can i say, what the hell i will, that i'm especially sick of the good - the goody goody, everything that's supposed to be healthy - i know how ridiculous that is, how ridiculous i am - how twisted my attitude is - how nearly everyone else is better, they've got something to offer, they do more with less - they've got character - unless they'd rather not be saddled with such a label, in which case, nevermind, forget i said anything

where does A get his attitude? i could go for some of that - surely it wasn't bestowed on a platter - even if it was genetic birthright, that right would come with the duty of cultivating said character in an arduous trial and error ordeal with hard lessons and all that

there's something about low character and mediocrity and the freedom to shrug off the burden of the good, that appeals to me - is this organic excursion in any way compatible with my nature? the simple well-worn rut of the effort equation doesn't seem all that humble, rather simply high and mighty on itself - now to do a low, mediocre thing for a cheap tin thrill and read this back to myself

hiding in the car on a beautiful sunny warm late september day because i don't want to weed - i'm refusing, because i can, because i'm taking a swoon, i'll call this a harmless substitute for the old-timey alchemical mega-swoon, that lapis philosophorum water skipping thing that i can't forget - if i could forget, things would be so much easier and softer, and maybe harder in all the right places - this is the living-sober equivalent to the old swoon, and it's vital to what remains of my spirit when i have to stay here out on the farm, to be, ostensibly, "working", but not weeding - i hate weeding, i really do - and plus, i'm not really interested in... anything - not a damn thing - that being said, there are still microscopic degrees of disinterest that make all the difference i can muster, in order to see color and hear pitch for some reason, or some seeing-hearing thing

there are still limits to expression, i wouldn't say this shit - and i wouldn't want to be caught by the weed tourists in this car on this day - so many hard swallows - you can swallow hard and acknowledge the heavy truths, but it doesn't change a thing, not even attitude - oh, that five minute rule for obsessing about things, i shot it to shit - but i'm still doing ninety meetings in ninety days

at least this day is nice for people who appreciate that sort of thing... which means my decadent self-indulgent decrepit attitude will not seem so unbearable - to those feeling warmed, body and soul, by the sun - it'll be a peripheral irritation

Weeding is Fun! :)
for ya'll, i'm guessing
it might be fun if i was concurrently on amphetamines - i can remember tasks like that being fascinating and euphoric on drugs like that - but even then, i'd be too amped to do one thing for more than ten seconds - when i'm on the crank, i burn through any and every potential activity like the wehrmacht through poland leaving scorched earth and sadness, and perhaps, doubt in god's existence, or at least, god's love - and look, here i am thinking about drugs again... scenarios

ow! car door in the solar plexus - or just the stomach - why do exclamation points seem so friendly? i'm sure that A's earned his car - he did something good, lots of things maybe, not in past lives, but in this one - the temperature in here is nice now - warm after the hammock in the woods - "davey boy, 26 years old... counting his curses, counting his curses" but a few blessings too - counting curses and blessings alike in the manner of a sour-faced accountant working overtime, paperwork off the grid - tallying the blessings with no emotional links

i wouldn't agree that i'm one of those brave new world citizens - i like my walks in the woods now and then - i have my neologism i call "sacredity" - i need more than Natureland, but i'm sure i seem pretty post-nature to a lot of these people - i'd like to be seen in the hammock, not in the car, but i'd rather be in the car right now, it's more conducive to the swoon - the swoon is synthetic in its natural form, to get it au natural, one must build an artifice of synthetic conditions - it's a fake swoon, a crude mimic, but it's something

these people, i respect them so much - i like them - so how come i'm always sneering and sarcastic in my head? maybe because i can't sway and swoon how i want anymore, and it makes me spiky and pent up and unsatisfied sometimes

heavy lids, gordian knots

sitting empty, as jenn said, about her journal - this calls for extreme measures - a stretch of limbs that'll congregate in holy matrimony between earth and sky, a neverending parabola, a zeno's paradox of whatever that feeling is you get when you stretch for lack of anything better to do, a quadratic equation mostly

