In case you didn't know

My girlfriend has been back on blogger... for a while.

If you're going to wobble, wobble well

I wrote some fucked up email, consumed with petty ridiculosities, making everything worse by twisting it into some lingual construct of grandiose emotional projection.

I took a walk outside, it was gray and gorgeous, a storm was brewing. Fit my mood like a glove. I was anointed in raindrops, swept clean by the wind.

I thought about going back and writing apologetic second guessing messages to blunt the impact of the original mess, but then I thought of that great old zenism: If you're gonna wobble, wobble well. Stagger like a fucking pro. So often, situations can benefit from the application of confidence, where conventional wisdom would dictate that it's inappropriate. It's okay to go off every now and then. So if I'm gonna do that, I'm not gonna second guess myself.

I was thinking, as I walked through the woodsy slope, toward a tasteful housing development cut into the forest like a bladerunner's incision: Let this storm turn into a full fledged hurricane, destroy these houses, flood the streets, rip trees out of the ground, send cars flying, smash, destroy! Maybe it will be good in the grand scheme, bring people together to rebuild, create a purpose that doesn't involve pettiness and politics.

But I did second guess that, because I get superstitious sometimes, and it occurred to me that I shouldn't whistle for the wind unless I want it to blow. No, I'm not wishing property damage on you, yuppies, I don't have the heart to fuck with the rich and powerful more than I already have done in my rebellious commie youth.

But I tell her, I can't not be rocky when I'm listening to Blue Oyster Cult!















I'm not consumed with bitterness anymore. I allowed myself to indulge in that for a few hours, but there are better things to do and think about. Like how much Blue Oyster Cult rocks - I'd only listened to the big hit, the one that everybody knows, don't fear the reaper (both cowbell and non-cowbell version), but holy fuck, the rest of their stuff kicks ass too. Got Tyranny and Mutation rocking the house tonight. Flaming Telepaths. Amazing how many musicians who came after ripped them off. Okay, not ripped off, paid homage. Cause if I get to pay homage to Prokofiev, Rzewski, Keith Jarrett, ELP, and the Mars Volta, all in one song - folks can pay homage to BOC.

I was wrapped up in some dramas. Felt like the vast majority of my attempts to reach out to humanity have gotten me nothing in return but a bad case of blueballs. Figuratively. It will be good for my mental health not to do that for a while.

I did a faggy thing once which almost had me babbling, like I was caught up in some congressional nightmare: I am not, nor have I ever been a member of the homosexual agenda. But instead, I decided to play it cool and not worry. It was a fun night, and I refused to allow people’s misconceptions to enflame potential neuroses. But Lord help me if I dressed well - there'd be enough misconceptions to fuel sitcom plots for a whole season, plus the DVD extras. And I still love my hair, it's almost as erudite as my prose. Hehe.
















Tasty hair topping a lucious face. My girl is the queen of the amazon delta. And sometimes queen of herself. She's great to write out the storm with. We got preserves in the basement.

She was gonna do a pagan ritual last night, but she thought her Frida Kahlo bling was blocking energies. No, she didn't say it like that. But yes, she is a flake, the finest flake I've ever known.

Sometimes we clash in catastrophic ways, but we’re more alike than any two people I know as far as being on the same wavelength, understanding certain human truths, being subject to similar frailties. Interstellar Mistress of Mystery.

dronefile

Yeah, it's the dronelife sutra. The apologia.
















Yeah, it's the apologia. File it under drone filtertips.

The tax-writeoff for dental work. It all combines to a beholdable jenga tower. Which is the drone drone dronal monotonal key we're jigging around in, the first recasting of the word in a 434 part series.

"Nothing is sacred when no one is saved"

I beg to differ, Nevermore.

But that's me. I recall your song the last time i was dilated, on the bed, a two-headed flowering split next to me. Those were the days.

