disconnected from emotions - countdown to burnout

and a lot of other things besides... improvising toward the cold toes that warm up in the morning ... and so many tangents of interpretation - captain obvious here... trying to drop cover whenever possible... a strip-tease of cover - a veil dance, and a poetic metaphor about theoretical narcotization... jam night in the reflecting pool, distorted, scary, normal again, too normal, too fluid, too high a frame-rate, doesn't seem like a movie should seem anymore - that's why i mentioned dextro earlier, cause i remember, by proxy, that feeling of being in a music video - nostalgia for tchaikovsky's russia, just nostalgia that's all, harmless bittersweet nostalgia, that kind of thing


shirttails, handrails, coattails, slip and slidies - better shut the blinds, bury self in self again, find a layer to hide out on, renounce a certain percentage of perception, not have to feel the world's pain in aggregate, slough off, slip off the feeling, slip'n'slide, refuge in corners of the mind...

hospital terms, anatomical terms, funeral tones, mahogany imagery, respirator bets, stipulative definition of hospital tones, morgue terms, gurney words, gibberish, and surprise at death, still plans, welfare cosmos, plan reverb, remastered twenty years later, cryo-wake - blogger podcast output data

intensity of thc spun thinking, writing about it later, mostly harmless, like the earth itself... wondering if there's such a thing as spiritual sickness... hmmmm... puff and ponder...

to qualify before i quantify absence, there's a "feeling" now, to quote a qualitative adjective, it's a feeling, and not objective, but there's a feeling of just about everything being mostly gone now - too many predictable patterns - pot burn out, caffeine burn out, chi-less - there are safer headspaces for me, one among them being analogous to sobriety - but when all is safety, all is pretty dull and uninspiring - not really, but i guess at times i crave one of the baser methods for introducing something almost dangerous, at least to emotional balance - emotions, it's not that i'm disconnected from them it's like - well, hell, i don't know what it's like... i may NEVER EVER know, oh wow, imagine that... never ever - well, like, whatever...

emotions... i'm actually more connected than i am when i haven't got the more obvious mind and mood altering chemicals in my system - there's so much in play, in the food, in the water, there's zoloft, it's almost like voodoo psychiatry for me, at this point, i think, i feel okay enough cause i'm sticking this painless pin in this mockup doll, so, better keep on doing it... i'm actually more connected to those emotions, but it's a little scary, and makes me feel like sobriety, or what passes for it, is safer

there's also thoughts like, wow, where am i now? what has this life come to? well, it hasn't been all that dull lately - was it a good idea, to come here? well, i went with a flow, anyway, i kind of created a flow and then went with it - not normally so creative in that area - creative meander is more what i'm partial to - eddies, just your general eddie in the small pond

dreams have been really emotional lately, connecting to them in weird ways - lots of past, work, kitchens, kentucky-fried chicken machinations for some reason, maybe cause i applied there once, just applied, old ruins of rooms i never knew existed in my parents' house, old houses, houses in houses, subhouses, underground ruins, underground ruins that aren't quite ruins, that still got some functionality, some energy, some electricity in some weird subterranean scavenged form, catacombs, egyptian imagery, mummies, yes, fucking MUMMIES, but in a more informed form now that i've learned a bit about that stuff, like slaves didn't build the pyramids, nuh uh! so there...

and last night, oh wow... a tundra on the northern bc coast, a tundral community by the sea, and the inuits practiced mummification too, and had elaborate temples in a network of ice tunnels in and around and under a tall seaside cliff, and there was this ancient inuit pharaoh who had a burial chamber way up north, past the arctic circle, and i learned about this through briar who was showing me a documentary about it when we lived together briefly in kansas, yeah, i know, dream conflation, it happens a lot, don't blame me, i don't make my dreams, i just write about them... the documentary about the ice pharaoh whose name sounded like tuthankhaman, but he had a haidi feeling about him, so i felt from the documentary... so one of briar's friends came to visit me in this bus i was living in, along the side of a coastal highway with pristine pacific scenery and gray skies with little shards of sunlight every now and then and this friend had some kind of snowmobile that was a supersonic jet as well, and we drove/flew to near the north pole to take a tour of this inuit tomb, i was checking it out through briar's connections, but there was a sad feel to it, maybe, well, suppressed emotions obviously, but i wouldn't presume to know what they add up to...

dreams fascinate me though - that's one of the many cool things about my bb, she agrees, we have a cool conviviality when discussing dreams

sea-sawing between states of mind dragged through the mud or spun past the ionosphere by drugs can bring hollow feelings in transitional periods... but i look at the man, etherized on the circus circus table-go-round, and i think to myself... what a wonderful world... i've had worse problems in the past... maybe not everything is a problem - drinking, getting drunk, and falling down became a problem for me, but - oh, here's johnny, axeing through the door, i don't have the will and bravado to continue transmogrifying references into word soup and salad so i'll sign off

crash smash natch... suggest hypnagogic.... dog cat leash unlike this. auto correction resolves pointelist fuzz into projected onscreen macro mega parceled  translated hexicezimal layer point.

