing on pure dopamine with no subject to bind to – the zen crackpipe
1/09/09
1/08/09
the crowbar of tryth
looks like i'm on the wrong side of the tracks now
honest about my agenda too many times with too many people
made friends with too many locals who think they're "healthy"
well what'd you expect, networking into mass delusion
or is it all some elaborate metaphor, to shield me from
the diagnosis that would shatter my delicate psyche
"sickness" i can handle, slash and burn the dead cells
pry them off the brittle bones, admit defeat
even a self-inflicted pseudo-sickness like addiction
but the pathetic, needy, weakness of my core
personality, no, say it ain't so, foam-cover your clubs with
metaphors and vague language so i can live on in sickness, yeah
i talk about drugs
too much - yeah i do them too much
it's a sickness
but you know what? it's a part of life
we're never gonna be completely healthy
life is grimy and germy and shit happens
and people get fucked up
and societies get fucked up
and stay that way, until
the load bearing structures collapse
and the next prophet comes back with a new set of stone tablets
new taboos, the necessity of slavery, the wisdom
of keeping the sabbath holy that we hope our descendants won't forget
i'm trying to get better
today is another day - i've got tape on my thumbs
tattoos on my hands
i think i need to up my dose of zoloft
yeah, i couldn't sustain that lifestyle
oh, those pills made a heroic effort
but they couldn't counterbalance the weight of hedonism
ill conceived plans, promiscuous social networking, an excess of trust
so begins the era of paranoia, over-correction for betrayal
sunshine and lollipops but no rainbows
honest about my agenda too many times with too many people
made friends with too many locals who think they're "healthy"
well what'd you expect, networking into mass delusion
or is it all some elaborate metaphor, to shield me from
the diagnosis that would shatter my delicate psyche
"sickness" i can handle, slash and burn the dead cells
pry them off the brittle bones, admit defeat
even a self-inflicted pseudo-sickness like addiction
but the pathetic, needy, weakness of my core
personality, no, say it ain't so, foam-cover your clubs with
metaphors and vague language so i can live on in sickness, yeah
i talk about drugs
too much - yeah i do them too much
it's a sickness
but you know what? it's a part of life
we're never gonna be completely healthy
life is grimy and germy and shit happens
and people get fucked up
and societies get fucked up
and stay that way, until
the load bearing structures collapse
and the next prophet comes back with a new set of stone tablets
new taboos, the necessity of slavery, the wisdom
of keeping the sabbath holy that we hope our descendants won't forget
i'm trying to get better
today is another day - i've got tape on my thumbs
tattoos on my hands
i think i need to up my dose of zoloft
yeah, i couldn't sustain that lifestyle
oh, those pills made a heroic effort
but they couldn't counterbalance the weight of hedonism
ill conceived plans, promiscuous social networking, an excess of trust
so begins the era of paranoia, over-correction for betrayal
sunshine and lollipops but no rainbows
1/06/09
1/01/09
creeper
cre
eeeeeeeeee
flutter shutters
blank white pages
pianos banging
brahms explained it to me
cosmic family sorta fascimile
there was a purpose, his style is The Life, what I didn't like now Rings True
Beautiful, Masterbedrooms
my drawings
subsumedinsomethinglarger
merzbow interlude, noisy, showing me
what the soul really is, as i lie in bed
a plumber's pattern, plumber's crack
and the dumbing down of
brilliant fractal froth below
bellows organ bellows organ bellowss
maybe mint is okay for re integration
chocolate mint protein
here we are again, cover er ed
white expanse
ppp pp p
fff rr r
notes ss s
black and white ee e
what can i say? ,
google does not exist
outside is still snow
chewing on mint
another bach cantata
rachmaninov regrets...
chopin's b minor sonata, nineteen minutes, all has been said
russian psychologies
saddled with the 20th century
net’still down
bouncy bouncy
bouncy – prokofiev – bouncy
fear in a handful of dust
de planes are taking off
spiritual k planes where all your ducks are in a row
duck duck duck duck duck duck
duck
remember, sort of
who i am
fragments
but it’s okay
long sleeve shirt, good
checkered like my drawings coming into everything
irving welsh gridskin organ
melding isn’t always all that cool
but interesting
pine boxes
i can see cases and caskets
people need to be where they are
right
now
thank you for the other
nasal maintenance
listen to jimi jamming on voodoo chile
holy shit that ketamine is STRONG
finally a track comes on i don’t want to hear
skip mozart
deltron – mastermind
“yeh, you godda give ‘im dat”
sketch strung space
d
getting weird
think i’ll leave it up to unconscious now
eeeeeeeeee
flutter shutters
blank white pages
pianos banging
brahms explained it to me
cosmic family sorta fascimile
there was a purpose, his style is The Life, what I didn't like now Rings True
Beautiful, Masterbedrooms
my drawings
subsumedinsomethinglarger
merzbow interlude, noisy, showing me
what the soul really is, as i lie in bed
a plumber's pattern, plumber's crack
and the dumbing down of
brilliant fractal froth below
bellows organ bellows organ bellowss
maybe mint is okay for re integration
chocolate mint protein
here we are again, cover er ed
white expanse
ppp pp p
fff rr r
notes ss s
black and white ee e
what can i say? ,
google does not exist
outside is still snow
chewing on mint
another bach cantata
rachmaninov regrets...
chopin's b minor sonata, nineteen minutes, all has been said
russian psychologies
saddled with the 20th century
net’still down
bouncy bouncy
bouncy – prokofiev – bouncy
fear in a handful of dust
de planes are taking off
spiritual k planes where all your ducks are in a row
duck duck duck duck duck duck
duck
remember, sort of
who i am
fragments
but it’s okay
long sleeve shirt, good
checkered like my drawings coming into everything
irving welsh gridskin organ
melding isn’t always all that cool
but interesting
pine boxes
i can see cases and caskets
people need to be where they are
right
now
thank you for the other
nasal maintenance
listen to jimi jamming on voodoo chile
holy shit that ketamine is STRONG
finally a track comes on i don’t want to hear
skip mozart
deltron – mastermind
“yeh, you godda give ‘im dat”
sketch strung space
d
getting weird
think i’ll leave it up to unconscious now
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channeling easy mode
Sometimes I fade, like Bod . Then proceed to get away with things. Stealing time, treating myself. To a glorified journal entry. This pigmy...
