A No. 1. This is it. When primary prizs,mmdmd
yay see?
anyway
...
that exsesss tryptaminninnee that i got no problelelelelel with nanaymor
hallowholo A No. 1.
Crcronernnenrnernern
eef ernernernerner
nernernernernernernerner
nenenernernernenenenener
nernernernenenernenenernernenenenenernenernerne
ehoped i helped a lil lil just a lill hel lil lil hell ful and a lil yeah
focal, heh
2/09/08
2/06/08
Dreaming on LSD
Burnt brain. Nothing to say. Thought I could finally sleep. Closed my eyes, sure I was done. The most interesting things were to come. I first noticed it as sound - had white noise playing on speakers to help me sleep, quickly forgot it was white noise, seemed to contain every color in the spectrum, several off spectrum, seemed digitally altered in many ways at once, deeper, reverbous, thick, filling the room, foaming my head. Unusually bright inside, flexible beams, glowing, grids interwoven, and somewhere in there, the personality of the mind/chemical interaction, now remembered: a multiple personality, but each facet part of a consistent hyper-human aesthetic. There was the female, casually beautiful, face emerging from a frilly windowframe that had sprouted like a paisley flower. Long black hair, pale face, knowing smile. She could do no wrong, eye candy ambassador for acid. It was all an aesthetic unit, internally consistent, looked, sounded, felt like "acid", something sly, something that knew secrets but would not reveal them now, only show the edges, coloured contours, a veildance. Then there was the male, Mr. Tryptamine, dashing, devilish, an avatar I could wear if I was to climb a little, maybe a lot higher up the ladder. Someone so much more than me, with a grain of my personality, but a skyscraper above me, highrise to my dingy basement psychology. He wore an old west style hat, but he was of the future. Bathed in an orange sunrise hue. The two people mingled and melted together, the light lattice of beams did its kaleidocycle until I'd forgotten the situation of looking at hallucinations, and had fallen asleep in a seamless transition.
The visuals continued, except now I was completely immersed in them, and believing in them. Now I was engulfed in scenes, still engorged with that brightly colored multidimensional texture, like Louis Wain paintings animate and interacting with each other. These scenes contained people, of a sort. Striking personalities in outlandish costumes that embodied their souls. A forest chamber gathering, watching a conduit of churning blue bubbles. There were several entities with me, and all had strong and disparate personalities. These personalities were like no one I know, but I felt I knew them all well. They felt like family. A perpendicular stream fed into the conduit and seemed to be spawning versions of ourselves at regular intervals. Like it was an external womb. A young woman watched a version of herself gestate from the translucent womb-stream. It perfectly resembled a prototypical version of her, smaller and simpler, less defined. Some differences. It tumbled out of the stream and into the blue bubble conduit which then frothed a lighter shade. The creature flapped around, rapidly evolving into early artistic maturity, arranged itself in an upright position, and produced a cylinder of green light/sound that was a synesthetic song, perfectly individual, colored and textured that just-so shade of the character, which was a just-so distortion of the mother, a consistent extension of the spawn. Somebody told the mother not to be distressed that it wasn't a perfect copy. "We don't want perfect copies. Your child will go her own way. Her music will be her own. You're only the seed." Then another entity emerged from the womb stream, a male. It seemed to be based on me, I could see there was some seed of me in the design, but it had emerged as freakishly other, despite that seed being evident. It was mind-blowing. It produced a blue synesthetic song-beam, and I heard flavours of my musical idiom subsumed in some larger symphonic blast I could never have thought of. The thing disappeared in its own song and the whole florid flowing mess disappeared in the conduit. The conduit disappeared into an undulating wall of hexagonal tiles that seemed to breathe.
These tiles were being removed and re-attached here and there, according to some pattern I couldn't make sense of, by somebody on the other side, telekinetically. I got the sense that the person was Robert Anton Wilson, and also that the room on the other side of the wall was crowded - by people who weren't there physically, but mentally. The wall phased out enough that I could make out the face of someone who looked very much like goateed RAW, in his younger days. This person, with the simultaneously telepathic elaborative aid of two or three others, explained the room and the wall, and what it was all for, while the undulating phase in/out pattern continued. It felt like a huge epiphany, an understanding I could apply to every facet of life. Something about creating reality, which sounds cliché and meaningless expressed in words. It was more about the feeling of this activity, with the hexagonal wall embodying and illustrating. Like we were pushing on opposite sides of the wall with our minds, with certain mental tendrils here and there, like fingers, not with intent but with habit, fractal patterns of behavior. Varying pressure points would create different levels of reality, hallucination, enable options, preclude others. It had quantum implications. It was not so much a metaphor as gnosis, expressed visually, felt physically. A mental potency, an ability - and also acceptance, of this ebb and flow. The wall surged to total solidity. I could hear no one on the other side. I lost touch with them.
