The Twin Gears of Cringe and Cling

Donating. Actually doing something - an interaction - over the web - financial transaction, christmas shopping, or sort of gesturing to christmas, spastically, like a pitied invalid, broken toy, haha, whatever.

Musical guest: whatever your favourite band is. It sucks. I can barely rouse a care about bands anymore, anyway. 

Yeah, don't get sucked in... by stupid bullshit like that, pretend words have no power, not that type of power, not that kind of magic - back to strip-mined culture. A synthesis. Now a theatrical antithesis of dead. Now too outside, as if that ever meant anything.

All that can sustain life is the mere presence of making it another step without cringing. Well it's something, as if, a subroutine, a side-quest, not the main story. Clinging, or cringeing. The two paths forking from the straight shot tickle to send the rest packing. It does sound better when it descends into nonsense. It tastes better too. But most importantly of all, it sounds better because it's music. It's about not being enough of a virtuoso to know which ways to waste and which ways to want. And being beside a WantMonster. Paying tribute to a colleague. And connections fraying infinitely from that. The barest of tendrils like a tiny rope of jizz off a cock. Stretched over an abyss. Sweet abysmal malice or friendly pussy. Gotta be a rock in the flow. Erode around.

Like a, Like that article, definitely.

Desperation, CLINGING, chasing security.

Desperation, lacking security, CRINGING, the sublety of embarrassment, rather than shame.

 

I've tried to tell myself I was punching up before, not as in afflicting the coMfortable, not heirarchy-based class-conflict in words, but the kind of punching up where you're crafting a bit, to be funnier. That kind of diamond drillbit. Playing of light across an overconfident perspective, thinking it was cool once, now caught in the twin gears of cringe and cringe.

The saw teeth sawfigures of rusted out basements of the heady sensation that things are so fucked up and fucking up in a cascading way, but not finding paranoia very fun, making do, wasting time with discussion of drugs.

Under the heavy sedation of life... it's not music, except when it is... When it can roll, into a cradle. And definitely be a part of that deja-flow. You know? You bwad bwad bwoy?

Is a certain popuri of posturing intubations of what fills a dead space between two massive chapters of crusted ebbelience. Like it was inexplanable, inimitable, a gratuitous grace how it donned the syntax of its age and just accepted gifts of forgiveness. A thing called righteousness. When he asks himself what to do in the mirror, demands that he, himself, tell himself, what to do. That's freaky. Begs for his life at the end. It's sort of satisfying but unnerving, when you're that far up the ass of a bubble dimension that exists to Johannson strains?

It needn't be though. It needn't be freaky. If it had the right key to the right lock, it would fucking ROCK, but it won't. So deal. So die, or live with it somehow, but don't look at me, to me you're like somone in a "somebody else's problem field", so yeah. That's my monologue for you today, sir. It's borrowed bits of paradigm from dxm cruising. That's the word I could have used, bruised, self-abused, but useful to myself, idiots. Cruising altitude, like Michael Brooks in his late TMBS era [], cruisng in stride between pretty plateaus, hefts of flour, seeds of plains of maybe it's not the end, just the end of a horrible unnatural cycle and a new era of disease divine kings, rightfully ruling, presumably, syphillically, because mightfully ruling, literally. Exerting might for the monopoly on force, to rule. So, this paradigm feeling natural, in this exegesis, where my fingernails are too long and I feel like I'm tapping with talons on a tablet, like as hateful as the living tripod creatures, moving with calculated swoops in on low insect protein source food routines.

Seeing city lights stretched from end to end of horizon, and yeah, I could, I should, keep going, but I can't, I gotta end this side-quest for now. Heh.

The saw teeth of saying something, for any delusion that there were hallucinations beside you, on your peripheral, when I talk to you, when I try to make something from nothing, like friendly ghosts on tropanes, who seem nice but then they disappear which doesn't seem as nice, sometimes it's knocking on your doors in your dreams for centuries cultural hangover kind of thing in a situation where tech just paradigm slurs every stata of understanding over each other, like it's a rich flavoured gravy of mores, but on the other hand, nevermind.

as if

If I don't turn it into a side quest in some dumb game, I won't do it at all. I guess if this is the only way, to write, then okay. I'll give in to exposure because, as if that matters, haha. It's a way to try and get back energy and passion. One avenue, one hopes. It gets too cryptic too quickly and veins outward in a million different directions, like a neuron. It's a flow over a rocky shallow creek. It's too rapid. It's all a tall head of foam, can't be teased apart, you'd move through it unmoved, holding no coherence. As if this were an essay, heh. Fidelity to the flow causes overturning of set courses. Before discourse can form, syntax resets, non-sequiturs pile up in heaps. Must believe there's some skum of magic that glistens over the broken furniture hastily shoved together. Some magic skum that makes it alright somehow. Closet full of weasel words tumbling to the floor. Tricks on self to try and sorta focus. 

