17 Mar 2019

Don't be an ass

I berate myself in that voice, the rough authoritarian self-despiser: Don't be an ass [by which I mean, a silly-ass jackass like somebody on the TV show of the same name] and play the game of trying to meet someone. It's a game that some playas will freak at you for calling a game. Game?! One of them berated me because it was enjoyable to express rage at a bad week by making me a punching bag, sure told me off right good, and if I care that you care then it's your victory, a suicide troll, a deep game. I'm supposed to take you seriously? In all this noise? You ain't signal bitch, fuck outa here with that sheeeyit. Fuck all y'all.

That game isn't the whole world, I'm mercifully distracted for a minute by watching my friend's kids find a metal chest with their magnesis ability in the river of the Hyrule forest. I'm watching them play Zelda, eyeing the little yamaha keyboard. I wanna play music, participate in some way, but I'm paranoid, with a flush palette bloating out against the corneas. I'm not entirely free of the fear of dizzy spells, not quite feeling back to active yet, still pacified, fried. Almonds. Pax Canadiana. It's hard to do fragments. But some people do well with that. Hats off to all y'all. Not fuck all y'all, tapada marnin tooya! Tula lula rula!

Nobody wants me lucky charms! I say no body instead of no one, cause "one" sounds like a free-floating intellect, disembodied, sterile, omnipotent in cerebral realms I can't navigate but impotent in flesh - and "body" emphasizes the corporeal warm-blooded source of energy I feel so empty of, free from. I don't want that kind of freedom, want a bond instead, deep desire for the prison of devotion that is a bond to a body with a mind, a package to love, some body to love, like Freddie sang of, the feeling from which great songs are born, with hackneyed lyrics but rhapsodic voice.

There's a theoretical object of theoretical love, impersonal, because I don't want to describe how personal it gets sometimes in this mind o' mine, constrained online, in the infinitesimally niche way I'm online. It's still mostly empty, the substance is like a proton in a mega-parsec sized cube of vacuum. It's a cube, not a sphere, cause I'm Aristotlean, not Platonic, I don't do spheres, cubes are convenient for this right-angled human-brain, I like to visualize it as a room of space, with the surface that is the "floor", a direction, orienting, which might be arbitrary from the perspective of a proton, or the being looking in at it from the outside. I'm not platonic, I'm not fiending for some abstract ideal, I want something real.

Coming back to "don't be an ass!", the voice is sheriff droogan, dragon, drogan, whatever it is, once chief of the Santa Monica PD, now kind of a big deal in Randall Flagg's America. He's scolding the "Rat Man" for impulsively pumping his shotgun and pointing it at the prisoners in the prison truck as it drives through the psycho mob toward the dismemberment machines in the New Vegas town square. "Don't be an ass!" Dragen growls with a withering contempt so potent it could describe my exasperation at myself for trying, once again, to find love, and the latest petty setback that scatters the small heap of self worth I've miraculously salvaged once again, ephemeral salvage washed away, as before, rinse and repeat. Self pity. Cop to that, cause the man who despises himself still respects himself as he who despises. Such romantic metaphors, to me they are, which is all that matters, to me, such purple prose for what purpose? Purple-vein dick jokes, really. No dagger in my heart, just a catheter in my cock, blocked.

Don't be an ass, Drogan says, and don't you dare kill the prisoners for being smart asses for God, before Flagg has MC'd their public torture and execution. You'd be like that guy who was supposed to shoot the judge, but for fuck's sake preserve the head so it can be recognized when it's air dropped over the God Squad in Boulder. And he couldn't even do that. So at least get this show right, don't fuck it up for Drogan. Torture and executing kinda blend together when some body is being drawn and quartered. Farmer John's gonna think about his mother as he's going out in the most horrific way one can imagine.

When I'm not an ass I get shit done, dunno now if it's worth doing. When values are up for grabs, it gets to be a pretty freaky eigenstate. The Eigenstate is the freeway that connects to hidden variables all over the multiverse, possibilities and timelines, fractal fractures, infinitely progressing possibilities in logarithmically increasing smallness of gradation. Things are different than ten years ago, I feel sheepish now talking like that and using such words, when I used to take myself more seriously. Gotta put the sarcastic tag on it now like an FDA label. May contain nuts known to the state of California to cause paranoia, and delusion. But, entertaining delusion, monetizable possibly if you only lean a little bit on the multiverse, the slimmest bit is a good bet, monetize delusion to stay in purchasing power for musical doohickeys. A Whoopi Goldberg contraption.


