There’s guys on the line who would eat you alive

Got no one to talk to, so I’m venting online.

So, I really tried to hustle this week. Applied to five places. Even with the xanax it was hard, but I did it. So far, not one place has called back, except the kalesnikoff lumber yard. So, battling the nastiest flu I've had in years, popping reactin and drixoral after a sleepless night, I drove forty minutes to the lumber mill. I was excited... they were desperate for workers, surely I could get hired there. It was a physical job, but I was gung-ho about that, I wouldn't mind the exercise. I was willing to work hard, even through the illness. Manual labour is what I wanted. Something mindless. But it turns out I’m not a human resource. Or even scrap material.

Upon arrival I was subjected to a degrading and demoralizing interview that quickly assured me coming there was a complete waste of time. The HR guy didn’t outright say he wouldn’t hire me, but he was discouraging and skeptical from beginning to end. The vibe was perpetually: "what the fuck are you doing here?" He kept talking about “our world”. He said he thought I probably wouldn't last a day, there'd be no point putting me to work if the foreman was gonna take me off the line after an hour (so now it's an hour I won't last?), that I'd get "eaten alive". I asked him what he meant by that, and he responded indirectly with statements about how many pounds of timber were loaded off the trucks daily, like I was supposed to do the arithmetic on the spot with divisors I hadn’t access to.

At that point, I was ready to give up, but I tried to make a case for myself, said I was willing to work hard, obviously I wasn’t a burly guy but I’d like to try, maybe I could at least do the part-time light-weight jobs they’d advertised. Still I got the same vibe, and accusations of being lethargic. I told him I was on no sleep (but declined to mention my flu, god forbid he’d think I wasn’t in perfect health). Didn’t seem to help much. I guess I should have shot up with methamphetamine before driving to the mill. Finally I told him that I guess I’d wasted my time. He agreed, and I left. I probably wouldn’t last a day in a nazi concentration camp either.

This is me in the "good" economy. I'm the most unemployable person on the planet. Clean record and proven responsibility count for shit, I'll always be a dodgy dirtbag. Even when I get through the gate, when someone actually considers me, they’ll take one look at me and their prejudice churns to the surface.

Maybe I'll get some of that EI money. I don't feel so bad taking money from the government anymore. And music. That's the only thing I can see myself doing professionally anymore, however ephemeral the rock-star ideal is. If I can practice to my satisfaction every day (something I've never been able to drive myself to do), then I can feel good about myself and fuck everyone else who has an idea what I ought to be doing.

Why do work issues cause me so much anxiety? Because my perception is always focused on the big picture – my place in society - the feeling that I ought to be doing something of value, society’s narrow definition of “value”, and the conflict between my abilities and anyone’s needs. I can’t be an arrogant artist type either, though I tried in my last paragraph. I have this crazy idea that I would find purpose in helping solve the peak oil crises, by working in research on alternative fuels, but then I’ll have to go to school and get an engineering degree or something, and I suck at math.

I know, I’m being whiny. But it’s fucking discouraging, when you overcome your fears and negativity and try for something and it comes to nothing. And it feels good to write about this stuff, it relieves pressure. Maybe I’m trying to reverse jinx this whole situation by talking about it, so I end up looking like an asshole when I actually DO get a job shortly after typing this self-pitying screed, according to the rules of life’s irony. But since I talked about THAT I have to jinx THAT. Gotta triple jinx, or quadruple jinx? I can’t remember. Ah, fuck it.

overheard:

“the economy is okay!”

the bus driver, happily supplying that bit of conventional wisdom, as a punchline, to the other happy selkirk girl, paying her bus fare

i think: “haha… you think so, you chipper asshole?”

though i guess it is – that’s the conventional wisdom anyway, and okay, maybe it is, how the fuck should i know? i just know i’m out of work, and i’m really really bad at finding work. really really bad. really fucking bad… i just haven’t a clue – well i do have a clue, but that’s the torture of the situation. that’s why i’m hoping valium will save me – or whatever the crazies are doing these days, to quell

saw glenduh on open stage – he can play a guitar – and sing
he’s all high on nelson – being back in nelson – the nelson euphoria
i couldn’t really feel the nelson euphoria myself, because it was winter
and i was supposed to be gone
and i still wish i was gone, back in kansas
where i actually sort of had a life
and desiree

talked to him after – the whole exchange was pretty predictable
i’m actually somewhat amazed he remembered me – he remembered one or two things anyway
gave me the same rap – i nodded with a sarcastic smile he didn’t notice
sure sure, i’ll play keyboard for you, whatever, yeah, i’ll be dedicated
but now i’m more jaded i guess, in the grand schizo style
that was a reference to the planet x asshole, if you didn’t get it