A blondehead flowing statue of the rosemont benedictionary. Those were the days. Plumbing suger-glazed surfaces, slick with cotton-candy fog, solidified, tasting good to my sweet tooth, surely i still have sweetness receptors on my tongue, surely that taste is still possible.

And still, Gyro is a piece of park I feel as enlightenment - as I read to a gaggle of delightful drunks at the Royal one night. As we pride ourselves on telling it like it is, up here, in this blip on the radar - oh yes, blip me out of existence, or close enough to feel like a whimper wisping over the edge of the abyss.

And still, I hate how life stabs its hooks of censorship into me. We can't be watching Lawrence Welk all the time, things have got to go outside the margins. Even if a few TVs must smash through the upper floor suites of Mrs. Gualtieri's Retirement condominium.













"Stuff music", Lenny Bruce and his nuances, still kissing God's hand, protruding piece of his chemically reduced junk, molecules pixelating to atomic nuclei with their electron veil, to those stringy thingies in their essence, to scrap iron, emptied onto an east coast american yard, some mafiosi's asset, under the table, under the radar, that lower case filler that could feed a family of nine in Tanzania.

Yeah, it's the dronelife sutra. Darwin's hidden variable, the fish he never factored into his Victorian Lake.

"How cute", she says. Yeah, she's been hanging around Big Rock Candy Mountain, and I don't know how long I can dance on these rock faces - a metaphor worthy of Dali's back catalogue - yeah, sorry, I should have devoted myself to music, this literary detour is, well, living up to its sour seeds, and misdeeds, grabbing for cryptic descriptions of stimuli left 'n right - but then, improv is like that, we need a realtime literary equivalent of open stage - chat is that, but so vacant so often.

So many possibilities - still...

Why do I write these nauseating pastiches of stream of consciousness? I guess because when I'm in the right mindstate, the aggregate seems writable, worthy, meaningful in some Rorschach way. Like some stand up comic who's trolling for some less comedic but similarly hoodwinked crick in the collective conscious veteran of the psychic wars. Blue Oyster Cult opened for the space stand-off set, the star-speckled bag of celestial cronies.

"Finished with my woman cause she wouldn't help me with my mind" - Ozzy, "Paranoid"

"What I want most in the whole wide world, is a girl, just a girl, one who'll keep me from losing my mind - and she'll be the best girl, in the whole wide world" - Nomeansno, "Revenge"

Funny how often that theme crops up in rock 'n roll - sorry boys, there ain't no state of grace even with full assimilation of the feminine arts, and believe me, I've suffered for my art, not of my own volition by any means, I should have been a ski bum, by all rights, I should be travailing under the chairlift every day, heat-seaking altitude by the negative reading on my frigidometer, but i ain't hangin brightly, I dunno what she's done to you, whataya think that means? Break on through.




















Got called some names tonight. Too many. I know it was meant to push my buttons. I think I responded in a way that merged the best of machine mythos with that psychedelic mind-manifesting manna. Yeah, I've still got these cheezy reverences for certain clockfaces within the mind.

Anyway, I slipped a little too far off the dao tonight, this black rite of psyche-shredding thickets, tickets to palaces of neuroses - i'm close enough to equilibrium to munch my ice-cream sandwich with poise and premium posture (just kidding).

Read on Lycaeum today (italics mine)

"I think you need to get to know this plant first before you go exploring so deeply. Again, the mind is very powerful in its effects and control of the body. Psychic issues can manifest as physical discomfort and other physical problems." - gorfehttimrek

note to self

I'm sick of the patterns I continually fall into. Behavioral patterns yes, but mostly mental patterns. There's got to be a better way to interrupt them. I don't think over-analysis or chemical tinkering is going to get me out of the mess those things got me INTO in the first place, but that's not to say consciousness can't play a role.

I can barely be bothered to philosophize.