Many more visions flowed together. The only other scene I remember took place in a cavernous alley in some psychedelically stylized city block, on a ground-level staircase leading up to an apartment building. The architecture was a chaos of square blocks at different elevations. I was with a crowd of people. They all seemed like that acid entity - more human than human - very alive, personable, diverse, strongly defined characters, but also alien, hallucinogenic, multidimensional, and just fucking weird. One of them, a male, 30ish, was talking with me. He seemed cocky, but also respectful of me. At least, he was including me in his cocky coterie, like he drew vast swathes of coolness across the city and into his circle with an assured motion of his hand, that excluded people who didn't get it. Whatever it was, I can't remember. His face was shaped like a vertically elongated trapezoid. I looked into his eyes and saw mirror images of rainbows bleaching out into a white void toward the edges. I had an intense emotional reaction to those eyes. They seemed beautiful and hideous, they made my head ache. The guy knew exactly what I was thinking. He said that yes, we've all got the void inside us now, because we're part of the acid entity. He was talking about burnout. The emotion I got was that all this pretty psychedelia carried a terrible price, but that it was beautiful anyway, in context. He was like Faust firmly embracing the deal. I looked around at the hipster crowd on the steps. They all had those rainbow void-eyes. I thought and felt that this was horribly wrong and evil, but so beautiful. Like I could live with it, for now. Bare witness.
The visuals continued, except now I was completely immersed in them, and believing in them. Now I was engulfed in scenes, still engorged with that brightly colored multidimensional texture, like Louis Wain paintings animate and interacting with each other. These scenes contained people, of a sort. Striking personalities in outlandish costumes that embodied their souls. A forest chamber gathering, watching a conduit of churning blue bubbles. There were several entities with me, and all had strong and disparate personalities. These personalities were like no one I know, but I felt I knew them all well. They felt like family. A perpendicular stream fed into the conduit and seemed to be spawning versions of ourselves at regular intervals. Like it was an external womb. A young woman watched a version of herself gestate from the translucent womb-stream. It perfectly resembled a prototypical version of her, smaller and simpler, less defined. Some differences. It tumbled out of the stream and into the blue bubble conduit which then frothed a lighter shade. The creature flapped around, rapidly evolving into early artistic maturity, arranged itself in an upright position, and produced a cylinder of green light/sound that was a synesthetic song, perfectly individual, colored and textured that just-so shade of the character, which was a just-so distortion of the mother, a consistent extension of the spawn. Somebody told the mother not to be distressed that it wasn't a perfect copy. "We don't want perfect copies. Your child will go her own way. Her music will be her own. You're only the seed." Then another entity emerged from the womb stream, a male. It seemed to be based on me, I could see there was some seed of me in the design, but it had emerged as freakishly other, despite that seed being evident. It was mind-blowing. It produced a blue synesthetic song-beam, and I heard flavours of my musical idiom subsumed in some larger symphonic blast I could never have thought of. The thing disappeared in its own song and the whole florid flowing mess disappeared in the conduit. The conduit disappeared into an undulating wall of hexagonal tiles that seemed to breathe.
These tiles were being removed and re-attached here and there, according to some pattern I couldn't make sense of, by somebody on the other side, telekinetically. I got the sense that the person was Robert Anton Wilson, and also that the room on the other side of the wall was crowded - by people who weren't there physically, but mentally. The wall phased out enough that I could make out the face of someone who looked very much like goateed RAW, in his younger days. This person, with the simultaneously telepathic elaborative aid of two or three others, explained the room and the wall, and what it was all for, while the undulating phase in/out pattern continued. It felt like a huge epiphany, an understanding I could apply to every facet of life. Something about creating reality, which sounds cliché and meaningless expressed in words. It was more about the feeling of this activity, with the hexagonal wall embodying and illustrating. Like we were pushing on opposite sides of the wall with our minds, with certain mental tendrils here and there, like fingers, not with intent but with habit, fractal patterns of behavior. Varying pressure points would create different levels of reality, hallucination, enable options, preclude others. It had quantum implications. It was not so much a metaphor as gnosis, expressed visually, felt physically. A mental potency, an ability - and also acceptance, of this ebb and flow. The wall surged to total solidity. I could hear no one on the other side. I lost touch with them.