maybe planet x will require an explanation at a later date
but if so, i don’t care, i’ll let it be a mystery
if i ever get to that level of alzheimers
i’ll be proud
at the lack of memory

i’m drunk and anaesthetized – this is the good part of being drunk
although emotionally, right now, i still have serious fucking issues
i can’t be happy by myself tonight – i think i should be with someone
too drunk, too flaccid, not that that would really fill the void anyway

things changed
or maybe i changed
or both, i dunno

i don’t have as much fun anymore – it seems to me, other people are the problem
i want to have fun, but the fun people aren’t there for me anymore, to aid me in my fun having schemes – i can’t go to the bar by myself and somehow engineer some fun-having situation from scratch like fucking macguiver – if i have people with me, it’s totally different – but i’m solo these days... i can’t blame my sick and tired friend i guess, she's sick and tired according to her… and i guess i can sort of understand that

but i can blame planet x, even if he’s a nutcase

at least i think maybe i can blame him – and i do, anyway – because i’m so fucking angry at what he did… okay, so he’s a nutcase, he lives a hellish schizo life, i guess the medication doesn’t work… even though it seems to work pretty well for meth, but he’s a different person – or maybe it is personal – although that’s pretty crazy, but crazy things are true, according to neils bohr

i don’t really feel like censoring myself – what the fuck, it’s just expression, it might violate the delicate terms of my state boundaries but fuck those things… is it uncouth? fuck it – this is my blog – i’m changing its name to uncouth – this is why i don’t give my parents the link – because they’re not the kind of people i can get blotto with and unload all my anxieties on, in the grand schizo tradition

i never imagined i’d have access to this kind of technology, when i was a kid, looking at astronomy books, pondering the plasma cores of stars – mckenna said it was like descartes’ angel – all the information you want – i guess what the modern psychology has revealed is that any potential heaven is easily and naturally subverted by the mind and its fickle structure… minds are just minds – not amazing cosmic eternally enduring transcendent things… but rather, whiny reptilian highly-nuanced cores of chemicals – neurons are amazing things, and their networks, all the more amazing, but still… still… the human mind is the closest thing to the universe… next to the universe – but godhood is a wearing, wearying pastime.

Is that a state-bounded thought? I could change my mood instantly if i had certain chemicals. If I had MDMA, I could rocket up to a four hour euphoria, where everything’s really okay and wonderful, why don’t I realize that all the time? It’s the magic window. And then I’d come down, and do double triple quadruple penance for my state-bounded naiveté, the emotional dregs of self-flagellation in abysmal serotonin deficit. If I had cocaine, I’d realize it’s rocket fuel for jackass post-Freudians, but still, it has a glamour, to me at least, because it’s still rather new, and rather Columbian, i don’t know where it comes from – but it’s a short hourglass – but it doesn’t lie as egregiously as ecstasy.

At issue is the popularly implied analogy between the computer's ability to store data and the human memory and logical procedures and human reasoning, an analogy that influences cult members to conclude that a computer's ability corresponds to human thinking.

I do have very powerful psychedelics still, in my drawer, but no real desire to do them. Tryptamine ecstasy sounds nice in theory – but it takes a certain commitment, and insanity, to want to go there, and I guess I sort of satisfied my curiosity, even though I know I could always go so much farther, if I had the will…

The human mind, for Roszak, is as much a miracle as any religious tenet and the pursuit of philosophy. Given the glory of the human mind, Roszak is not about to reduce or subject it to a reductionism implied by semiconductors in metal boxes. In the final analysis, the computer should be seen for what it is -- "a valuable public servant"

So now what? What do I write about now? Oh, I’m sure something will come to me.

Selkirk Sutra

in case of loss, please return to:

~ the great galactic information stream ~

as a reward:

the spongy spine of sainthood ($3,172 cash value)

*

remember those innocent times when you’d drink just to stay alive? drink in theory, not necessarily reality, millions of pressure-cooked words on hypothetical intoxication… now the intoxication is in my coat pocket. it’s real and more powerful than words, a bottle of jagermeisster, i think i’ll need it to get through this job fare. fair?

i’m back at the college, holed up in the library without the guilt-blanketing quilt of drudgery, because this is a one-time thing. so i’d better do something, but i thought i should rest, and eat, and take a drink first, in my own horribly nostalgic library hole, where years ago i would sleep with my head on the cubicle desk, and wake up and write, and rub at acne sores, anything to avoid study.

a lot has happened since, and i have little use for the words i wrote then. but i guess they’re not totally worthless, they did a good job of documenting my delusions, and being back here makes me realize how close to the surface the paranoia always is, and how i could latch onto those old things in a heartbeat, with the right triggers.

i grabbed a norman mailer book off the shelf so it would look like i was involved in a book and not this lunacy. “the naked and the dead”.

