bluch

i mean boohoo, i mean dial nine one wah, i mean, somebody call a wahmbulance, i mean, i guess it's been a while since nodes of encouragement - the trough isn't feeding me - i guess i need to sleep - good thing that's so easy to do - i guess i will soon - cause the cheque isn't in the mail, there's nothing to anticipate - a diet sunkist encouraged me for three seconds when it was funny - humour i could never think of - the neverland hasbeen singularity where i was impossibly cool - it was just a pleasant itchiness, that's all it ever was - i can't stand when anyone makes too many associations with old times - i'm not fit to stand trial - serotonin sinkhole - still trying to sound poetic - words perky by definition, but some people know better - faint damnation, faintness, low blood pressure - 2% success rate - fifty attempts - lithium, magnesium, sodium, strontium - unable to adjust

but i accomplished something - i downloaded a 13.5 gigabyte torrent of spoken word wikipedia articles - does that give some context? according to his ability... materialism 2014, cause it's always one year ahead, digital- just another girlfriend? no, no such thing - rather, broken strands of razor wire in the hippocampus - the royal bank of canada - slow re-sensitization to emotional pain - reluctance to admit the necessity for a radical solution - or what seems radical when it's only forging some kind of real human relationship that is off the spectrum i've narrowly mandated for myself

marathon dragging of heels, novel wrist pain, half-broken bones out of nowhere - irrelevant as artist - jandek reference - reference, the last word spoken from the crashed coaster - i don't believe in your purity, less isn't more, you could have said more with less cliche

arabesque torture by a beautiful name - lite heaviness - second rate shakespeare - zombie stereo trend - ghetto blaster - i'll always be here for you though, mom and dad and some others, when your need outweighs my chronic slump, if that ever happens - goodnight me

down-regulation

few things are more obnoxious than a mass of people on their way somewhere - and being somewhere stationary in their long wake, so ugly and dusty in every sense, is such a gross place to be, intimate with human traffic, pedestrian, or worse, vehicular - if you have the shit luck of living in such a place, be glad at least you're not on the ground floor with the most dense settling of litter, particulate air, carbon monoxide, and noise pollution, but soundwaves penetrate walls, so i roll out of bed to force foam into my ears - he has a horn and he's on his way somewhere, it's his video game, he's player one, kid fuckin' A - why should he waste his thoughts on anyone else, it's a road, not a home - if he lived here, he'd be home right now, which is why he's pathologically driving - no one had to define skeet for me, the certain je ne sais quoi of this rat trap

jot - seeing the green and staying put anyway - jot - i love it when the kettle sounds human, and incense smoke seems happy to see me - jotting dreams of a software work-camp in labrador city - my own method of organizing files on the company servers to fill up the first day, since i don't know what i'm supposed to be doing, and fighting panic - then creating a personal profile, which could maybe pass for an official task for now anyway, let me squeak through this day - also wanna impress my desk neighbor because she's smart and cute and from the questions she asked me it seems like we're in the same bind, so there's a bond, except it'll quickly emerge i'm on some level that leaves me in the dust, i got here by accident, she's got basic competence at least

remembering this dream opens up a whole commercial plaza full of dream history in that sector, the work-angst dreams, finding myself desperately employed in some old job i barely remember how to do, or thrust into an absurd new one where i don't know what's up, but must seem like i do

it's all gotta be in the soup, it'll do, there's nothing you can do about it, and the tasters can stand it, and fuck twitter, i'm sick of hearing about it - and zing, not the good kind of zing, i wonder how long this synaptic regulatory syndrome will last - it's many kinds of awful, but more kinds of lame, which is the mercury lining of the dendritic tumour duvet - it's not the world, it's me, even if it feels like the world is crushing me from the outside, but i need to know what course it takes, to conquer that fear, so later on, i'll have the benefit of having been around that block so i'll know what to expect when the system collapses to the point where i can't reliably obtain SSRIs

unwill cataplexed slowmo solar blitzkrieg quickee neuron mashup, Dr. Green Forest Road MD, and keep your fuckin mouth shut, turd-whistle, cause you don't know anything, and even if you did, there'd be no point in saying it. Shitheel. That's a thing. Ah. Zingsong. Shiver. Shudder. sleep of sorts