I've psyched myself into thinking I'm shackled to moods and mindstates, although I can also see psychosomatic tension for what it is. That doesn't really abate the discomfort of FEELING it, but I can be meta about it, mentally, semanticize it, keep it in the realm of metaphor while clenching my teeth and my soul and obsessing about puke and panic and how is death going to come and how will I deal and what does that say about me as a man, as a human being, as a piece of God, in increasingly tight feedback loops and having "sickness" resonate on every level, with every traitor cell. Maybe this is how cancer starts. Maybe it's how William Burroughs starts. One thing I know, I need to keep dreaming.

Read on Erowid tonight

New Experiences:

"I've also stopped paying any attention to the future, because it only makes one worry needlessly. Peace can be found in the present moment through acceptance of what is and by recognizing the amazing beauty that is constantly flowing through everyone and everything in the universe. "

The itch

The urge to solve the mysteries - to sort it all out - has always been with me. It's an itch that needs to be scratched. But now I'm weary and sick of the itch, and scratching it is just a response to the maddening persistence of what I see as problems and paradoxes on this level. My attempts at philosophy are so the itch doesn't drive me insane. It used to be that I liked the itch itself, as well as the scratch. Now I'd rather be numb, but no anesthetic really works for me.

Cradle Happy Face Holocaust Grave

Why do I bite my lip, when I get that sweet tension? Maybe I think I'll eventually get to some candy center, some omnikinetic salvia surprise with special sauce, served slightly chilled. A lack of relaxing paradox. There's no one I would really want to subject this mindstate to. Just my blog.

Ties in the woods, a webwork of dubious quantum guerilla ontoloshit for brains lattice of good hearted laughter at gotten-references on poetry night at that weird vibey restaurant.

Amplitude modulation. I'm listening to that long electrodelusional interlude in The Mars Volta's Cicatriz, and writing down random thoughts. Now it's heading back into the buildup to the recap - dueling guitars, but it's not squeedley versus meedley - it's omar vs frusciante. Totally different thing. From spacey delirium to this. Fucking genius. Makes me want to quit - everything. Too bad I can't extract much literary material.

Just debris, that's all I see. Just debris. Got no meta, out of meta, thank god. I don't see how tagged I really am though. That's okay. Blissful stupidity.

Entropy, yeah you know me

Trivialize, dramatize, ostensibly philosophize, because I can.

How To Manual

Retarded. Out of literature, on a different flow, flowing gowns of clichés. I don't know how to explain this. It sounds like some paisleyed gown of profundity. It doesn't make sense how much that makes sense.

How many iterations this phase of mortality? Once not long ago, in what might be themed a gasoline flavored peak, it seemed to me that complete understanding was present in all I perceived but out of order. The tragicomedy of my linear thoughts could not assemble the grand truth, maybe I should have taken that other hit of acid.

Just coughed, my hand is now spittle flecked. Sorry. For simple reality. Ah, the grand glut of senses that could encompass. Cryptic and lonely. Why are my egos so quiet? When did they get so humble? Bouncing words off the cold blank armor of others is a game for tundra dwellers, abominable snowmen. I only really connect to the work of the poets I KNOW, personally, and then only when we interface in those apropos motions of the ocean. Ah, assonance is trying to teach me something like McKenna's elf tykes, even in these carefully scratched up meta clauses, praying to buddha for a plastic rocket. The Shadow knows.

Could I have ever imagined novelty crusting like it did? It was a new crust, a new pattern of entropy. A half hard, not-totally flaccid bit of flesh responded, barely, through the haze of excess brain chemicals, to the pattern. Which means, to be less lonely and less cryptic, that thinking about lack of options and the running out of new things to say and see and do, led to a visual image of a transient drying out of a very limited mode of thinking. It was transcendence in cartoon form, ironically taking the form of a little plastic castle in a goldfish bowl. Oh great, Hippie Craque, a metaphor that only Raz will get. That's so very un-solipsistic of you.

At least I limboed under meta's mind. Mostly. Ah a dense hunk of useless meaning. Semantic scrapyard. Back in the control room of the Detroit Syndicate Club.