*

too many people at this damned job fair. throngs, balloons. and the whole venue perversely reminds me of the quantum experiment, where i went on a rampage with materializing handguns, for no good reason, jesus. i’m scared to go back there. maybe i should drink some jager first. i’m sure it can be arranged.

*

back here amid college kids, college grown-ups, all seeming so committed, putting my glorious slack into clenched contrast. i remember how i could escape into discordian philosophy and the church of bob when a simple statement of “spoon!” could be the funniest thing i’ve ever read, lack of context being the root of hilarity. it was the duress that could wring from me hysterical laughter, the most brash hack-and-slash route to escaping the vines of confining society. the driver complex. for a fantasy video card. still never rendered my pyramids, except for a month-long love affair with vistapro 3.0. it’s not what the pros use. but i should have got into that line, 3d rendering, i had a passion for it once. it almost seemed purposeful, to advance the cause of virtual reality technology, in my own small way. i should be rendering buildings for grand theft auto games, with auto-collapsible wire frame skeletons, in polygons. and i could do my own texture mapping, cause i have aesthetic sensibilities to go with the technical ones. yeah, but i don’t think they have that booth at the job fair.

ran into chera in the library. i heard “hey john”, turned around and she was standing up from her study table with that beatific smile of hers and saying hi. is she one of those naturally serotonin rich people? oh jesus, why must i ruin everything with chemical analysis? it was nice, she is so warm. introduced herself to me, as is her habit, since i always seem so lost and confused when she greets me. i got a hug before i left, she told me to call sometime. then i drew rainbows, squiggles, overlapping perpendicular waveforms, noodles in a cup, and a bomb blasting celestial profusion in a symmetrical arc.

*

emotions will be the death of me. i’m wondering if i should send that letter. i’m not on anything, so it’s not a state bounded issue. it’s fairly normal, just slightly friendly, but i’m wondering whether i’ll regret it later, like that phone call. i got another complex to add to the catalog: something about unrequited social initiative. i know how insane it all is.

*

mother’s little helper.

tobias’ little fantasy

overcompensation

so the crowds thinned enough for me to poke my head down to the job fair. all the scary high school kids, glazed with malevolent innocence, left on their busses. it’s a little more cozy. i walk up to the pacific insight booth. three young healthy happy looking people – two girls and a guy. beautiful people, but i feel weird approaching. they don’t exactly look like they’re waiting for anybody, nah, they’re too cool for that, they’re pacific insight, they’ve got benefits, the benefit of the doubt, that i’m worthy.

still, i break the silence and one of the beautiful people looks up from her laptop.

“so, i’m just wondering, how do i get hired at pacific insight?” i say the company name, rather than “here”, or “with you guys”, because i’d rather sound like a clunky android than be presumptuous. they take my droid statement literally, and talk to me about resumes and online applications. i say no, i mean what skills are you looking for?

ah, at last, cracking the shell of that cryptic corporate distance – they say experience in manufacturing, and team work. okay, solid information, finally. solid enough to know i have no shot unless i get experience working at the factory that won’t hire me unless i have experience, the great tautological circle of the unemployable.

so i decide i’ve done enough, head outside for another drink of jager, thinking about getting a degree in electrical engineering or some crazy thing like that, so i can join the elite club, those beautiful spokespeople behind laptops, a job, what every good serf wants.

outside, freezing, i find a filthy alcove under concrete stairs, dead leaves, bleached trash, overflowing butt can, structurally unsound chairs that are classroom outcasts. i wonder if i can drink here, the parking lot is close by… oh hell, it’s february, i could smoke crack under here and no one would notice.

okay, that’s enough herb liquor. the bottle barely fits back in my coat pocket.

*

back to the library, waiting for 4:00. i pick up a michael parenti book from the ‘60s – he notes that while america is going nuts worrying about how communism is going to take over the world, anti-communism already has. then he goes on to describe this unrecognized ideology. i’m finding reading easier than usual, after a few drinks. it allows me to be swept up in the words and not get hung up on semantics. it keeps me from feeling the need to question the precise intent of the author all the time, and what everything ought to mean. but of course, my critical facilities are blunted as a result of this. still, with less hang ups, i take in more information.