One trick is to try to continue that scene that's so pale it's leaking null space, it's got a fatal glitch, it's clipping, there's no floor, the ground is parallax. Maybe some day you'll make a level that's viable and not an impossible escher sketch. Maybe some day you'll be real.

So, the scene. Let's just pretend it's good to keep it going, the new mantra. It will get me set. Set for life. The right set and setting for expenditure of energy on shoving together furniture and pretending it's a room. With no floor. So, the scene:

It's a hospital room. It's an iconic scene. I'm telling you that. That it's iconic. I'm not showing you that. Because there's no point in showing that particular thing. The telling is important in that case. The fact that a hospital room is an iconic scene for me. That's what's important in this glistening film of magic. Because it means things like birth and death. Recent times where I've been in a hospital, with my wife's brother in a little room on the apparatus, head blown off, barely alive. I'm peering close to the IV vessels, getting a lay of the newest mid-tech gear for middle class people in the state of washington. Seeing if I an discern some drug nomenclature. Well, that one's fentanyl, that's clear, it's even in an LCD screen these days!

So it's iconic because yeah, there's birth, with all that meaning, but these days, ever so much more so, I'm thinking about death, trying to ruminate, but behavior patterns get in the way, ones with a misguided allegiance to life, not life-loving in a good way, but in a chicken shit desperate to distract from anything negative look away, way. But when I try to look away, it all leads back to the big one, the meaning of death. And the things around it, like wanting to die high, and having it be a fantasy in lieu of using now, and wrapping the things around that into a fantasy, like getting in a severe car crash or getting critically ill, and being free of the expectation to walk around and do things and be responsible, and be drugged instead. It doesn't sound all that great when I put it in words, but I'm still in love with the fantasy. 

This kindling does have potential to be revved up to a roaring fire, and maybe that fire could even be used to forge real material, but it's hard to work up the energy for that. I'm trying to ween off caffeine for a while, been living on only 1 cup of tea to start the day. Considering, I think writing anything at all is impressive. I made a dooky! Shitbabies in post-natal pinocchio situations. I had the rebellious thought that I should break the caffeine fast tonight and drink a strong cup of tea or two and see if it would help me power through, and not leave the fruits of inspiration dying on the vine.

Because the sun comes in the morning and they die, so quick. The morning could come as early as an hour from now, while it's still dark. The sun comes out anyway, at 2am, and there's burn. And there's burnout. Magicskumshine dries, loses its supple texture, amalgam with a crust of gel. It's all splayed out on the rocks, sheet of flakes of denatured crystal. There's so much to show, and tell, but the flow is too rapid. I can't make use of it, it's a flow of fuel and I don't have the infrastructure to capture it, refine it, process it, use it. Petrochemical metaphors, I guess, that's what I've got. Then the day comes, for real, and the light is overcast, it mopes through the blinds, the sun behind a gray building somewhere. And it's enough light to spur me to eventually get up and do chores, to keep this obscure performance going for another cycle. Getting stirrings of intifada.

Maybe the wife and I, god what a weird phrase, let's be weird, whatever, maybe we should integrate each other's writing more, or, wait, that's an INSANELY bad idea! Like when I thought the solution to so many things, the brilliant idea, was for us to take DXM together, and it would be, for me, like getting married in a church or temple is for religious people, it would be like a SACRAMENT! Yes, fucking genius! Um, yeah, or, maybe... not so much? Given I write the stuff I write, and I really don't want to censor myself. But I still want to post, heehee. Teehee. A bad idea. But that's a judgement, what does bad even mean? In this endless plane on the leather-bound donahue transcript.

But about that scene, there's other elements in the fantasy, like, going back to that part in the sunblock selfie sutra, the IA, intelligent automation of Her hooking up with Alan Watts. I'm not gonna finish tonight without in some inept way advancing that "scene" I keep alluding to, like navigating a new office job on the first day while high as balls on dxm, to where it's not a "high" anymore, high and low are arbitrary prepositions, and there is little left of a self, like who am I, he was a guy, technically, who got scraped off the brain. And keep in mind, if you survive this walk in the void [in the sucking vacuum where telepathetic entities that are collectives of tech transhumanist edgecutters were marooned, picked up orbiting the collapse of a star on lsd-soaked sugarcubes], it'll hurt later when some of that self gets sucked back onto the cortex of the brain, like a severed limb dragged temporally, retrograde, onto the mockup of the nervous sytem, the microcosm, in the brain, being slowly cleared of chemical agent, it's a depletion curve, a half-life. The office job was in my mind. It was like an office job in a way, I can use that for that trip report I'm trying to put together. Faltering first steps.