Many more visions flowed together. The only other scene I remember took place in a cavernous alley in some psychedelically stylized city block, on a ground-level staircase leading up to an apartment building. The architecture was a chaos of square blocks at different elevations. I was with a crowd of people. They all seemed like that acid entity - more human than human - very alive, personable, diverse, strongly defined characters, but also alien, hallucinogenic, multidimensional, and just fucking weird. One of them, a male, 30ish, was talking with me. He seemed cocky, but also respectful of me. At least, he was including me in his cocky coterie, like he drew vast swathes of coolness across the city and into his circle with an assured motion of his hand, that excluded people who didn't get it. Whatever it was, I can't remember. His face was shaped like a vertically elongated trapezoid. I looked into his eyes and saw mirror images of rainbows bleaching out into a white void toward the edges. I had an intense emotional reaction to those eyes. They seemed beautiful and hideous, they made my head ache. The guy knew exactly what I was thinking. He said that yes, we've all got the void inside us now, because we're part of the acid entity. He was talking about burnout. The emotion I got was that all this pretty psychedelia carried a terrible price, but that it was beautiful anyway, in context. He was like Faust firmly embracing the deal. I looked around at the hipster crowd on the steps. They all had those rainbow void-eyes. I thought and felt that this was horribly wrong and evil, but so beautiful. Like I could live with it, for now. Bare witness.
2/04/08
frightened of a feeling?
Horray for question marks!
Been egging me on all night. Might be heavy. But I wrote myself a sedative. Got bored. Realized I didn’t care about my projects. Remembered how fine it could be, to blow my mind.
Well, I’m a little jittery, hands shaking but honestly, I feel MUCH better now that I made the damn decision. Maybe it’s that I know I have a grace period. I guess I’ll go wander like I said I was gonna. Like I’m just taking a walk, all casual like, nothing else to do, thought I’d sight see. And if those sights happen to be a little brighter and more animate than they should be, well I’ll know why, won’t I? Once I know what I’m dealing with, I should get over the jitters. Once I remember, that is. Christ, I should be a veteran by now.
~~~
Oft white, soft light.
Dancing on Carbonate and Latimer.
Oil is under 90$ a barrel!
Happy days are here again, now now now.
Can you feel the rhythm? Does it have to be kinetic?
Ergotized eyes at attention. Haha. Ha. On one of those capturing missions.
Glorious to feel a glorious feeling and say it. Then realizing I’m saying glorious and it’s all been said before, better before better. When downtown Nelson looks like Vegas, I know it’s kicked in. I feel it, electricity in my body. Extra sensory. Feelings, thoughts, slip out of my grasp. I’ve got a perma grin, and when it slips into a grimace, I try to stay positive. It usually works, haha, I’m laughing again. It’s all about creating and maintaining a positive feedback loop – and usually I can do that better than anyone else can do it for me, if I maintain focus. Looks like all the elements kicked in just right, didn’t overwhelm, I started out walking in the cold which took the edge off… so it crept in subtly. And now I’m feeling like a freak, but not a god freak, so it’s okay, not a freak of godly proportions, nothing so inappropos. And anyway, this is my new home, my sanctuary. Time to break it in, get some hallucinations happening up in the historic arched interior. I feel good. Our houseguest is a fine girl, with some fine product. Double dip and a drip away from the stwawbewwy wiver. Finchy was right in saying it’s better to be able to maintain control, and not have it control you. The feedback loop – he was all about looking after me, my sober self, like my second shadow in split light, like three of me converging in snow banks, rendered poetically in the mind’s eye, with ochre streetlights, just the right temperature, minus seven, pretentiousness set appropriately on the barometer – peripheral hallucinations non threatening – you could feel the sky, in a parallel life, when loss of virginity was very definite and aquatinted, an aqualine spiritual. Feels good to be loved by the self sometimes. I’ll take it. Dramatic acrobatics. Bocceli. Night skiing. A clean definition of a klean demolition. It ain’t easy being green. Don’t hype unless for maximum humour. Ride off into the sunset, when the peripherals of speech and text tint. I know there are purer snowbanks of poetry, I passed them tonight, and have passed them so often in the past, when I worried about writing. Even now, I worry about cliché. Except when the dream unfolds. Why not be honest with myself? Agreeing, the only way I can. Heh.
Banks, and drift. I try to forgive myself amid hideous faces. Somebody describes his dream as beautiful, it’s funny, his solemn whisper. Stately, in a staggered stuttered way, the way gravity flows, I won’t grant the obvious synonym. Nichewitch. Schoolmaiden twitch, a highscore. Amazing, the situation, the circumstance, of being this person I am. It’s profoundly ridiculous, and it’s so obvious to say that. Haha. The words are mostly placeholders to waves of feeling. My giddy grin. Comma. “Where are my feelings?” he says. Chocolate coated wisdom. Haha. Building slowly, granting me time. To enjoy the marble texture of the foyer. The all foyer mansion. Dude. Yes, laughing at nothing. That’s an acid trip for you. I’m so entertaining to myself. Waves of energy I can actually assimilate as an artist, take an ego trip and be comfy, why not? Feel, analyze, whatever I fucking feel like. Guardian angels, casting paranoia on to shadows, letting them be dark, to my light. The infernal triumvirate.