*

val’s back on the bus. i ran into her at the stop on my way here. our eyes met, then i said hi, which seemed to relieve her, seemed she wanted to talk. a rare case where my initiative paid off, we had a good chat. seems she’s studying to teach english in china. one of those. she’s the same, enjoyable.

back to nelson we go. i’ve filled a few pores in my brain with herb liquor. it does take the edge off a bit. maybe if i get that valium script i’m hoping to score from the good doc, i can take a pill and a shot and function in society. in these strained, unstructured times, my maladaptive neuroses regain control. it’s ridiculous, i should just get on with my life. but it’s february, and things seem really bleak, so can i just chalk it up to lack of sunlight and wait for the miracle? shift the burden to my future self? i had to leave my jager with the bus driver. better remember to get it back. it’s a charmed beverage, one of those things you leave in the woods as an offering to yetis.

*

stare down the sniper’s gun

maybe this time, hope a flower barrels out of the maw

the Chris Driver complex

They call it the Chris Driver complex. It returns to you in post-apocalyptic psychology, after your religion and ideals have been ground to dust good and proper, to pave the way for the propriety of a blank buzzing confusion. The confusion was blooming in William James’ day, when the dentist was enlightening, but now the blooms are wilted, expired hallucinations when you did acid and tetris and things made a good deal more sense, like you were practically the protagonist in a Faust adaptation, player one, charmed, the magnetism of the brash and stupid child, wearing trite splendor like an old hat, cocked like clockwork. That punk never needed the Chris Driver complex, but you do, when your charm wears off with the weight of ecstasy’s chemical windowsill above you, and you lose your job, and theoretically (and it’s as solid as evolution) there’s still enough wealth to go around in 2007 to justify scrambling for the luxury item called dignity with its bling accessory pride, because didn’t your guardian angel, that wizened hustler, give you her coupons for the liquidation sale of a closing Canadian superstore?

So you visit the store one shady day in submission to the angelbitch holding the whip, she thrashes you with a smile, tone of voice, self-assured flip of hair, cryptic sensuous and blond. You’re in a massive steel hangar of shelves for super-sized consumer goods, eerie and quiet and you hide your coupons and look around, ostensibly for nothing but maybe socks and underwear, but for some reason you can’t bare to buy any of them, every action is embarrassing, and you would buy something but none of the checkouts seem occupied, and you don’t want to take too close a look and look like an idiot, some weirdo, is this place even open, what are these people doing, should you be here? Buying is out of the question, let alone applying. No applied physics here, it’s creepy, forget it, go to Wal-Mart, it’s the devil you know, just lay low and buy some socks and forget looking for work.

Times like these, you know your hang-ups are going to leave you twitching under the noose before long, leaving only neurotic kneejerks of denial and escape, the most satisfying being your cartoon version of the world, which grows from kernels of truth to hard drive crashes and corrupted operating systems. Post apocalypse offers a lot of space to go bonkers in, if you were a plug-in preset, you’d be “ruined city reverb”. That’s why you turn to the Chris Driver complex, like your cat turns its head to the can opener. It goes with those well-fitting shades, plaid-tinted, blocking the more punishing frequencies of sunlight, the clarity that hurts too much. Bespectacled, the stubborn facts that divert agnostic froth no longer appear. “The way the world really works” is laughable, unknowable. The way it seems to work is a tragic but noble defeat, a framed oil-painting of slow suicide in muted blue and red.

The charm of the Chris Driver complex is its ability to build gorgeous and riotous delusions that would make great movies with the right cinematographer. Paranoid, yes, yourself as the center of every societal ill, systemic fuck-up, twisted vendetta, animal instinct run amok with modern amphetamines. But with the evils must come angels, not the unattainable whip-wielding ones whose skin make you cry, but platonic fags with soothing voices who regale you with tales of narcotized tranquility, personal paisley visions, narcissistic and masturbatory, what you’re best at, loving the one you’re with, alone with only yourself to respect yourself in a desperate swoon for cock-eyed cock-rocking tranquility, dreams under duress, the best kind of reveries, because the harsher the reality, the more brilliant the fantasy.

So Chris Driver regains control, on the ironic occasion of a trip to the Grocery store. He’s the character who was you, who imagined himself employed in a worse-case scenario Sisyphean hamster-wheel stock job, where they were out to get him with their nasty looks and comments, saying everything he worried they thought because why hold back now that his supports are gone and he doesn’t have a fucking friend in Jesus, time for him to know who he really is, the dirtball loser pussyboy, because that is the truth and the truth is good and beautiful, so beautiful how ugly he is and he can either accept that or drown in delusion. So now you’re applying for that hypothetical job, except for real this time, because you fell through a hole in the market economy, even though the economy is supposed to be good.