experiments in self-medication or lack thereof

it's getting a bit strange - another k dream last night - maybe i've so ached for the quality of cognitive colour-vision through the most recent months of this twelve-step life-sentence, that i kinda accidentally-on-purpose poked a loophole for trippin' baaawlz - cause all i did was remove a substance, the re-uptake inhibitor, and if it should so happen that its absence feels like the presence of a drug, that's not my fault, i'm just clearing away some chemical junk from the synapses - absence of sertraline is giving me feelings i would've written off as cliches and exaggerations about what supposedly happens to quitters - dare i say, there's deeper feelings? dunno if there's anything realer about them though, are you more correctly oriented to reality when a puppy chow commercial brings you near tears?

but it's eerie when something that's just an emotion also feels like deja-vu instead of anything normal - most of the month has been a simple bad case of dejected defeatist thinking and negative feedback loops, such thorough lameness that it couldn't be induced by anything other than me being unimpressed with everything in a way that's typical - but just lately, as i've dropped to zero mg, there's a broader spectrum of feeling - it's not all negative, just mostly negative - it's not that i feel anything positive, except maybe a hint that there's a sunny land attached to these new bleak vistas somewhere beyond the horizon - but i still worry that's wishful thinking - the thing is, it's so strange to feel anything close to crying, and crying is a little more satisfying than just tired, disappointed, frustrated listlessness

there's also a feeling of sickness, but like withdrawal sickness - which it is, isn't it? it's not that different from coming off a years-long meth binge, i've conditioned my brain to expect nothing but the state of synthetic serotonin regulation - now it's protesting loudly, and making me a little dizzy all the time, and a lot dizzy in spells a few seconds following the slightest movement or physical exertion - and there's a slight underlying nausea that feels somehow emotional as well - it's weird - some of it is inverse placebo / hypochondria, all of it psychosomatic in a literal sense!

seems that last jump from 25mg to 0 is an order of magnitude more difficult than the prior steps, as if just some amount of the medication in my system made a major difference, even if it was a third the normal amount

there's a few things keeping this from becoming a reckless stunt, first that it's starting to get vaguely spring-like in the outside world, so although it seems to me like the most unimpressive spring ever, coincidentally enough, and i can't remember ever being so blase about such a welcome change in weather, it's still making my surroundings a little less bleak, and not exacerbating the inner-gloom - second, the experience is giving me something to write about, it does feel like there's some purpose, beyond writing fodder, in wresting myself from the chemical regime, or at least trying to - naturally, people are reluctant to encourage me in this the way they've encouraged me in quitting other drugs - and i understand, because it's scary when you have no control over or vision into the mind that's meddling with itself, and thus, you worry about what might happen, what valleys of nervous malfunction might lie beyond the slope

really though, i'll just go back on the meds if it seems to be a bad course of action - but i need to be a little further on that course before i'm able to judge - and especially now, as i feel acute withdrawal, it hits home to me how zoloft is another substance that's controlled me, i'll grant in a far more benign way than others have, but not without its own malevolence - the violence with which its tentacles cling to my neurons is indicative of its control freak nature, and it makes me angry that i'm so beholden to it - i paid tribute every month at the pharmacy, dutifully swallowed pills each morning, so punctual, practically institutionalized myself - and it was my idea to get on this stuff, but i can barely remember the episode, it was so long ago, i think i just wanted to check it out, see if i could get a little better living through chemistry in the socially acceptable way - and now the ferocity of my brain's pushback makes me want to get this detox over with in a hurry, white-knuckle it and see what's on the other side - maybe nothing much, but being able to know one way or the other is a compulsion i have, insofar as i have any, which i don't - a function, a tick, a tock, smalltalk, getting smaller as it swells in perverse superfluous verbiage

