22 Sep 2014

church mouse

all precautions in operation, headphones, sound blanket, everything except what i can't control, the mechanical source of the sound that gets past the dampening, through the floor - and i'm in trouble for playing music again, fuck

finally get out of my slump and play a little keyboard and i'm in trouble for it, and my dumb enflamed emotions signal that it's a punch to the gut, tension headache starting already... feeling very fuck it, want to change consciousness immediately

more than anything, i'm angry - for being chastised, yelled at through the floor, forced to imagine myself as an annoying blundering idiot who i'd make into a big ugly strawman, and there's that extra bonus of knowing i was in the wrong to prompt an assholish overreaction almost anyone would emulate, so i'm not allowed to be angry, plus it's the dubious luxury of normal men, remember?

maybe i could start this new phase of going full-on monk eunuch, accelerate what's already happening anyway - to become a church mouse, worship a language out of earshot, in passing, and mostly just survive on crumbs, and not really worship anything, not grateful

well, my style's gonna get cramped quick... what else can't i do in my own damn apartment? so the paranoia was justified right from the first round of retaliatory pounding, nearly knocked my good old h4n from my computer tower - fucking hell, seven hells too, why not throw them in? what to do now? paralyzed, obsessed, and depressed... turn this already monastic space into the house of total prayerful reflection, subservient to the lord of hypocrites and anal undead?

or cut extrovert activities entirely and write the great solo solipsistic novel? for myself? unless i can't even type either - cause i'm already beaten into a little corner of a shell, paranoid, creeping, suppressed mightily - maybe this is why those others hate it here, what they were trying to impart to me, about the community crap, the crap community... ...... ...... .......... ... . ..... ... .. .!

where can i go to escape conflict? i don't know, nowhere i guess - what drugs can i take to escape conflict? only the ones i can't take - how can i talk about this? i can't, really, or even write, but i'm trying a little bit online, and malik's putting up with it, he actually responded like a good friend would

so let it be written, so let it get stuffed, let it be stuffy, fuck it, fuck all of it, strip the air of every kind of molecule but a synthetic few, thin down the fresh, thicken up emotions for a canned starch

maybe i'll just take what drugs i'm still vouch-safed to take - another round of trazodone, back to the regular dose and then some... man, i'm really angry and a bit lonely, and i'm starting to really crave a brain burning chemical high cause there's a big void tearing through me lately, or it's like my skin's gone - and like other things, like Silver Surfer, and other lackluster hiphop similes

3 Sep 2014


Feeling weird. Not knowing what to do. Improvising. Could it be that the world is ending? Or I'm interpreting on hyper drive? A drink would be nice right now. Or I could drive cabs for a living. Feel strange and alien and suburban and first world and hardcore. Interpreting blues fragments. Feel fragile and already starting to burn out. Maybe could veg out instead of burning out. Rejuvenate thru vegetation. I'm not in my right mind. Fragile typing fingers. And writing feels weird. And drinking feels weird. And not drinking feels weird. Could edit better in a solid state. And judge. And not feel overwhelmed by heavy machinery. A hard look into things and interpretations. Don't feel social. This is what I used to cure with booze. And especially other drugs, the ones that are chronically a part of dream wallpaper. Between sandworm negotiation dramas. Medicating medication and neuroses. And animal instincts misplaced. Need a virtual correspondence with an angel online. Would be perfect, magic cure-all... Self-regard. Recordings. That's what it's all for. Not glitchy-twitch euphoria. And when am I ever an artist anymore?

The essence is, I was feeling righteous anger, self-pity, and like a martyr. Now I'm questioning everything, feeling guilt and self consciousness and body consciousness. Won't bother singing the tenacious D song that Gus is playing. Well, you never know what's coming down the conveyor belt. I don't feel remotely capable of going into something and scoring a fulfilling career, but when I get more straight and solid and determined, and a little put-upon-feeling, I'll remember that I want to succeed out of spite, and anger is powerful, if also the dubious luxury of normal men.

Feels strange being here. Could laugh and speculate and anthropologize. And dream of sparkly diamonds crushed in hands, in past glories never re-creatable. Sibling banter. For my benefit. But it's nostalgic. But flash forward on the timeline. A drink would be nice. I remember I used to get hedonistic and tripped out, and transcribe this finch brood casually like this. Miss the freedom to drink. I used to do this, but with a notebook. In some weird ways, very little has changed.

Civilized, with benefits. Charming. And me, so paranoid and bitter, and dissatisfied with life but it could be worse. I'm so slick with devices and interfaces, aren't I? Can't I profit from that ? But I'm just a user. Wish I had the passion and ability for making, anything.


Feels weird, writing, like this. I wonder if I'll ever be a writer again. Or a reviewer or an analyst, columnist, journalist. Yeah, from this scratch, sounds fucking likely. One thing I seem to do well is swipe words that rarely get corrected. But these bids for empires of selves. They never seem to satisfy. So, jonesying for external validation.

And to-do itineraries seem important or at least worth bothering with when I'm solid. Or is this as solid as anything else? I should be rejoicing I got all this fuck off free time. But I don't know what to do with it. The second I'm left to my own devices, I realize they're glitched to all hell. My devices are broken. They need a driver. But I don't like it when others drive me.