Well, it’s good for somebody but not you. You lost cachet, along with your wallet, on the floor of some bar, maybe one of those blackout nights at the Royal, and then you lost your job. And what didn’t kill you left you weaker, with more reasons to be afraid, all drama queen bollocks, skin irritation of experience, the new crop of fears, more nuanced, sophisticated, and plausible than the superstitious bullshit you left behind, but still mockingly contradictory. You never thought the dregs had undone so many, and now you’re networked with the creeps and the ruined. You were reaching for the angels but they pulled away like the promise of the last term politician and the offer from MasterCard and the flirting eyes of the Jessica Alba-resembling hippie girl back when you might have had a shot. Now you’re parasitical on the economy, unemployed, needy, and using drugs to fill the void. Better than TV, I guess. Now you’ll reach for yourself instead, why not? Player one is game over, let Luigi take over the pixilated level-one palace, extra code conjuring game genii, meta-programming the human bio-computer to grant it the respectability of a sense-deprived scientist.

You’ll need to forget the angelbitch sadist you’re supposed to buy with your Zastrozzi credits and learn to love the good fags in your head, intoxicated and good and sick, but your chosen perversity, maybe healthy, maybe Lao could justify it, it’s gotta balance out something, right? And second person might as well be first, in solipsism.

extreme disturbance - was unable to write - hallucinatory, in that emotional, surreal but totally real, chilling presentations of reality - it was very different - deja thread - wondering what i was gonna do - now i'm much more peaceful - drinking water - strange kind of plateau, not everything has been felt, to my current dubious knowledge - - almost on the nod now, strange - but i'm not gonna deny, willful flange - let lucid be a film

now that i'm over the clenched vertex - i can feel it in all my directories - all that rapidly changing perspective - yeah, i'm over here again, sorry - or maybe it's all for the best --- strange, this old music, i'm really feeling at kinship with vand - well, states of dream can dissolve barriers between cultures, ages, ethnicities, all that jazz -- i don't think i've ever ventured for oblivion, do remember that cartoon with the butterfly though, it wasn't that long ago - certain ideas are permissable after certain emissions - big round world, greasy, i slipped in many spots, found many strange flanges and sacred geographical areas - recent new vantages on the globe perturb me, wonderfully, on those loved lulls in the horror. I guess I'm lucky, the void is allowing me to unwind somewhat, though I would certainly take some euphoriants if I had them. I don't gamble, except with my soul.

even within illicit pentagonal transplants...

>< --{{}}-- ><...

the forever retrograde right sign of a lost and fuzzy cell of mind
{wah} eternally coolifed

would be a wonderful flanged adventure to nod your head to cold gestures of codified pedestrian perusals of the precursors for predicted plundles for pruderfuls of demanded agents for a certain embossed contour of language.

Pardon my levity

So I decided the only sane solution was to comindeer the bottle. It's a hash of things. A mix of things. When you gain the alteration you thought was demanded, when the fade-out began, when it looked fit enough to print, when emotions got ahead of reality, those kind of flanged sinews...

Proud Owner

pride is delicate, expensive, high maintenance, pain-in-the-ass property. for every fleeting ego-trip there is a massive tax on sanity. is it worth it? i’ve been programmed with pride. it’s primitive and sexual. alpha monkey prototype of the modern luxury is now a high nuance, high definition consumer product – every citizen a king, every consumer a television, but what do you do when your neighbor’s screen dwarfs yours? what do you do when your body fails you, and you need to pay someone to help you take your showers?

Banda Bassotti

I love it when south americans sing "El Pueblo".

I've poured entirely too much emotion into that continent. But what do you expect? For fuck's sake, it's called "Latin America". What do you do with that? Well if you're Banda Bassotti, you perform a punk rock version of the Chilean socialist anthem. Music is a good way of dissolving pointless pity. Hey, if I had Cortez blood in me, combined with Incan empathy (oh Jesus, here I go with the grotesque caricatures, oh forgive me, I haven't had my ayahausca therapy, but fuck that, I'm not going to be a chemical monotheist either, there's plural paths, it isn't all shamanism) I'd rage against any available capitalist. Hey, I'm doing that now, except there's always that instinct in me that shies away from biting the hand that feeds me. Hey, it may be peanuts in this ridiculous bling context, but to someone, it's a fortune.

Brothers, sisters... Can't we agree, Chavez fills our hearts with joy? I really hope he doesn't have to get shot. Because that's kind of his shtick. Staying alive. The rascal. Not that I'm considering moving to Venezuela. I kind of like my Canadian citizenship. And the Royal hasn't run out of lines yet. Although, you know, eventually, we're gonna need something worth fighting for. What the fuck am I talking about? Music is good energy. Get your violence out on the mosh pit. That's fine with me. But I really hope we can work out some kind of post-modern revolution. One that doesn't involve urban warfare. With guns and stuff. I got over snuff films years ago. I don't need to see any more blood or brains. Oh here I go, betraying my 20th century delusions. Revolution is so last century. Or is it? Maybe novelty is the great illusion. I dunno, there's a lot of bubbles, and they've gotta pop sometime.