frustration again, of writing crap, not being able to smooth out the awkward bunches in the sentences - lame landmass once again filling every horizon - good to know, i guess, if i want to feel outside the bounds of that desert, i could just tune into a sentimental dogfood commercial, or garden variety tv drama where i can't help caring about the characters even as i'm cursing the shittiness of the soundtrack, in trying to sound cool and current with a bunch of unnecessary and annoying trends - but what can you expect from me? i don't care for music much anymore, and good christ, how painful it is to pretend to care, or contrive something to say about somebody else's creation out of obligation

cloisters of the mill

i burst open the door of the living room, as i do, in a rapid jerk of getting something done, the simple act of entering a room and closing the door so the heat would stay inside and keep my electrical bills down - i get things done, when i get anything done, in a quick jolt of action, cause the energy is sure to drain at any moment, gotta act quick while i have any impulse at all - the act itself is something close to lame, and always mundane - i re-sorted things, discarded things, transferred other things from utility drawers to the one little drawer of mementos cause there was no lingering utilitarian use for them, barely any keepsake use either - was almost ready to discard this one pile, but next to some unjustifiable excess of nostalgia-tinged junk was a plastic baggie stuffed with little conical native-american "encens" sticks, what i use to call "chlorine cones", cause they had that hard edge to their scent that wasn't bb's cup of tea, but at one point, she'd decided to try a new incense brand, just for a lark, and it had ended up a reject, in one of my drawers - so i sparked it up, which was a novelty, but also an old habit long-passed - and when i burst back into the room from the kitchen while making toast, the gust from the interior door-swing spun the smoke trail that had been lazily pluming sideways into an upright column, sudden vigor, looking like a standing ovation, for me

and sure, cause smoke don't need sarcasm - i'll just let it billow, and tickle my lungs for a while, a mild difference - eyes a little sore, but for a novel reason, the air being a bit thicker, a bit cushier - things to bounce off

eff and def

anger - and why play at passive fragments for some kind of pathetic poetry fodder?

i'm, fucking, angry - at what i don't know - it's one of those nasty spokes in the cycle that's teetering like a drunk's pedaling, canter, third wheel thwacking me upside one of my heads that's in the wrong place again

i want to blame everything on medication, presence or absence, but i don't dare do that and shirk responsibility... but why not, what's it matter? maybe i'm starting to feel feelings that were covered up by pills now reduced to fractional dosages - that scary acronym SSRIs - more likely it's nothing to do with that though, it just is what it is, and i got wrapped up writing a review, but it was dawning on me that something i initially felt driven to write was taking A FUCKING HOUR per paragraph, and that's when i started getting frustrated, and thinking well then, do something else, but wanting instead some kind of vindication for seething through this shit

i dunno - dunno why i'm typing either, a phenotype, dunno why i'm posting, a prototype, dunno why anything, alphabet soup, it's a coincidence, a pornographic mashup as well, the green forest - the green forest - maybe it is lack of meds, there's a certain flavour to this frustration i don't remember ever getting when i had as much as 50mg of that stuff in my system, but it's hard to tell what the mg/kg portions might be at this stage, given response curves and half-lives and rogue metabolisms

maybe i'll not even try to resist succumbing, maybe i'll lie down in anger - even when there's no prospect of falling asleep, just lie angrily on the couch and stare stonily at the ceiling and feel discontent with life the universe and everything, but particularly my own life and myself and all the effort i've gone to, to arrange things in aesthetic orders that were on the wrong track, that were no damn good, and now i'm stuck in these patterns

fucking hate this shit, i do, i fucking hate it - i hate this person - oh wait, maybe i needn't be saying these things so explicitly, cause then, soon after, i might use it as evidence that i'm getting rapidly unhinged from just taking a few less pills, and blow it all out of proportion, and prematurely end the experiment which i started in the first place in hopes that i'd feel better eventually - i'd hoped that in the long run, detaching myself from the yoke of oppressive chemical regimes with their attendant side-chain effects would be a good thing, provided i could get through a period of instability and of maybe having to deal with some emotions off the spectrum i'd gotten acclimatized to - but of course, it wouldn't be that simple, would it? nah

