what was that again? That was four periods. It was also ba and ka. One wonders if it has something to do with the blocking of serotonin reuptake. One wonders what a real orgasm felt like. On the wane. Like the dayglo freak face-painters became human racers. Like that. After laying into an impromptu multitrack, in a simulation of inspiration, with found sounds, and a tricky time sig, lurching from haste to waste, I've decided, I've run dry.
So many possibilities. They're all tiny fractions. They add up to one. I wrote a rhythm, in 13ths. It added up to one. So I multiplied it by five. It sounds like something. But one wonders what the purpose is. What this serotonin is adding up to.
I tried to do art, musical art, because I couldn't motivate myself to collect 150 purple coins in the deep dark galaxy. But I got tired of that facility for unholy matrimony with paternity. So that is a word, after all. So I'm writing now. And how. And I said the good times are gone. And Jung said the unconscious will terminate a life that has become meaningless. Richard Manual loved the women. I had to look away, at the Chinese restaurant, and then at the narcotics anonymous meeting, again with those pretty people, even unconventional, pain, dull pain. How do you dull dull pain?
Maybe I'll write a novel, starting with a female character who wears a tight black aerobics top to a buffet. Or maybe she'll have popcorn grease on her face. Or maybe this graph will be the extent of that venture. I would call this a cul-de-sac. The Gulf of Mexico is turning black as I write. I don't quite know how I stay so insulated. I was thinking of something that seemed....
to mean nothing, but felt everything: I played Tetris, over a period of a few months, on the Nintendo Entertainment System, with my friend Dan, in the first year of Junior High - the primary glows over the black backgrounds - tetris, even though it was such a pedestrian little puzzler, and we had access to bigger and better things, but we played it anyway, it was a miracle that this could have happened - and there was that time that he was even helping me to play, telling me, urgently "lay it flat", as that piece came down, and i had the same idea, and i laid it flat, and it was a good move - I want so badly to grasp the essence of this, like it has an aggregate I can't get at... I dunno. Saying "authenticity" would be disingenuous. Maybe the simplest way to say it would be that it feels more real and good, that sublime combo, then anything in my life right now, or in the past, or the foreseeable future. Otasan's disembodied hand with RGB oscillations, the cryptic promise, beckoning, inner-zippers I can't reach - it's better than any bullshit in the world right now. This oil slick, I can't let it out of my universe. And how lame is that? A fucking oil spill, how unoriginal. The universe is on re-runs.
Oh I tried, to contrive some sort of dream, but it's not even vapour, it's a poor man's metaphor, and I might have to wait hours to dream for real. Starting now.
<>><<> can i just say, fuck it all? just say how bored and tired and uninspired i am? how everything is disappointing? how i'm wanting to shrug it all off, can't even contemplate climbing back toward any state of marginal grace - succumb to mediocrity, know that i'm wasting, a waste, just straight out - not even wasted, that's not even fun anymore, anyway <>>>< honestly, binary, hacksub in thirteen - might make a good entry in the barkives
CANCEL the BAND. CANCEL the SCANS. CANCEL the JOBS, they're not calling back. CANCEL the PROGRAM. I'll keep collecting cheques till they stop sending them. This is better music than that tired piece of multitrash, anyway; it's the precursor to the next great artform {[(like slave songs were the precursor to hip hop) like historical extrapolations into the future are quaint and silly, but half-assedly precient centuries later] like my music is amateurish algebra, or could be, given the application of sufficient theory}, and the now cursor is blinking in a slur, slinking while i'm doing my lurking work, shirking responsibility to the void, that grants me dreams of half a heaven, 0.5c, chasing something of substance, desperately, but casually, just kind of disappointed, that's all, although not really expecting much. CANCEL.
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