12 Mar 2019

Don't Stop Me Now

I'll never be interviewed. But I've got the best take.

On everything.

Da da da da daaaah, ha da da ha haaaaah, ha de daaaah, daaah de daaah ah aaaaaaaaahhh oooooooooooooeeeeoooooo-oooooeeee.

I need some kinda cry therapy maybe. Nothing can permeate my armor of medication. Enlightenment, cursement, ecstasy, robust depression - you get to miss robust depression. And still sing "I'm in love with my car". It's a good running joke, that joke's got legs! It runs at hundreds of horses.

Even if something could penetrate my armor of medication, there'd be a kevlar underbelly, a scab lattice of cynicism. Except for this depiction of a Live Aid concert in 1985, the movie cuts through me, leaving me misty-eyed. The elegiac cliche "that [recently dead musician/performer] taught me how to be weird!" was a syringe, pricked right through my scabs, pumped me full of that chemical that I hardly ever feel so it grabs my attention, that precedes crying, that only throbs for a second or two, but then I was getting those pangs on the regs for a while. Rami Malek had something to do with it too. How to be weird. Except I was watching smurfs when Freddie was teaching, but I appreciate retrospectively. Can I nostalgize about times I wasn't born? I dunno but fuck it, I will anyway. There's all kinds of manifestations of weirdness. There's the monday morning kind. Let's fuck it up, business-like. The show must go on, civilization's too big to fail. But there was nothing too big to fail really. In the shadow of the mushroom cloud. It's okay if it reminds me of an Abba song, that's the water I'm swimming in, a mystic droning in, drowning?

I'm teetering on the edge of becoming Jeremiah, the cult leader, reaching such a pure level of self-righteous entitled rage as to tap into some demonic power source from beyond Jupiter. Except I wouldn't tap into that power, if I even knew how to sell out in an alien language. They accept venetian latin as an interchange, but I don't travel through time the same way I travel in space, so that's not an easy requirement for me. I'm not like them but I can pretend. I'm not even drunk but I'm quoting song lyrics constantly, they're in everything, like cancer. Maybe I'll partner with Cancer, Candace Cancer, we'll be workmates with benefits, she's like Fry's alien worms from that vending machine sandwich that had expired in ancient times, Cancer will be my manager, she'll improve everything about me, focus me into a laserbeam of precision and get results! Like Freddie Mercury, ready? Pure, crystallized abortionist on a glass focal point. Rapidly changing minerals in rocks, dynamite with a laser beam.

Good enough for Now.

Don't you see, don't you see, don't you see? Don't... you... see? Do you see? My name is not Jeremiah, I would never want a name like that. It's a cursed name, circa 1670 something... Don't you see, don't you see what's coming to me, what's got... to come... to me? Or am I looking into a mirror and bashing my head into the mirror asking "tell me what to do, tell me what to do," crying: "tell me what to do" - i'm telling my reflection to tell me what to do, my bloody headed rejection, that pretty hair getting bloody, but it's dark hair so the blood is just an extended silhouette, hair clumps bobbing in peripherals, popping in and out of a frame of jagged glass: TELL ME WHAT TO DO!

And I see a smile on the other side, and I start taking instruction, cause I'm learning high venetian latin, a second century dialect, I know what to do! What that is, I'll tell you... sometime... I promise... you forget things... I already paid you, remember? You don't remember? You don't see?

Wishful thinking, continue the gaslighting, keep the fire burning. Keep the windshield wipers going. It won't matter. We're all circling the drain. I looking forward to saying that again. In years from now.

This is gonna be another descriptive blog post, a missive from a passive consumer of lite conspiracy theory. Not heavy, just low grade acid.

It's great, I'm not accountable to anyone. I'm trying to talk myself into positivity, that's all. Don't hold me to account on that front. With a heavy head. Don't know where my heart is. Am I gonna start talking about that now? Better to just cry with no object. Or a doppelganger object. The object was replaced, and I have capgras delusion, my limbic system doesn't work right, I can't attach the emotion to the object, the organ that more than any other keeps me alive, or is that the brain? Hard choice, like Hilary's book. Actually, nothing like that. Distracted by tits. Clits. Porn. Tawdryness, objectifying. But it's pure art. But the beauty is a tangent off that, a crazy angle I can't crick my head to see.