Well now that I’ve gotten myself into an unambiguous goodly electric feedback loop where I feel no possibility of threat, just a billow of down home stimuli, what do I do with it? Write I guess, seems to be working. And listening to the southern cross album. Yeah. Happy with what you have to be happy with. Even if there are tri-tone guitar riffs on a parallel thought. Yes, I can actually DEAL with this. Like I’m in Vegas. Is that the theme for tonight? Stupid card tricks?! Ahahaha… Yes. I think so. A Wax Simulacra on Letterman. Feels like a communal electric current that I plugged myself into. I don’t need to be physically with anyone to feel it. I know it’s all hallucination. So what? Is that any less of a thing? Heyahola! I only wish I had three heads. Is that a theme? Archewards and balding toward timebaby. If nothing else, more possibility.
I keep smiling. I don’t think this is gonna be any kind of breakthrough, no need to tack it to past or future schemes, just a present present to myself. Nyeti yetis on the horizon. In a year, I will hopefully have scraped all the iconography from my vocab. I need a transfusion of words like Keith Richards needed new blood. But damn, I keep feeling good. I just giggled like an ijit. It’s hilarious that I’m writing all this down. Am I gonna post it? I might. Haha. I’m so fucking high. Keepin’ it real.
So, I’m thinking I might have figured why the spacemen mentioned Jesus all the time. Don’t mean to get all christy on you, but he’s a hell of a figure. He’s all things to all people. He means something. More than I’ve even come close to accepting as my personal savior. See that’s the thing. Savior? Just keep Mel away from me, okay? I got over S&M many moons ago. Let’s say. Sorry, thoughts are racing a little too fast. Lacy racy thoughts, slinking away from me, breeding with black panthers. Yes, that’s what I was trying to say. I’m creating a texture here. A self analytical texture. Korny. It’s korny. I added a few ccs of saliva. Eggwhite. Ejaculate. Third guess, fourth guess. The golden girls. Blanche. It’s a joke. Anyone want to join my jugband? It will be a niche. It will forge all sorts of providential fires. How long can a put on be put apon? Time to cut the apron strings?
Oil goes down smooth. Pumped up, mispriced. Paradoxical paradise. Paranormal, paraspsychological. Comfort. Disease. Novelty. Habit. It’s all been done before. But then why does it feel so crucial? Because it’s a feeling. Reasons conflict. Like raisons. Cinnabun. The concressional. The professional. Slick Rick recovered from a stroke. It’s different for some folks. Been trying to claim things I haven’t earned honest, man.
I’m just letting self standards fall to shreds. I don’t have to be anybody. Righty ho, Mr. A. Don’t want to be a martyr, don’t want to be a victim. None of it means anything, I don’t think. Improvising to an Aphex track. Out of tune, pisses me off, I say with a cackle. What can I do with a crazy grin? What can I do for my country? Ask not. E pluribus nukem. I’m in a real love-hate relationship with myself. I want to love someone else, but nobody is really making themselves available. I think I’m a leprechaun. I make good conversation. But all you want is me lucky charms. You want to charm yourselves. There’s nothing in it for me. Why is it so wrong, to want a body? I’m so sick of the spiritual. I ain’t got no spirit, yo. And you can’t have my lucky charms. Good luck finding me. I hide in your reality. In plane sight. You can’t see me. Wouldn’t know where to look. Wouldn’t know to look. Think you’ve seen it all. You have, you know. I know. We know. We’re in on it, aren’t we? Is there a future? You tell me.
Sticks. Remember sticks? Remember how they stuck? Candy and a currant bun. Au courant. Maybe I can do something with it. What a hellacious Monday. Another flow, haha. When laughter is good. There’s been much second guessing though, I will admit. It gets serious despite itself. It’s a kaleidoscope, it always cycles back. Sweet dub. My music is good for the moment. Sweet dub. I will seventh guess, cursed luck of the future, and edit out most of this. Even the sweet dub? I hope not. Cause if you don’t know poetry when you see it. But it’s hard to see sometimes. All the time. Isn’t it? Maybe I should read Huxley. Is that a practical suggestion? A flow can make me feel good with however I sound. Then I hit the rocks. And I worry. Jagged. Because it’s all schemes. I’m damaged goods. I have no function. I’m a squeezebox. I’m elmo. Tickle me.
I’m not all about drugs. I just return to them, like inhalation. Like breath. They’re so part of me. Entirely. I gave myself to them, they gave themselves to me. They’re all I can talk about. I’m neotenic, married to my neurotransmitters. That’s what stunted me. I’m nursery tripping, navel gazing. Nursery neitzche, self parody. It can be so pretty, still. Loosening faucet, spraya, I wonder if that magic spell I repeated in the royal alcove did anything? I could almost believe it lately, been a weird week. Maybe in concert with the local psychedelic chemicals. But it ebbs and flows. Not bad for 2/5s of one hit. Made me hungry for more. I’d take the rest, but.