But nah, I'm just too tired. Can't rouse myself to make tea. A lot will be lost. I don't trust myself to be able to pick up any threads. But maybe I'll surprise myself. Maybe there's method in this madness, maybe there's notes I wrote that will carry the seed of civilization through to another run at the chaotic world of 3 body, across the finish line that doesn't finish anything, beyond the state boundary, to build a god damn bridge, how hard is that, people? To get a god damn bridge, we need one, we need handrails of satire, we need trellises of pretense, we need to eat cake and have it too god damnit.

Guess I'll have to try and explain intifada later, I'm too tired, gotta lie down. Lol. As If. "As If", the title of one of Robert Ashberry's book of poems that I read. One of the few I read, I imagine the man had a vast output, PKD-like exegeses of thousands of pages, he was that kind of kook. Was more kooky that cranky, more entertaining than annoying, more psychedelic than religious.

As if, lol. As if it matters whether I write or not. It does to me, but, yeah. Lol.

memoir pamphlet, S07E16

I built a rickety bridge to greener pastures. I'm crossing back and forth any time I please. But the workmanship is shoddy. But brilliant. But shoddy. If I do say so myself. 

"Zot's za spirit, lahd! Gd-r-reener pastyoores!" That's what I said to him, the guy who belted out tunes at the royal, as if my memories are worth anything, but let's pretend for a sec. Needs some context though. We'll call him Aaron. I'll come up with a better name later. He was like a groovy glam rocker. Turns into a black man sometimes. It's not black face, it's just music, man. Played the lead in Jesus Christ Superstar. Jesus Christ, I should have gone seen it and appreciated.

I was trying to do the voice of a soused scottish lad, encouraging his mate not to give up the post-divorce party agenda because of one rejection - what a weighty downer word, forget that shit. Go to the greener pastures where Roxanne is. Back when they had that plywood-bordered smoking section. Or wait, I'm misremembering that, I'm conflating a memory from, I dunno 2006, with one from 2003. Big difference, one was pre smoking in bars, the other was post. That night with Aaron was post. No cigarette haze in the air, but certainly the scent of piss and wildhoney. That was a constant, I hope it carries through still, whatever they call the place now. I don't think they'll ever change the name. Long after the name of twitter is changed to x and back a hundred times, the Royal will still be the Royal.

There's a great quixotic quest to bridge state boundaries, of every type. Communication, during masturbation. The state or condition of being a crank yankee. Good ol' yankee brilliance and practical know-how, to invent a swivel chair with all the free time from slaves doing all the work and then to declare independence from the tyrant masters of the mother country, to animate the talking mice in disney's head, and much later, build the apparatus that will allow a few elite meritocrats to escape the planet and seed the stars. The mushroom may have told McKenna something like that, the better McKenna bro who did the decent thing and died before His 2012 prophecy, meanwhile we still got assholes like John Hagee going around talking about the unmistakable signs of the end times, not the ones he was talking about in 2014 that lead to nothing, no, the ones in 2023 that are for sure this time, it's a lock.

I might not write anything at all if there's too many rules. So forget the rules then, any agendas too. I might not do anything but for something. Is that something? It's too obvious a flow. Obviously. Glued together, but glue flows, it's liquid dnb, will harden to a solid, it'll do me a solid, myself and no one else. Cause it'll mortar an edifice of empty structure, and the structure will be messy, like a collapsed wire mesh around a trashed garden. A hedge maze of tire tracks and card tricks.

Pretty soon, I'll try and synthesize some writings, and post about "the one that did it", the DXM trip in the recent past that got so out of hand that it got me off a path, and onto another one, derailed me all the way to victoria, dissolved and re-formed my marriage. I never posted about it, was too real, reamed me out, left me raw, in ruins. But there's a few notes scattered amongst that wreckage. Can I salvage anything, and bridge the towering walls of the boundary to that state, and actually write about it, and really remember anything? Really not sure, am kind of afraid to even try. Most of the time I lack the confidence to attempt difficult artistic work, the emotional stakes of maybe failing feel too heavy, so I keep putting it off.