Yeah I know, platitude city. But there are some people who read for the honesty. I appreciate the ears of those people. The eyes. Honestly, I wish I could get deeper into those eyes. And I figure, why not? Isn't it possible? It doesn't have to mean any specific thing. But this particular ground zero is not quite mobile enough, not really extroverted. Although I'm a reciprocal charity case, if that's good enough. Hey - take my cosmic welfare cheque for this month - it's on me. And you know, I'm a good citizen. I'll pay for this postage with foot stamps. Or the drinks are on me. Or I'll hunt some game. Yeah. Tonight we eat well. Jesus Christ where am I going with this? Ample opportunity for interpretation. Nevermind. Party on the glacier - the mysterium, Kootenay style. Be there, or be well. Who wants to be well? What are you, some futurist utopian?! Haha. I spit on your spit!

Anchor Watt

hey now. i can feel myself settling into the chasm floor. okay, i'm bored with that metaphor now.

enough isn't enough today. no, nothing satisfies. the game isn't worth the candle. on average, twenty seconds between sentences, that's how long it takes. the rest is a rest. these are the times that drugs are most appealing. these lonely lulls, these gaping holes in myself, these soul chasms. yes i said that. stop the presses: i'm writing about drugs again. no i'm not.

drugs aren't good enough. it's too obvious, there's no free lunch. there's only the naked lunch. yeah, pilfer the classic title, be a tick on burroughs’s ass. ah well, i need iron, i'll feast. been exercising every morning for some stupid reason. wonder how long that will last. it's good to physicalize, cause my mind's a ****ing cesspool, man. except it's not as colorful as most cesspools are. although occasionally we do bump into some interesting calcified research chemicals on the eroded concrete. finally an image. well, sort of. okay, it's a stucco paste of chalky lime, the time i ordered some typtamines from a new york lab - and they delivered, those magnificent **stards! very professional. but what did i learn? i don't know. i didn't do it right. i ****ed it all up. like everything. anchored to the chasm floor, hardwood, smelling of pine sol. a solvent problem solved. can i be a daoist now? is it time yet? the illegitimate watt, the entropy engine, eternally anchored. maybe i should flail on the piano some more.

form a band in 2012. finally. hey, 30 is the new 20. so i'll have my whole life ahead of me. i'll be the new elvis costello. retro retro, until my instrumental deconstructionist finally cracks a tone into a billion pieces, a nano cent, there's a power of ten for you, deoxyribonucleic nuance. we'll play for carbon atoms, our quivering demographic. they look so eerie in that sound. eventually we'll be classified as suburban gypsies in plunging property value residential zones, green icons flashing electrical symbols, out of power, turning into shanty town. will you take me to - shanty town? we're staying alive. suburban gypsies and hippie dippies, hey finally it's time for hippie dip, goes good with tostitos, did you know?

relax, i know it's hard to know what to do during a godzilla attack in a tornado, but eventually the great terraformer will get us out of this mess. into a wire frame, haven't you always wanted to wear a wire? what the fuck else was there about a wire? is it time for the lapse yet? if i was drunk, i'd have no insecurity about lapsing and there'd be no meta-commentary on the lapse, but that leading tone fell right into my lap. someday i'll look back and smile upon this misremembered episode. the welfare cosmos, in its wisdom, does not issue the citizenry its rosy tint until the age of eighty-five, the new retirement, plenty of time to use whatever wisdom you've acquired - ah, retirement from the game, blow out the candle cause wisdom doesn't matter any more - oh, what can you do with it? / put it between slashes /

the entire world will be florida, palm trees and - you know, i guess i got whatever the fuck i was going for writing this, a pinto bean jumping around in my gut - that's what the troops are fighting for - the rights of this echo. hey now.

Waiting for the Miracle

Waiting for the Miracle

I’ve been working on this song for years. Finally finished today. Music, recording, words, and voice are me, some bass was played by Cpt. Orr


lyrics:

perfection speaks of heat-seeking spores
waiting for my dirt nap
the feeding frenzy
fresh meat soil

the planet wants to re-collect my body
thinks my mind is on borrowed time
the only solution is to pay my dues with 50 kis of flesh

but no plant told me where i go
i wonder if they even know
what happens when i join the earth
is it death or a re-birth?