My hand is a rubber glove. It’s cute. Tremulant. I love my hands. Feeble. Fragile. But they’re mine. I have control over them, for now. Hands are easy. Faces are hard. Hard. Hard to have to be expressive. To function that way.
Aye matey. Here’s the rub. Here’s the thing. It stings, and it stinks, and it soothes. Like whiskey. I kinda like this guy I am. I want him to succeed. I want him to be taken seriously. I want to take him seriously. But he’s too ridiculous. And how can anyone else take him seriously then? In your hard playing games. Too bad he’s me. His options are mine. I want him for a drinking buddy. There’s an option.
I’ve got that tryptamine feel in my cells. It’s a buzz. It makes me swoon. It’s nice, when it isn’t too much at once. When it’s not propulsive, but a plateau. When I don’t have to do anything. Just feel, and think. Lay down on the living room floor, my new home. Feeling kinda spiritual. Little dirty thoughts in the corners.
Girl, why don’t you come on up to the house? Cause I won’t write to you, in my questionable state of mind. I’ll just let it wander, and think of how well you would ornament this new place of mine. Think of healthy. Healthy things. Not narcissism, just self respect. Paying some attention, attention to breakfast lunch and dinner, and every tendril that dendritically extends from that. You could help me with that. If you were here I wouldn’t take drugs. I painted over the agendas – the walls are looking fresh. I bonded with the rug, in front of the fireplace. I go about things in the wrong ways, cause I’m not wizened like that, I don’t know all the tricks. I don’t want to trick anybody. But it’s all a trick to begin with. You can’t trick a trick. The trick is – embracing chemicals, in that nameless, transcendental way. I love how you laugh. What do you do with that? It spills – into the void. I grab at crumbs. Hallucinations. I remember though. Some things. Can I send vibes? No, I don’t think I have that power. What would I do with it anyway? The thoughts are poisoned anyway. Ashes to ashes. Biblical brutish truths.
Four hours later. Let’s be honest here. I hate who I am. Everything that reminds me of me. Blech. I kind of like just the feeling, of being alive, but everything else. I hate the way I look. Hate what I say. Where’s the point? I don’t function normally. Not that normal people do either, but, there was some unique insight there, that I blunted, undermined. Oh well. Trying to force a smile, but I can’t really. I feel empty. Ugh. All this writing, what am I gonna do with it? I have a day off. To do what? Maybe I’ll drink. Drunk dial somebody. I dunno what happened to the happy. I just can’t function, man. I can’t. I dunno what to do. I can’t do it for myself. I taste blood. Maybe I’m chewing my face off. Like old times, a little more to chew on. Sticking to my gums. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have… et cetera. Hey, for a second there, I found a reason, to post something. Reason is reality. That’s the only hope for me. That it’s hopelessly real. Purpose in honest and accurate transcription. Let God sort it out. Yeah? I’d be Anon, I wish I could be Anon. But I’m so tied up. I don’t even know what freedom is, can’t imagine what it would be. Who should I call? Who would want to talk to me? I didn’t freak out. But I hollowed out, somehow. I think I’m just hollow, and I realized that. I’m a chemical agenda wrapped in some arbitrary artistry. A collection of mp3s, a pastiche of musical taste. I wash dishes for a living. Holy living fuck is that weird. I’ve been brought to existential absurdity, and it makes it all the worse to call it that.
I’m so angry at these words, now, for meaning nothing, now. I don’t know how to live, now. I need to be someone else, I guess. Now.
One thing remains true. Aphex Twin’s ambient music is absolutely perfect, for a good trip, or a bad trip. I’m getting to love volume two. Getting to live volume two. It’s voluminous and ruinous. Ruined city reverb. You don’t second guess detritus.
Been egging me on all night. Might be heavy. But I wrote myself a sedative. Got bored. Realized I didn’t care about my projects. Remembered how fine it could be, to blow my mind.
Well, I’m a little jittery, hands shaking but honestly, I feel MUCH better now that I made the damn decision. Maybe it’s that I know I have a grace period. I guess I’ll go wander like I said I was gonna. Like I’m just taking a walk, all casual like, nothing else to do, thought I’d sight see. And if those sights happen to be a little brighter and more animate than they should be, well I’ll know why, won’t I? Once I know what I’m dealing with, I should get over the jitters. Once I remember, that is. Christ, I should be a veteran by now.
~~~
Oft white, soft light.
Dancing on Carbonate and Latimer.
Oil is under 90$ a barrel!
Happy days are here again, now now now.
Can you feel the rhythm? Does it have to be kinetic?