it's so hard to tell normal depression from abnormal depression, medicated malaise from healthy malaise - if it's physical, why can i be led to believe it's my thoughts, when it's my chemistry? how can it be so subtle that it can trick my thoughts into saying there's no biology behind this, that's wishful thinking?! cause maybe it is my thoughts, maybe it's psychological, maybe it's circumstantial - but i'd rather not have to change circumstance, cause circumstances are so stubborn, i've never made much progress changing my life, but i could change chemistry, that's easy, simple intake of this or that, it appeals to me in my laziness and/or tireness or whatever the fuck-ness, my poor me-ness, cause nobody can feel as shitty as i do, and if they do, and they did more anyway, then fuck them and their smug example-setting charade undergone just to point out how lame i am, which i already knew - fuck us both, to use a four letter word, the "eff" word, that may be an acronym about uncarnal knowledge, or might be a bastardized version of a german verb, but is a miserably worn-out word that ought to be buried next to the "def" plot

wow, it's creepy how i was in an okay mood, had some projects on the go, and then all of the sudden, DRAIN, there it goes, and i'm flipped into ruminating about why i hate everything, yours, mine... if it's a physical thing, like the can i kicked down the road as a missed dosage catching up with me, then it's soooo subtle, how it can disguise itself as the normal functional flow of one thought to another, and not be anything so underlying as shift in chemical equilibrium - like, i suppose, for the last, jesus, six years maybe (?!) i've maintained a steady state of sertraline, faithfully dosed in the morning, never more, never less, and why should i act surprised if suddenly, i've only got 1/3 of the serotonin re-absorption blocking molecules on the job? surely that would result in something that would affect outlook on things, messing with the serotonin, cause they say it regulates a myriad of things under the umbrella of what we call "mood", and if my mood was pretty mediocre to begin with, well, what's the big surprise then, when my brain is suddenly allowed to absorb the amount of serotonin it would have normally back into neurologically-neutral effluent, transmitting nothing nowhere? of course my way of thinking's going to be altered a bit, given to what extent my thoughts are shaped, framed, formed from overlaps of chemical states - and as unimpressed as i am with therapies that hinge on minor tweaks to levels of vitamins, minerals, hormones, that will, presumably, perk you up somewhere downstream, that always disappoint me, these synthetic serotonin-boosting molecules are designed for the exact purpose of changing the brain, so of fucking course i'm going to have my thoughts affected and my feelings shaken up when overturning a state of affairs held for years

it doesn't feel like a good kind of shaking up though, it's just depressing that as depressed as i was, i can be even more depressed if i don't take my anti-depressants - the question is though, is this just like a drawn out amphetamine crash? which would be an appalling thing to have to go through, but the point being that there's light at the end of the tunnel, and i could, if i could see the experiment through, and give it long enough to where i could goddamn well gauge anything, arrive at a more healthy place, of contentment that wasn't dependent on meds, which is more of a kind of keeping my brain in a straight-jacket kind of "contentment", not all that pleasant, and there's consequences to being in a straight jacket and stuff and you know... ....
... ... i feel like my writing process is screwed up, i can edit and clarify if i could climb the mountain of doing that, but the energy required is monumental and i refuse - my head aches and it's clumped up and cluttered with junk, i'm in a haze that's sharp in certain corners that jab into me, bloody me then disappear in swelling tumours before i can locate their edges to sheath - yeah, something like that...

don't wanna make too much of this though, it's probably noise, not signal, and i'm just being verbose because i have no life, haha ha ah   ha    yeah, well

alphazetalick

erotypalcuntours, whoopdeefuckinduplicate, smooouth superposition, stylized abstraction, lowercase teardrop, beta-kappa filtered - fine detail failure

mmm, ahh, mmm, yeah, aohmhaoomh! testify! the backup crew -aoxomoxoa, ummagumma- casket cackle, caint help m'self, the funeral was taking i'self so serious, lol ~plenty o' follicles presenting females with synthetic pheromones, looking to sacrifice everything for a good moment ~even though i was so skeptical of the baggie that looked nearly empty, i saw it was a strange form of the substance, looked like epsom salts in large-ish pellets, most of them transparent, and they turned out to be good kootenay crystals, tasted just like keta in my nose, imported to all the way over here in this eastern land-patch, and sold to me at a decent price! stashed, hacked, railed in frantic undercover bursts, windows of opportunity, but the sneaking drama of increasingly small intervals of having done the increasingly oft-needed job made the whole endeavor so briefly joyous while increasing the feeling of being so axled up to the wheel i thought i'd rolled off of~