Okay, scrap that. There's doors I haven't opened yet. There's the silicon forest. Come on. Emotions in the canopy. There's a cool breeze, the void of adrenaline. There's bark with a button. The barkives. There's a swinging gunny sack, empty of extrapolations. Empty, all the better, to substance. Verbiage roughage foliage.

Tommy was a social animal. Sex drove him, as it drove everyone, in odd ways, up the walls, in to trees, into gutters, into tunnels, underground, out of the way, warsaw sewers. Cryptic, scenic route. I tripped a laser of liking my writing. For a split second, the alarm went off. It rang, reverbed axons, neurons firing, egos burning like lightbulb filament, eureka, a utilitarian use for a bundle of nerves.

Hippie Craque, what now? He's been Hector. He feels like he's flanged into third person, drooling genetic rifts off the tree of sonanmic syllables, taxonomic pools of twin slurs. He forgot to smell the roses. The scent surprised him. And daisies were in the distance, hardly suspected.

Hosebag, prosehag. Oh, the sweet gleaning of arbitrary meaning. Low-hanging fruits of synesthetic calisthenics. Yeah, I get it. Old paradigm fun, before I knew my cells by name. I still see the traps I'm in, even as I'm in them. People have defined the walls of my cage, as I have defined the walls of others. But I'm no guru. I probably make a difference anyway. Good or bad, who can say? We aren't chaos architects, we are leaves on the wind. How profound. Found.

Raz arrives to Hector the Crow

"And to my right here we have what appears to be a mountain...




Here we have a view of bob that Nelsontowne hasn't seen in quite a while.



Watch yer step. Or else it may mean doom - the doom of your coffee.



After spending mere hours with razberrychaos, Hippie Craque is already contemplating where to hide the blugeoned remains of her lifeless body. Throw it in the water, bury it in the earth, throw it in the water, bury it in the earth...Decisions, decisions.

MC Lars says

that Canada is America's Scotland.

Yeah, they may take our water, oil, actors, pot activists, dignity, and NHL teams…

but they'll never take OUR FREEDOM!

The Winter and the Hot Springs, remixed

"You’re driving too fast," she bitched. I glared at the speedometer and sighed, easing on the gas pedal. We crept down toward the speed limit. Then she brought up the cliff again and I decided I'd slowed down enough. We were almost there anyway.

I pulled in to the parking lot as the sun fell behind the valley walls. No one was around so I didn't bother signaling. I caught a nasty look from Dez in my peripheral. Oh well, the springs will steep the anger out of her, I thought. And mine, well mine was already overwhelmed by a thousand memories in a lattice of scent, sight, and sound. Ainsworth was always good for that. It was a magical place, built on a silly slope. It overlooked a glacial lake appearing oceanic with its far edge hidden by the evening fog.

We zig-zagged up the stone ramp to the office. Fourteen for two? Hell, that's a bargain, I thought. There are much worse ways to spend money.

Thankfully, the change room was empty. Shower? No problem. I left the room, fearfully exposed, and handed my bag of clothes to a woman in a window. Strange, slack job that must be, I thought. I wondered if she read paperbacks all day. Then I surveyed the pool. Absolutely free of competing personalities. Perfect. Dez was going to love this. Sometimes things work out when I least expect them to. Sometimes the universe conspires to give us comfort before a long separation. Or perhaps that was us, cutting with the woodgrain of the universe, synergizing through receptivity to this geothermal nexus.

I was getting cold though. I was doing alright with the psychology of being nearly publicly naked (a rare feat for me), but physically, my body was screaming at me. I wondered if Dez had wigged out in the change room or something.

Finally she emerged, like Alice in Wonderland. A smile spread on my face. I was, however, not interested in waiting around to deliver some Carrolian non-sequitor. I waded right into the pool, rejecting an impulse to perform a racing dive.

Pleasure on the threshold of pain sprung through my nerves and plateaued to the opiate glow of thirty-seven degree amniotic bliss. I'd been anticipating this moment all day and wondering, as is my way, if the anticipation would ruin the consummation, but there was no fooling my body with contrived headtrips, the physical rush cut through everything.