Ergotized eyes at attention. Haha. Ha. On one of those capturing missions.
Glorious to feel a glorious feeling and say it. Then realizing I’m saying glorious and it’s all been said before, better before better. When downtown Nelson looks like Vegas, I know it’s kicked in. I feel it, electricity in my body. Extra sensory. Feelings, thoughts, slip out of my grasp. I’ve got a perma grin, and when it slips into a grimace, I try to stay positive. It usually works, haha, I’m laughing again. It’s all about creating and maintaining a positive feedback loop – and usually I can do that better than anyone else can do it for me, if I maintain focus. Looks like all the elements kicked in just right, didn’t overwhelm, I started out walking in the cold which took the edge off… so it crept in subtly. And now I’m feeling like a freak, but not a god freak, so it’s okay, not a freak of godly proportions, nothing so inappropos. And anyway, this is my new home, my sanctuary. Time to break it in, get some hallucinations happening up in the historic arched interior. I feel good. Our houseguest is a fine girl, with some fine product. Double dip and a drip away from the stwawbewwy wiver. Finchy was right in saying it’s better to be able to maintain control, and not have it control you. The feedback loop – he was all about looking after me, my sober self, like my second shadow in split light, like three of me converging in snow banks, rendered poetically in the mind’s eye, with ochre streetlights, just the right temperature, minus seven, pretentiousness set appropriately on the barometer – peripheral hallucinations non threatening – you could feel the sky, in a parallel life, when loss of virginity was very definite and aquatinted, an aqualine spiritual. Feels good to be loved by the self sometimes. I’ll take it. Dramatic acrobatics. Bocceli. Night skiing. A clean definition of a klean demolition. It ain’t easy being green. Don’t hype unless for maximum humour. Ride off into the sunset, when the peripherals of speech and text tint. I know there are purer snowbanks of poetry, I passed them tonight, and have passed them so often in the past, when I worried about writing. Even now, I worry about cliché. Except when the dream unfolds. Why not be honest with myself? Agreeing, the only way I can. Heh.
Banks, and drift. I try to forgive myself amid hideous faces. Somebody describes his dream as beautiful, it’s funny, his solemn whisper. Stately, in a staggered stuttered way, the way gravity flows, I won’t grant the obvious synonym. Nichewitch. Schoolmaiden twitch, a highscore. Amazing, the situation, the circumstance, of being this person I am. It’s profoundly ridiculous, and it’s so obvious to say that. Haha. The words are mostly placeholders to waves of feeling. My giddy grin. Comma. “Where are my feelings?” he says. Chocolate coated wisdom. Haha. Building slowly, granting me time. To enjoy the marble texture of the foyer. The all foyer mansion. Dude. Yes, laughing at nothing. That’s an acid trip for you. I’m so entertaining to myself. Waves of energy I can actually assimilate as an artist, take an ego trip and be comfy, why not? Feel, analyze, whatever I fucking feel like. Guardian angels, casting paranoia on to shadows, letting them be dark, to my light. The infernal triumvirate.
Well now that I’ve gotten myself into an unambiguous goodly electric feedback loop where I feel no possibility of threat, just a billow of down home stimuli, what do I do with it? Write I guess, seems to be working. And listening to the southern cross album. Yeah. Happy with what you have to be happy with. Even if there are tri-tone guitar riffs on a parallel thought. Yes, I can actually DEAL with this. Like I’m in Vegas. Is that the theme for tonight? Stupid card tricks?! Ahahaha… Yes. I think so. A Wax Simulacra on Letterman. Feels like a communal electric current that I plugged myself into. I don’t need to be physically with anyone to feel it. I know it’s all hallucination. So what? Is that any less of a thing? Heyahola! I only wish I had three heads. Is that a theme? Archewards and balding toward timebaby. If nothing else, more possibility.
I keep smiling. I don’t think this is gonna be any kind of breakthrough, no need to tack it to past or future schemes, just a present present to myself. Nyeti yetis on the horizon. In a year, I will hopefully have scraped all the iconography from my vocab. I need a transfusion of words like Keith Richards needed new blood. But damn, I keep feeling good. I just giggled like an ijit. It’s hilarious that I’m writing all this down. Am I gonna post it? I might. Haha. I’m so fucking high. Keepin’ it real.
So, I’m thinking I might have figured why the spacemen mentioned Jesus all the time. Don’t mean to get all christy on you, but he’s a hell of a figure. He’s all things to all people. He means something. More than I’ve even come close to accepting as my personal savior. See that’s the thing. Savior? Just keep Mel away from me, okay? I got over S&M many moons ago. Let’s say. Sorry, thoughts are racing a little too fast. Lacy racy thoughts, slinking away from me, breeding with black panthers. Yes, that’s what I was trying to say. I’m creating a texture here. A self analytical texture. Korny. It’s korny. I added a few ccs of saliva. Eggwhite. Ejaculate. Third guess, fourth guess. The golden girls. Blanche. It’s a joke. Anyone want to join my jugband? It will be a niche. It will forge all sorts of providential fires. How long can a put on be put apon? Time to cut the apron strings?