Don't you see, what's got, to come, to me, come to me, come to me. Come hither.

If nothing else, if all is lost, I'll still be cynical, so cynical, blackly cynical, that's what I'll clutch in my cold dead fingers.

9 Mar 2019

.don't you see?
..don't you see?
...don't you see?
....don't you see?
.....don't you see?

the answer

i'm president
that's the answer
whatever you say to me

i'm the president
of i don't give a fuck

america's my protectorate
i'm like Emporer Norton with actual money
i'm taking the wheel of this planet, the republic of earth
we're taking this thing to mexico!

nothing can wipe the smirk off my face
you thought osama had a smirk, check this shit out
i'm the president, that's the shit
the real funky shit
because president

here's a conspiracy i believe in:
my military burned my school records
i don't worry about fetuses
but i'm good at pretending to worry
one of my skills

i'll tell you what's going on
even the "opposition" is propping me up
they'll gag or kill their journalists if they have to
but most of the journalists do what they're told
cause the money's too good
way too much money, money money money - money
why?
because they're scared of my followers
and what they'll do if i'm taken down
they're 35% but they have more guns than the other 65%
way too many guns, guns guns guns - guns
why?
because when you get locked into a serious gun collection
the tendency is to take it as far as it'll go
the 65% are collecting drugs, the 35% are collecting guns
who's gonna win d'ya think?

the answer is: i'm president

3 Mar 2019

Space Mormons

You gotta laugh. What can you do but laugh? Don't cry. Check out the Space Mormons. The Galactic LDS. They're giving ECCO a run for its money. The Office of the Control of Coincidences concerning Earth is like, what, who are these Space Mormons, they're not galactic, they're not even stellar, although they got ambitions, like I wanted the free state of Slackerdonia to be a nuclear power, just for peace of mind, and some say that's taking the definition of home defense a little far, but nah, that's how I roll, dawg. The Space Mormons want that planet that was prophesized, or is it a whole system of planets, maybe a whole galaxy, so everyone can get one. I like to imagine that engineered utopia, but I also gotta engineer this space ark, and if the Space Mormons think they can stiff me, they better be sure I haven't sabotaged that ship for its three century trip. You be trippin. Bitches be triflin. But you're a version sexy mormon. Very hard to please. You can taste the bright lights but you won't get there for free, in the Space Jungle, welcome to the Space Jungle... and you, as a demographic, are famously polite and charming, even insane freakouts you do politely, you gotta laugh. It makes me laugh in particular, being an amateur investigate scholar of freakouts, it's amusing, even as it's tearing me apart lobe by lobe.

I wish I had a prophet who promised me a planet. Me personally. The bigger the Lie, the more likely it is to be believed, that's what they call "The Big Lie". That's a lie so big it's worth believing in, like that story of Pi that was supposed to make me believe in God. If you wannit you gaaaaaht it you just got to believe... believe in yourself, ah. See the key word is the self. That's the self-coda, that's the Kravitz Guarantor for the insurance on your soul. It was a good story though.

The bigger the Thetan, the deeper the quicksand, you know what I mean? Sometimes a cow's gotta die. Hey, we all die, don't cry for any of these organisms, it'll be your turn soon enough. I got actuary tables if you want to know how you're gonna die. No? Okay, just thought it was polite to offer.

Offer yourself up as a sacrifice, a holocaust, every last nerve being painfully immolated one at a time. Sometimes an ox gotta be gored, man. I've already killed all my darlings, they're already dead. But I talk to em everyday in an unhealthy amount of seance sessions, nostalgia abuse benders. Keep em alive past bedtime, stay awake my beautiful eyes, show me some skin, the regions of the mind I wanna see, train my brain on that, who needs the peace corps? What's there to live for?

The Space Mormons were successful in their interstellar journey, and we were all rooting for them, all the time, well I was anyway, I know I don't speak for y'all. But unfortunately, when they got to Vega they ran right into that Time Rift from Star Trek Discovery, and things got all four dimensional, and I had to trust my math, and you know what? It saved my butt. From that moment on, I worshipped math, I made geometry sacred but that didn't do it, so the little got mo' and mo'. I just keep trying to get a little better, said a little better than before. Just doing what all my friends and well-wishers wished for me, to get a little better, get well even, cause junksick is a drearily-sane forever war, you get what you pay for, forget about fighting more - huhah! Abso lutely nothin'. Some day I might want for nothing to be enough.