or maybe the extreme measure of filling up a wall with words, or more appropriately, a column, or several columns that fill the first foyer of a temple, floor to ceiling pictographic scrawl, it looks pictographic enough to me, even within the helvetica contours of digital stencils

or maybe the peaceful co-existence with megafauna, when they're never out of season, but the season is slow-paced, and we don't take so many of them down that they die out, cause god doesn't care for those big beasts, poor things, even if i do, but not enough to be an activist, like a friend of mine

it certainly comes back to heavy lids and the waiting for miracles... what is the prognosis, cocaine psychosis? no, can't be that, but it might be synthetic, could be this chemical or that, could be laundry detergent, cell phone radiation, mercury poisoning - and okay, could be psychological, cause if i can get perked up from the chronic recline of the damned by the simple thought that i could slash through the lethargy by doing something bad, really bad, but oh so fun, then the body is the brain's bitch in that case, isn't it?

well, that's whot itis, and coodn't be any tis'n'ter

selected stenographical notes

the time for drafting
is past the horizon - "oh fuck", overheard at the rooms

flip flop flip flop
can you hop like a frog?
enDuress
skipwhisper ~ living in low-def scorcery
blah's better than the cursive slur
plug-ins are good too

can't do that
cause i gotta do this
be at a meeting
humility
is bringing such ideas to even this sanctuary
give me a medal now

SUB
level 4

"Are you sure you're good?" Liz asked her again.

"I'm good," Gabby said. Good as angelic. Smug as a bug in a sarcasm security blanket. Good to go, keep you going through the show. Not that there was anything to play. Backstage work here, the chores. But they called her "manager".

"Good," Liz said, still with the darting eyes, unable to meet the gaze that wasn't there. Gabby could see the darting in her own peripherals, of course. She didn't miss much. But there wasn't much to do about it. Only a tight knot to behold, maybe influence but not in the intended way. Would Liz have called it "creative" or "destructive" interference, Gabby wondered.

"Are you really sure you're good?" Liz asked. Why not? Let her make conversation. Let her plant and farm it, reap what she sows. Or maybe you don't reap what you sow, not when you're a maker, making things for the takers and fakers - they just take and fake and fake and take until the maker and the baker run away together, find an island and drop out of society until the nuclear war happens and we're all in it together again, for the last few hours of life. 

"Well?" Liz asked.

"Yeah I'm good, what could be wrong?" Gabby said.

"You sound sarcastic," Liz said.

"I know. I'm not though. It's sound and fury."

"Ooh, Faulkner," Liz said. "Or Shakespeare."

"Yeah, they exist," Gabby said. "You sound as sarcastic as me."

"I know," Liz said. "I'm not though. Forget it Gab, it's Chinatown."

"Ooh, Polanski," Gabby said.

"I know," Liz said. "It's a psychotropic reaction."

"Psycho-whatnow?" Gabby said. It's black and white pre-paradigm shell-casings. And it must be read or it's tired clenching eye-rubbing okay-ness.

nail clippings

flourescent
luminous failure following design principles home to the Atlantic Center foodcourt like a lost puppy.
Health clubbers master stairs, cycle, and tread behind screens through the windows above.
meditation bitch
Today, she says, erase everything, every symbol you can find on every flat surface of your cubicle. Tomorrow she'll say: fill those surfaces again, do a dance routine, a rote jiggle of writing, sometimes typing, for the inevitable information archive at the outer edge orbital plane of the biggest li'l electron in the world.

Cuticles sound like cubicles, crucial when you're bobbing your head in a sufi swoon, and the main theme exposition is glued symphonically to subject B, or maybe simply welded, crude efficiency, maximum chromosomal distortion of thematic intent, mainly.

The meditation bitch reminds me there's a first person here, and there is a 72nd floor room where that american can-do guru journalist tripped on microdots from a pillbox and used the experience for a chapter of a hardcover that sold copies, presumably.

i don't still not have it

questions for Ian

extra

ordinary mudbricks
in the next
nacropolis