Oil goes down smooth. Pumped up, mispriced. Paradoxical paradise. Paranormal, paraspsychological. Comfort. Disease. Novelty. Habit. It’s all been done before. But then why does it feel so crucial? Because it’s a feeling. Reasons conflict. Like raisons. Cinnabun. The concressional. The professional. Slick Rick recovered from a stroke. It’s different for some folks. Been trying to claim things I haven’t earned honest, man.
I’m just letting self standards fall to shreds. I don’t have to be anybody. Righty ho, Mr. A. Don’t want to be a martyr, don’t want to be a victim. None of it means anything, I don’t think. Improvising to an Aphex track. Out of tune, pisses me off, I say with a cackle. What can I do with a crazy grin? What can I do for my country? Ask not. E pluribus nukem. I’m in a real love-hate relationship with myself. I want to love someone else, but nobody is really making themselves available. I think I’m a leprechaun. I make good conversation. But all you want is me lucky charms. You want to charm yourselves. There’s nothing in it for me. Why is it so wrong, to want a body? I’m so sick of the spiritual. I ain’t got no spirit, yo. And you can’t have my lucky charms. Good luck finding me. I hide in your reality. In plane sight. You can’t see me. Wouldn’t know where to look. Wouldn’t know to look. Think you’ve seen it all. You have, you know. I know. We know. We’re in on it, aren’t we? Is there a future? You tell me.
Sticks. Remember sticks? Remember how they stuck? Candy and a currant bun. Au courant. Maybe I can do something with it. What a hellacious Monday. Another flow, haha. When laughter is good. There’s been much second guessing though, I will admit. It gets serious despite itself. It’s a kaleidoscope, it always cycles back. Sweet dub. My music is good for the moment. Sweet dub. I will seventh guess, cursed luck of the future, and edit out most of this. Even the sweet dub? I hope not. Cause if you don’t know poetry when you see it. But it’s hard to see sometimes. All the time. Isn’t it? Maybe I should read Huxley. Is that a practical suggestion? A flow can make me feel good with however I sound. Then I hit the rocks. And I worry. Jagged. Because it’s all schemes. I’m damaged goods. I have no function. I’m a squeezebox. I’m elmo. Tickle me.
I’m not all about drugs. I just return to them, like inhalation. Like breath. They’re so part of me. Entirely. I gave myself to them, they gave themselves to me. They’re all I can talk about. I’m neotenic, married to my neurotransmitters. That’s what stunted me. I’m nursery tripping, navel gazing. Nursery neitzche, self parody. It can be so pretty, still. Loosening faucet, spraya, I wonder if that magic spell I repeated in the royal alcove did anything? I could almost believe it lately, been a weird week. Maybe in concert with the local psychedelic chemicals. But it ebbs and flows. Not bad for 2/5s of one hit. Made me hungry for more. I’d take the rest, but.
My hand is a rubber glove. It’s cute. Tremulant. I love my hands. Feeble. Fragile. But they’re mine. I have control over them, for now. Hands are easy. Faces are hard. Hard. Hard to have to be expressive. To function that way.
Aye matey. Here’s the rub. Here’s the thing. It stings, and it stinks, and it soothes. Like whiskey. I kinda like this guy I am. I want him to succeed. I want him to be taken seriously. I want to take him seriously. But he’s too ridiculous. And how can anyone else take him seriously then? In your hard playing games. Too bad he’s me. His options are mine. I want him for a drinking buddy. There’s an option.
I’ve got that tryptamine feel in my cells. It’s a buzz. It makes me swoon. It’s nice, when it isn’t too much at once. When it’s not propulsive, but a plateau. When I don’t have to do anything. Just feel, and think. Lay down on the living room floor, my new home. Feeling kinda spiritual. Little dirty thoughts in the corners.
Girl, why don’t you come on up to the house? Cause I won’t write to you, in my questionable state of mind. I’ll just let it wander, and think of how well you would ornament this new place of mine. Think of healthy. Healthy things. Not narcissism, just self respect. Paying some attention, attention to breakfast lunch and dinner, and every tendril that dendritically extends from that. You could help me with that. If you were here I wouldn’t take drugs. I painted over the agendas – the walls are looking fresh. I bonded with the rug, in front of the fireplace. I go about things in the wrong ways, cause I’m not wizened like that, I don’t know all the tricks. I don’t want to trick anybody. But it’s all a trick to begin with. You can’t trick a trick. The trick is – embracing chemicals, in that nameless, transcendental way. I love how you laugh. What do you do with that? It spills – into the void. I grab at crumbs. Hallucinations. I remember though. Some things. Can I send vibes? No, I don’t think I have that power. What would I do with it anyway? The thoughts are poisoned anyway. Ashes to ashes. Biblical brutish truths.