can they calm my fears and claim
conscious continuity
or does that mean anything really?
guess i didn't eat sufficient psychotria

i'll just wait
for the miracle

i'll just wait
for the chemical

i'll just wait
till they synthesize
perfection

be down in down time
while the wind blows
and perfection gestates in a petri dish

chime whines in down time
while the wind blows
and perfection impregnates a Royal Bush

perfection speaks of heat-seeking spores
waiting for my dirt nap
the mundane death
on a morphine drip

i'll snivel from the cradle to the early grave
before they save my ass from the hungry grass
can't put my faith in flora, i'm no flower nor a fruit
and no seeds will sprout from me with
my remainder in the freezer singing

i'll just wait
for the miracle

i'll just wait
for the chemical

i'll just wait
till they synthesize
perfection

kept alive to the final wheeze
the last death wish, then the freeze
cryo-genius clique, genetic freak
securing meek's inheritance

my sectors of service in a
low capacity hard drive will be
honored in apotheosis of organic greed
to each according to his need

why does the world seem a different shade
when i'm bouncing words off my highs and lows?

i'll just
take it for fate
take it for metabolism
serotonin flux
take drugs
never take them into account

i'll just wait
for the miracle

i'll just wait
for the chemical

i'll just wait
for the castle to open its doors

ugly

I nearly drowned in the reflecting pool

can't think of what to do now
so I guess I'll take valium
which I don't have, so i'll approximate with valerian

I just want to stay down
dullened, sleep
I'd rather dream
life is too real and ridiculous
dreams make sense to me

in waking life i'm hung up on ego
which shreds in dreams, allows me to be completely other people
it's really quite extraordinary, my thoughts and words are polluted
with ideas like "consciousness" and "unconsciousness", but there is some
interesting process going on in that dissolve
to think of it as mundane is to be asleep, in waking life

i need a vacation from myself, i hate the oppressive gravity of the ego
and i'm sick of ground zero

radiant voices fill the cracks
i type into a box and add another scrap to the canon
for no other reason than to do something

dry meat pie... i ate most of it
drinking water
not threatened by flying leaches

wish the snow was gone, i don't enjoy being stoic anymore
i just want to walk in the woods like i did in the spring and summer and autumn
it heals me, re-casts the putrid self-stinking thoughts
i feel a part of something bigger and better
than that silly and sad world i've become attached to

nature is my religion, yeah, when i have one, which isn't often
but i'm like any stupid human - i'd sooner kill the ugly bugs
than the cute ones

*

so i'll sutrize this... and say i settled for cyclo
it may be morally wrong, but it's not the first time i've done that
a precurser to soma, they said
but they didn't really know

i'm going to be soporific today
it's the only way

blank the slate

buyers remorse creeps into the initial dosing period, it always does
wish i could fast forward until i was well into the cruise
i can't savor the changes
unless i'm on the upswell of some euphoriant

i'm acting like an addict today, embracing it
the aesthetic of addiction, the addict's ethic
even though it's not really me

listening to astral projection

vaguely depressed - is it alcohol withdrawal, is it cause the trams wore off, or is it because i feel like a loser? who cares, it's what i'm trying to run from, through chemical modification, and sleep - the unconscious, conscious but not, it's sexy to me, i lust for it - no, that analogy doesn't really work, it's not lust, it's love

astral projection is lovely - i need more weed - such an easy mod, barely feels like a drug - i want to keep drifting - i'm not happy, i'm dissatisfied and dejected, but in a drifty way which is nice - somewhat aloft - that's why i want to keep taking downers and beatific techno - astral projection can do no wrong - in heaven, the isrealis are the DJs

still got that weird tension in my teeth and joints - it's probably the pot

*

Fuck everyone.

It feels so good to say that. I don't know why. Anger is arrogance is energy is a rush is a high. Depression externalized. Not really, but sort of, in obscure tensor equations. Well I am dissatisfied, dissaffected somehow. Nothing's changed. I ran out of energy here. Nelson is a dead fucking end. I want to abandon it. The charm wore off. We subsist on the pale glow of Unstern.

I have no plans, no goals, except sleep. Until then, I'll drift. Wish I had more fog-generating inebrients, but I mainly just have cheap and blunt downers, they'll have to do. Blue sky at 3:42, viewed through brown blinds, in a dark bedroom while listening to trance. That's the happenstance.

The sky is beautiful. It's like an old friend. I feel such a personality from it. But I haven't gotten used to the white vista below. Apollo and the Ice-Queen. It's possible I fucked the skygod. But I forgot to personify her properly. But then, mixed metaphors are appropriate in those reveries. I could drink cough syrup right now, I'm that commited to being fucked up. The friendly fuck-up. My only friend.

freak flag at half mast

About a month after Timothy Leary died, Wilson received an email from him that said, best that I can remember, "Hiya Bob! Heaven is nothing like I imagined, it's a lot more crowded. Be seeing ya!"

