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.

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