 1/10th as wild as you never thought. same old patterns. reserve the right to refrain from plunging into an icy stone cold cave no doubt. I don't get it.

extra layer of hypno ice on the Lower floor. dextro seems somehow innocent. a pleasing flanged fray frinkled and flay fink led.

superb extra jazz and elbow jabs everywhere a receptive audience and empathia. okay, with auto correct off, the terrain is freer but so much steeper. don't want to linger over the rockface raving and sticking his tounge out like a sickly weakling still suckling from too much tension in the dark room

dreams of old bedrooms, can remember a series like never before. always keep in mind the possibilities of fun. and dream series of gas stations in a version of new york. a woodside gutter stream in greater new york. there's too much more to ever count how much permutation of evolution and information goes into that. retroactive effects.

dynamics of altering mood with chem keys. remember, phone. well this is a new one. and trazzie sinks in a bit. I don't care to solve this. there probably is a gordian knot solution but insane to think I could ever figure it out. suicide after one week on a desert island.

ode to dreams

50 more years of this and then aquarhombus drowning? hopefully on ambien - a request - who knows if they grant them? to compartmentalize my karma, i put some of my loose change into the hospice donation box

ode to dreams chorus ran out of breath - words could slip off the handrails - i played sheep for a few months - trivial pursuits - open mike with mike bullard - a different person here, a different person there - not significantly different though - arthritis of the rhyme, cancer of the consonance, rheumatism of the rhythm, jaundice of joie de vivre - i'll carve a statue of you from the thickening atmosphere to commemorate your consumption, the heroic feat of having drank that much poison and lived, for a while, a sick seasaw, seen, here and there, about town - dull blades

dark kitchen dreams, there's a series, cross-breeding with the other theatre troupes - maturation merely means more resonant aches, and the things that seemed so sharp are now so dull, they don't stand out clear against background bullshit and radiation - but it is fuckin cool to sort of intuitively and sensitively understand what radiation really is, on a level i can only sense through metaphor, but in subtle ways that allow this, in the subether realm, tactility, nerve nodes, tiles of gentle body bitching

witch hazel, citronella, DEET

decimate bacteria with synthetics - but we know what causes cancer - can sort of sense the thing like why things bite back, at a certain stage of life, different for every iteration of an organism

what happens at this stage of life is, the past can be revisited, but getting high isn't getting high anymore - it's, oh, this sticky thought pattern - it is sticky - and it is interesting, there's still interest - there's higher def perception of time slowing down - the nature of that time - maybe with a few more IQ points, or more neuronic structure soul-boosted with alien donation and unicorn connotation, whatever it is that gets caught in a certain standardized test snare, theories could form about the way things work

work - has a negative connotation from this corner of the self-reflecting universe - yeah - dark kitchen dreams, can i request a lab coat next time? in the nocturnal tram underground...

why can't i just write anymore? say things? something happened to this venue. and to me. could be quite temporary. as everything is. as life is. as death is, i hope, like a weasel. that's what we say down here on this planetary plane. like a weasel. most recently, i dreamed of death as a tall rhombus shaped room, like the interior of the aquatic center in nelson, with a declining plane lining the four walls, and a bottomless pool of water, increasing in darkness and pressure with increasing depth, squeezing out the mind the further i sank

squeezing out/in - how bout those languages in cells? i could almost see it, groove on it

sore, burn, burned out, fried, crispy, ache tracers... i'm glad i quit my job - it seems like the right thing to do - and the next right thing? just about anything, as long as it's next - the show's still going on, getting more and more familiar, and yet more ridiculous at the same time - and comprehensible in a campsite of modern amenities and products of china and culture conglomerated - silly stand-up comics takes on kentucky fried chicken franchise and this globe with a surface scum of genetic copies of ourselves, more or less

paranoid, hunting for mosquitoes, cause they can die - at a higher frequency - if we analogized the time-dilation, we'd be dropping like flies too - the little flies, the non-mosquitos just fly around silently with no seeming purpose which is okay with me, i stared at them with a new vision, i stared at them because i could, could focus, time was slower

no obligatory obeisance to a guilt-ridden neurotic's seriosities in this rock opera - no opera seria - and no need to invoke some opposite extreme of loot the future for the sake of this night, or this hour - it's not that anymore - it's a partially re-wired structure, suggesting possibilities, office space, it aches, it's got insulation to be put in, needs teams of electricians, drywall installers, plumbers, all that stuff - but it's bankrolled by a crazy billionaire - it'll be work, and play, let's say