I looked back to see if Dez had entered the oasis. She had and was, for the moment, lost in the same dynamic reverie I'd been in. Now I was open to the view, the sprinkle of snow, green ripples catching garish orange streetlights, and the stately conifers at the edge of the forest. And my beautiful, curvaceous girlfriend in a blue swimsuit. I walked toward her, neck deep in water. Her face seemed fresh, more open than it had been all day. Her hair dripped into the pool, spreading in an ostentatious display. Her body was refracted below in a riot of aqua-fleshtone - I wanted to touch every inch of it.

"Nice, huh?" I said inanely. She laughed at the understatement that was somehow just right, coolly under the line, like this water, warmed perfectly above body temperature. She reached out a bold arm to stroke my chest and I let her, loving her love my hair. It didn't feel like excess under her fingers. To repay her attention I kissed her lips which seemed to surprise her. Then I felt her body shudder in delight, under my hand, under the water, under the stars.

Dezidance

break

Clawing out brains

HST: It seemed like a good idea at the time

Bottomless pit of MSG-laced misery

I wish I could enjoy it as much as some

-

The crying I caused still rings in my ears. Well I do have free will. I could have been a paragon of virtue, a model. Instead I behaved like myself and only abandoned the pride when the tears started. I don't know.

Oh well. I'm not entirely empty this morning. Something's still rattling around in me, making tinny sounds, irritating sounds.

But I'm mostly empty, and extrapolating that to infinity. Nothing's worth stealing.

But the nasal fixation... still the nasal fixation.

My CPU overheated. I gave it a break.

Fair Use

Qutb ruined Islam, Phelps ruined Christianity, Stalin ruined communism. The past is a shitpile, there's no use clinging to labels.

Paul Fussell's introduction to Robert Grave's WWI memoir: Good-bye to All That

Tragedy presupposes guilt, despair, moderation, lucidity, vision, a sense of responsibility," none of which we have got:

"In the Punch and Judy show of our century ... there are no more guilty and also, no responsible men. It is always, 'We couldn't help it' and 'We didn't really want that to happen.' And indeed, things happen without anyone in particular being responsible for them. Everything is dragged along and everyone gets caught somewhere in the sweep of events. We are all collectively guilty, collectively bogged down in the sins of our fathers and of our forefathers ... That is our misfortune, but not our guilt ... Comedy alone is suitable for us."

The hell with Mohammed

I hardly ever agree with the right wing, but the whole rioting over disrespect of the prophet idiocy makes me want to hurl. No, I DON'T respect the prophet. Can you deal with that? Maybe there are more important things to worry about - like, say, the fact that no one in power seems to give a shit about what we're going to do when the oil runs out, or the war in Iraq. Freedom of expression, it's the future, get used to it:


















Oh, and fuck Jesus too.

the life amplitude modulator

Did the aquafilter filter out the failure?

Somehow I don't think so.

No, you drink your floating white chunks of flesh failure straight from the paranoid pulse of your tesselated stroke cycles, strolling down the streets of a convenient ideal NY, dreaming of life's amplitude modulator.

The dealer of this excessively dandy device gives you a good sales pitch: haven't you ever yearned to control the amplitude of your life? Well now you can - OBSERVE! (Idle ideal NY alley transition):

Walking walking, fine and dandy, but the texture you thought a smooth sharp seamless searing painful pastiche of unrelenting emotionally-sinewed intensity... the edge flakes off in scratches, consciousness garroted into the void... you feel a twist in your spine, your nerves short - clik cliky clikkkkkkkkkkk k k kk kk- and we're back, WTF?

What the fuck was that, you think? You felt a twist in your spine and you were gone, dead in the head for millisecond intervals, several hundred of them, spread over a deadhead deca-second - your life's amplitude modulated, you felt, in superposition, a binary bedspread of deadhead, you felt the void in juxtaposition, a bankrupt yin purred across your wheel of fortune - you felt it, in and out, the life amplitude modulator...