He always figured it was a prank easter egg that Tim had put into his computer. I guess now he may know for sure.

- urbanagora

Robert Anton Wilson died yesterday. He's the man who turned me on. Found him, my last year of high school. Didn't know anything about anything. Then I started reading his books. Illuminating to say the least, very influential. A lot has happened since then, but he feels like an old teacher. Instrumental in my intellectual foundation. "The Earth Will Shake" is still my favourite of his novels (and books). Before that, I had no real passion for music. The story of Sigismundo Celine supercharged my interest, kicked off an obsession with classical everything, literature, philosophy, but particularly music.

Rest in peace, RAW. Or not. Whatever you feel like doing.

well, then....... (boogety boogety}

was the game from the rubric or am i still channeling...?
no, not even any rip-off tipped off some poor porn houses
we're all in this together and itis a wild fucking ride, slide, beautiful hell
is yourhula caught on your torso?

anaes, ah god get that e out of here, fucking hell....

yaw yaw the flanges and the fringes my imaginishards destroy your gathering magic cards today, this shwal on the paisley, first turn on a swurn of a gotback lacking daisies... jayseees eyes,,,, where did dems go? wow? that place i liked to talk at. sit right there - i don't know what i'm doing, but i will attend you - i know my place, i've been in insurrected corridors before, the bilge, the branches offa that treetamalee, where are they, where'lls the flow you, jenn. do you rem, ever gosubick?

New Way

same as the old way - same as the eternal peace...

weapons - look at us now - finefine - +

Whatever - bring it on - in this weird hypercontext - FUCK FUCK YTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA - YES = yes - nyx if you want - look, it's just for entertainment purposes right? everyone loves to be entertained with hot tasty licks

I did it again and again - isn't life so fucking beautifully sick?
those poor women , new in town, who wanted to score some coke?
i'm listening to a harp sonata donizetti luci di someting

lllllll fuck
nevermind
dayum
anyway....


brite litesss...

holy grail

It's been hard to be willing to get lost, but it's possible... oh deerie we're subverting the normal chanells that waste sluicies and slices down these granulated.... heh, they've got an explanation for everything, frikkin window craques... catching your gold and silver tears... Mock rock isn't gonna happen here in this self flagellating cage of untercutonous mind expandind psychedelic blisters - oh wee woo we ooo we beyautiful.... cagellating sweet string pad - that's how it's suppposed to sound... the producer got you. What am I doing? Meaning is screaming in areas it shouldn't for fruck sake, slick back into the puddle, dogboy, dover, there's a whole chapter for you.

pranfully aware of a bunt cake cracked and wrestled with wear and tear - where have i come in this new paradigm of cosmic cause? yeah? you there? what are you doing here? do you make me smile? i think so. It's sort of soronary, subject to subdivilations. Harping on accidents. Okay, Iz gonna randomazer.... rawor. Zbeen a while. Nothing's the same. In this contex. Is this what a life is supposed to be. Obviously not. Dabble. But Affirm. Somewhere out there an appendage completes your strut. Illustion, delusion.... or confusion prelude to --- lost chord. We don't have the word. Damned divinity. I'm trying to love for fockery's sake. Artistic mambles. There's tens of pens. Where were they when I was lonelhy without words and skills. Isralis fart around me. A gaggle of bubrling desert farty synthy candy i will giggle gurgle with some day - hey - it's lightly time fine, fine with me - mayne, mainvein, muddy prude in the pud, goddamn, i should be here all tghe time i guess that means i'm....

here, heh

gelicle straight shot from the room of a hed bot... caught in the art scrape - ah, the nape of the dead neck - no - apocalypse is not here, try another synapse - yes - that's what we're looking for - care of the dead and the living - what is this all for? come with me - i love you - phi - ratio - it dries in the sun - i know, i know, for frigging fuck's sake.... what's it all come to?

I love how I'm so aware of how it's all tilted now and I don't care that I am sublimely listened to tilted tunes on outlawed sawteeth of wavelengths, agreeying with frickin frackintasticallashins... oh symptomatic is a symptom of your automatic swayback, it sways into the sense pool in which we all understand and partake, nutricious nutrients rootbulb rootbark hallucination, how am i doing this?

shit meet fan

it's getting scattered
this happened fast
not sure which window i am typing in anymore...

it's been a while, but it's fueled by infected crystal distortion samples, ah, bliss

i remember this type of stuff...

eventually we opened the door, found ourselves locked in a room, eternity,
the poppy pop coldmilk bath of eletric bubble warm narcosis

sorry that wasn't precise enough, the truth is in a critical appraisal

feels comfriggidy though, like my place, the place i've been waiting for...