i like this poem, and this one too, five stars - what a fuggin file of synonyms for fuck - all this art people profess to like, profuse liking as the crest of hard-fought energy arcs, every orifice bleeding, sad lotta colleagues i'm cut off from anyway, blah - finesse of unfitness, ephemeral survival

okay, how about something positive, to balance out all the negative? i dunno, i'm comin up dry, but i'll say, as an insight, if i admit defeat, in my inability to will myself out of a hole, then maybe i need to ask for help - but fuck that, i don't wanna, cause my problems are petty, here's a how-dee-do

hobbit hd

and no, it's not high definition, just median grain digital concave, custom skin map, a choice only i would make (the only choice i made) in an era stacked with potential, a mumble of individuality and consequent harddrive flickers, fleetloop shortcircuits so no, not high definition, not that kind of aitch-dee, rather memory-storage, randomly-accessed - but it's not a hollow drive, it swells, it's swell, the only thing that's well, so draw from the drive, might as well, groundwater bitstock, drygoods, bichromal code from this or that, instagram filter /sarcasm

posting links to things i like, as if i'm so gleeful about them i can't keep them to myself, gives the appearance of pep - betrays for a brief moment i did "like" something in an eff-bee way, and if you string fifty likes it could almost make a mardi-gras necklace that distracts from the fact it's weeks out of date, a hangover immune to healthy choices

what a strange feeling, like i'd literally shrunk - surely this fence wasn't always this high, or am i really that short? not just the normal short, but did i shrink? are these lilliputian hallucinations? they've got a negative slant, but it's still vaguely fun to feel any hint of altered perception, for no particular reason - feeling ridiculous out for a "run", for no real reason, other than, i guess i should do something like that, after being inside for so long... running, it's supposed to be good for me, i guess, as if there's any general rules for health, but i also can't say that any convention flouting i'm doing is doing me any good either, there's still the gut-rot and only noise, no body sense i can tune into as an alien homing beacon pointing me back to that extra-solar world, so...

go for a run, then, and walk back disappointed there's no runner's high, what's so subpar about me i don't get rewarded for running? and feel worse, if anything, after the running of the human, and wonder about sadness to where it becomes so abstract i'm not sure what i'm wondering about anymore, so subtle in a macro-philosophical sense where all ninety-nine atlas pages of my awareness occupy the tiny tip of a cold iceberg that cares nothing for the chip i comprehend, and then sadness in the concrete, the so-concrete-it's-scary how chemical structures prefigure my oh-so-important emotions, and what i think are thoughts are the shapes of molecules locking into larger polymers or more likely shearing off the vaunted keyholes by blunt mechanics of misfit dynamics still too fine for me to get a handle on as they happen between picoseconds

but i feel a little more normal size when i reach my staircase and normaler still when i'm back in my hobbit hd, so now what, back to a wiki-hole? then stutter to sleep at a time i didn't plan on

expression is so neat and tidy now, so much so that i write nothing for not knowing what's apropos to write in this place or that, except when i do this - there's always this, at least, when social media fails my contemporary oughts wants - who cares what you write anymore? not anyone in'm'circle, returns have diminished  but what d'you expect? it's just the way the curve parabolas like a poorly-thrown boomerang, still expecting responses from years-old paradigms, the world's moved on, it doesn't work like it did in 2004, or even 2008, which had its own grandeur - maybe some people younger than my spirit are hitting their own grandeur years in a phase-transition i can appreciate, still running a deficit - as

i self-consciously research david foster wallace, a wiki hole, articles, the guy named david pope who should be a household name cause he made nine million and counting selling real estate on the moon, for real - but there's too many amazing amazing just amazing stories to pay attention to them all or even any of them, i guess i'm bore-able, might resort to electro-convulsive therapy and then the resistant to-treatment crater, cliff preposition

as depressed as i sound in a reverb chamber, i'm sometimes amused with how concentrated it can get, the stack of lament under compression, wavehammered feedback from first principles, like line noise amplifies via itself, itSELF to a crushing extreme, meanwhile, hidden faces in spectrograph glyphs for gearheads

so much depends

on this voice i can't figure out, but refuse to refine, so, digital whine, drink til yer blind, abstain and edge toward death by consumption anyway from eating void - peak void - must have reached it, can't possibly continue to use that word - no fun, but still alive & sloplit

i AM them, then?

