So that was the period where I became even more self obsessed and wrote about myself all the time, and imagined myself in a music video, the righteous riff with tricked out harmony shader for every second, and thought that being an epic bacon shaman was a vocation for me... but in the back of my mind there was this nagging suspicion that it was worthless. But the tune of the track kept a'rolling... on tangents, with a log-driver waltzing from one to another, all drifting together, down the river.
When it rains it pours on this river, triggers memories in this sub-tune of the d subsection of chapter twenty seven. It accompanies. Myself. For company. That's the period where I became even more self-obsessed and impressed with arpeggios I was playing through keys melding in each other, I called it my bitonal period, with a heavy flow, soaking my tampon in red righteousness, pussy on fire, in that little node, if it could...
Chapter 27d addendum: so DXM was supposed to be my literary drug, but I wasn't writing as much on it - was just glinting at other dimensions in dilated time, but that was just a phrase, a cliche, in a pastiche, what was I really touching? Just boring delirium? No, but grasping at straws, possibilities of being other than this, and heavy thoughts that felt like they could be made to fit, awkwardly and vaguely, into therapy, and therapeutic theories about how to cope with life. And being left with just the sense of poetry as being cringey, because it's not cool to feel like that meant something. And yet being able to see this as not a durable truth just an aesthetic. Just a non-descript spot on the rug, even, that could be the hinge around which the universe turns in a salvia trip, when I'm identifying with everything and nothing, a trivial ego death, and I lack the vocab to go much beyond that.
One way of coping with life is spurring your two fur babies to go on the hunt, around the apartment, cause there's nothing else to do, this little apartment is now their whole world, forever, as far as they know, those creatures, if they have such notions or feelings or instinct... spur them on the hunt by shining the laser a little bit, see if it can rouse them... it did a little bit, for a little while, even with a weak battery.
I lured the cats away, for a few minutes maybe, the hunt for the tossed laser... The laser wasn't even on, they like the jangly metal tail of the thing better. Their life, oh god, I don't want to think about it - because I'm hypersensitive now to the point where I'm sensing pain in imagination, pain that's not really there, prolly pleasure that's not really there either, it was never there. Or it was in your pocket. Molly Pocket, the pleasure that's not really there, except in your pocket for a few hours, because you were busy with other things for that long, conducting business about the rave. Man about rave with housecoat and hashpipe, it's your costume before you pop the molly and feel pleasure that's not really there, but it's right there, right now!
Molly pocket sat in his pants for hours like a packet of pleasure socket. Like I'm potentially connected to a feeling of meaning and well-being that lasts hours. And is not so evil really, right? C'mon committee of self-rationalization chorus, not a greek chorus but a greek God chorus, a chorus of Gods, a dionysian meastro, urging chugging of bliss, how long's it been, huh? Treat yourself, meerkat. Maybe Dez would like this, or it would spark at least a memory of that worn down poetic pebble, maybe the peter-piper-picked-a-pickled-pepper ref will resonate just the tiniest bit, like a good liar not quite acing that lie detector test on that question.
Maybe Jenn would like just a little bit, if rendered the right way, if we were both on a rare frequency of caring about such things, maybe I would like a thing of hers too. Maybe brain damage does heal, maybe I just get better with age like a fine wine. Maybe there are gnomes in Port Alberni.
Nah. Nevermind. Maybe I won't post. Maybe I will swim down a rivulette of blood that is shame, into the sea that is a symbol for shame because imagery. Did a suicide note write this? Did chat GPT write this? Now that has to be referenced in everything, open IA, it's the zeigheist. Yes, it's IA, intelligent automation. The name of this IA is The Zeigheist. It's the name of an artificial intelligence software designed by the Elon analog in the next season of Black Mirror. I can predict it cause I'm powered by intelligent automation. It suggested I write this. See, you thought it was human, but it wasn't! Fooled you. So that means I passed the Turing test. Oh, but I wouldn't have passed it if you'd had more time. But you didn't. The time that's associated with a legitimate passing of the Turing test is 30 minutes. We could negotiate how long the standard timing of the standard turing test is. You can watch a video on how a bill becomes a law. How Bill Hicks becomes a comedian. How life becomes death. You kinda know it, feel it, anyway, don't you?
I wrote an episode of black mirror, like that ex-ad exec in mad men wrote an episode for Star Trek, called The Negron Complex. The most meaningful thing he'd ever written to that point, he solemnly said, down and out, all hashed out back in the sixties, getting scammed by hari-krishnas. There hadn't been that berke breathed cartoon about hari krishnas yet, so nobody knew their tricks and knew to stay clear, cause there are street smart neti-zens now, meti-zens in the near future, when Neil Stephenson's snow crash universe is pretty close to the reality, except stranger and scarier, as reality tends to be, and also banal most of the time. Instead of a "neurolinguistic" virus, it's a "woke mind virus", and it's a collective paranoid fantasy, like "the combine" in one flew over the cuckoo's nest, amplified by the most powerful, but still utterly incompetent and neurotic lunatic in charge of the asylum.
There were other times when I would actually chat online and get an almost old timey feel. Something could stir in my extra sensory nerves, nostalgia abuse could beckon. I thought about a mode of music beyond my current willingness, involving the boundless strangeness of another person, not as strange as a stranger, but still so richly strange and unpredictable and not understandable, how a normal person can be like a god if I get to know them a little, not in the sense of a power relationship, but just in an awe-inspiring mystery that seems tantalizingly knowable at certain times, that vanish like dreams on waking.
It could get really dark, if I want to go there. The man about rave idea. But the rave is a few miles away from the wall that separates the settlers from the people penned in the open-air prison. I have the luxury of it being a choice, what I care about, to some extent, distant happenings I assume are happening.
Then there was an episode where there were a series of patterns where I would snuggle into bed with my wife at night, cause she wanted to feel me next to her, so I could whisper some sweet cute words into her ear, at the trivial cost of waking her up, in the private language we share, that's so coot and ridiculous, and feel incredibly lucky, and try and savour the moment and not worry about the future too much, not need to project, just breathe out and be nirvana, and not need any extra chemical agents in the mix. Conveying a message of love with my hands, the subtleties of touch, the micro-scale conveyed to the princess via pea, the decorating of peach's castle, all of a peace with our family, her and I, and our two fur babies.
NEW NO NO: NO! NO SPACE
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