You like to carry that spine severing pattern around with you like a hole in your pocket, useful for dealing with meanies. You've accepted the fuckup money because you're not an idealist or a principled radical. You'll burn it up, put it into the economy.

You'll dream of crack again, and you could go for another klicking flick of that life amplitude modulator right now: klikkkk kkk kk kk kkkkk

kk

k kkklik Click, and we're back:

Wow, that was a long one.

The flotsam of failure still floats in your glass. But who cares, you've got the life amplitude modulator, you can klik yourself momentarily out of your value system... mmm, that's the lipsmacking klikfactor no one can lipsync to.

Cyclo'd - there are worse fates

Staring at the side of a desk, ancient woodgrain, carbon-dated back to the wildes of the child I was. I've gouged countless holes in the wood. My desk has character. He's a wounded, bitter character, still bearing a load that grows heavier every year.

When did I stop being a writer? When did I stop verbally improvising like I do on my fake-ivories? Maybe when I started trying to make sense. Trying to bring information across... to the others. That was the real quixotic mission, wasn't it? The lunatic escaped the asylum.

I think I'm still feeling that last hit of cyclobenzeprine. Don't worry folks, it's mild prescription meds and I've only got four pills left. I've been saving that stuff because they're the best downers I've ever had. They're for the sopoheads, the sleep connoiseurs.

I like being apathetic. I hate being dramatic. No, I don't deal with drama. I can't cope with it. I don't like extremes. I'm done with e, I know no good will ever come of that. I'm probably done with psychedelics, because they lead me to the same psychodrama every time and it's just no fun. I don't know if I can salvage any sense from this brain of mine.

"Behind closed eyelids" was a buzzphrase stiched into a well-worn mitten, insulating an arthritic hand. Who needs cutup when you've got introvision? I think I'm cyclo'd and I like that. Nothing is worth doing. I take the Dao's lardful lump of leisure where I can get it. The funny thing is I don't feel sick right now. Not very sick anyway, although saying that jinxes it like it always does - a little bubble of bile rises through my throat - but still, it's not all a malicious placebo malady - there is a calm I've been allowed to feel, remaining. If there was a drug that guaranteed this effect, I'd probably be hooked. Can I outwit my own brain? Maybe, he's not as smart as people think.

Fuckup Money

Well I got through another breadpacking Shakespearian drama. Five hours, but it felt like fifteen. I did what I had to do. I did it my way. Well sorta. With my style anyway. With a flourish, a flanged flourish. I wouldn't do it any other way. No way. No sir.

Now I've got some Fuckup Money.

Easy, hard, not exactly pointful. A symbol.

Nah, forget that. Who cares? Fragmentary.

Sedimentary. Elementary my dear. Nah. Nobody.

Cryptic dust desposits hardening to marks, brands of... nah. Forget that.

Music won't do it for me. Maybe cyclo will. Have I earned it yet? I can't decide.

No, I'm not far enough removed yet. Still seating in the serrated dealings of cycles.

Icy cycles, the whims of the sick cyclical centrefuge.

Some nostalgia might work. Erpland by Ozric Tentacles. Yes, a nice slice of the past. Hallucinogen remixed Pteranodon, that's how I got into this outfit.

I'm actually enjoying this. I feel no pain. No fevered ego flange. No, I absorb it and it absorbs me. The flavor of enlightenment nearly feels real again. Nearly.

But my agenda was to perhaps shut my mind off.

Life amplitude modulator. Maybe it's time for some modulation. Some hardcore blink. Maybe routines have grown ravenous, devoured reason. Or maybe not. I can't quite say.

Well I got through another breadpacking Shakespearian drama. Five hours, but it felt like fifteen. I did what I had to do. I did it my way. Well sorta. With my style anyway. With a flourish, a flanged flourish. I wouldn't do it any other way. No way. No sir.

Mario Circuit three, open for srelickintendure...