a sheet! it's a sheet! i need to be in school more, so, like, this, kinda, you know? yeah, you ought to, anyway - sheetform - befoul exams - blast an airhorn when you stub a toe!

i've been more direly in need of a pen shield in the past - much more direly in need of a pen shield than this - this is nothing - just mat telling his stories again. we are now on the mateau, the edge is nowhere in sight - fucking mat stories, gawd... am i ever sick of Mr. Offshore's fucking stories, or should i say, the one hypertext article that never ever ends and if you like to hear my pencil scratch pen shield, you're in luck, writing at you, you fuck.... today is a day that requires a lot of venting, and shields - oh bully for him, he gave up OTHER DRUGS on his OWN, and man, i know, i'm being rude, but fuck, today is a bad day, i was gonna name it after either robert frost or the other american poet who was a dick publicly to robert frost, walt whitman? t.s. eliot? can't remember who was who... i'm sure he doesn't mind a bit, he's blissfully unaware in his self-absorbed mat g bubble, his smug matitude, petting his platitudes... oh fuck, that's gotta be a bit over the line, but everybody's richer than me, and i'm a loser, i LOST, so... fuck you, and yours, and y'all, i'll use what little leverage i have and not stymie myself arbitrarily from self-imposed standards and thus, play my own fucking games and see how many graphs (!) i can write before he fuckeeng stops talking! fock!

and now for... whatever – and just to prove it isn't personal, i'll write during your share too – even tho you don't annoy the living fuck out of me at all – I think my head's fucked toooday ÷ tooonight = ~ oh jesus. You all just get such a giddy newfie kick outa rosie and her favourite topic, the importance of meetings ha ha ha ha ha ha!

holy god, this whole time i shouldabin ink scratchin-
the frustration of having to hear...
the mumbler
the frustration of having to hear...
the ULTRA ENUNCIATOR
WTF is with me? why is everything annoying? cause i'm a defective aberration - there's no winning this game - ADHD 2013 - the real new strain, so good at its job - ADHD without the H - just fuzz and space and hyperdefecits

SLEAZEart cutesy courtesy at this squeaky place of lots of sleaze. Rococaline keylime Geodon: It doesn't make you sleep. Terrible people - synesthetic fusion, jamband recovery, hambone protein, sheet-routine disruptor: a rolling neuroburn of body twists and stretches, skin, abdominal tattoos, tramp stamps, neck ink, freckle clusters, foie gras frontal lobes --- in my defense:

i imagine that i AM them - what does that mean, then,
to WANT want WANT someone
for yourself?
well, to a sick solipsist like the universe...

it's a cheque you can cash, ms body piercings, suffered for my sins to best perpetuate the cycle

50mg melancholy

Don't judge me. It's my nature to do that. Don't judge me for judging you. It's my nature to do THAT. Judge not lest ye be judged. Judge not and be judged anyway. Judge and also escape judgment.

What does it mean when I'm not impressed? With much of anything? Even though I know it's all miraculous, from the big bang to this little niche of the universe, objectively a miracle, a nothing-something transformation. But it's painful to even hear about anyone's success, even someone I don't know. Maybe it means I don't do so well on antidepressants, but markedly worse after reducing the dose.

It's hard to find words for this new even flatter plane and how it's painful to describe mundane things and how shrink wrapped routines have turned out to be the lesser evil and a leaking serotonin bucket is a subtle but physical ache. Those sly emotions, the overlapping outcrops of the body's chemical tides. Biding my time, actually wasting it, until tragedy shakes me out of the static malaise... No tragedy yet, only mundane half-medicated fifty milligram melancholy.