Four hours later. Let’s be honest here. I hate who I am. Everything that reminds me of me. Blech. I kind of like just the feeling, of being alive, but everything else. I hate the way I look. Hate what I say. Where’s the point? I don’t function normally. Not that normal people do either, but, there was some unique insight there, that I blunted, undermined. Oh well. Trying to force a smile, but I can’t really. I feel empty. Ugh. All this writing, what am I gonna do with it? I have a day off. To do what? Maybe I’ll drink. Drunk dial somebody. I dunno what happened to the happy. I just can’t function, man. I can’t. I dunno what to do. I can’t do it for myself. I taste blood. Maybe I’m chewing my face off. Like old times, a little more to chew on. Sticking to my gums. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have… et cetera. Hey, for a second there, I found a reason, to post something. Reason is reality. That’s the only hope for me. That it’s hopelessly real. Purpose in honest and accurate transcription. Let God sort it out. Yeah? I’d be Anon, I wish I could be Anon. But I’m so tied up. I don’t even know what freedom is, can’t imagine what it would be. Who should I call? Who would want to talk to me? I didn’t freak out. But I hollowed out, somehow. I think I’m just hollow, and I realized that. I’m a chemical agenda wrapped in some arbitrary artistry. A collection of mp3s, a pastiche of musical taste. I wash dishes for a living. Holy living fuck is that weird. I’ve been brought to existential absurdity, and it makes it all the worse to call it that.
I’m so angry at these words, now, for meaning nothing, now. I don’t know how to live, now. I need to be someone else, I guess. Now.
One thing remains true. Aphex Twin’s ambient music is absolutely perfect, for a good trip, or a bad trip. I’m getting to love volume two. Getting to live volume two. It’s voluminous and ruinous. Ruined city reverb. You don’t second guess detritus.
2/01/08
Wait, you motherfucker!
We challenge you to a rock-off! Appalled Caroline Eschews Gravy. Wrist deep in poon. The grahss was greener. Trimatized to the groun. I've got a bike, you can ride it if you like. I hope you have room in a thicket of vines. The famous "rockin" stance. Trepidation. The two tequila breakfast. The four cappuccino experiment. The re-birth of notation. To howeth castle and environs. Chooglin.
1/25/08
1/24/08
the bedlam in goliath
pre-ordered the disc, so what the hell, i'll listen to the leak, cause i found one that seems good quality - so, a bowl, a shot of sauza, headphones, darkness:
superficially, it sounds like amputechture, but at a deep level it's most like deloused – omar flavour injected all the way, of course – most prog album yet, hooray! major time dilation happening, i'm halfway through the second song, and feel like i've listened to a whole album already, in a good way – audaciously dense in sounds and ideas – i played the album on some mediocre speakers and it was impenetrable, confusing, noisy and non-musical, but it’s actually extremely well produced, well thought out, musical and melodic – it just demands a good system and a proper listening experience, or it won’t betray its secrets – like i’m listening to metatron at 5:45 the second time through – first time was utterly confusing, now i see that there’s actually a key shift a whole tone up – knowing that, it sounds perfect, the bass really hammers it home, it’s articulated precisely, but there’s so much going on, it doesn’t come across right away, similar to amp in that sense – some might consider it a flaw, but being the rabid mars volta fan i am, i see it as a necessary evolution – it rocks too, holy fuck this album rocks – not that it’s trying to rock, like amputechture was trying a little too hard to rock, but this one just happens to rock out, as the song requires, which is often – love love love the production – gorgeous sound, cinematic sound, bright, synesthetic, visual – the concept sounded like stupid bullshit to me, but now i can actually hear it, feel it, verbal expression being inane and inadequate, but as an album! with omar’s artistry… now i can believe there might be something to the concept that wasn’t put across in that horribly written essay – if nothing else, i can certainly hear and feel it as an unwanted yet partially-perversely-desired invasion of ghostly and wounded consciousness creeping subtly into someone’s sanctuary from some other dimension
wax simulacra, the only song i heard before this listen now fits perfectly in context – i like amp, but i LOVE bedlam, bursting, rich, hallucinogenic, some parts merzbowian, great use of distortion – holy shit, it's rapid fire tollbooth transformed – ikey is awesome on this – goliath is orgasmic, a giant of a song – assimilating cedric's melodic bent, his blues scale in the gravity well of a rogue star, extra galactic gospel
tourniquet man is revelatory, they've never sounded quite like this before – brings to mind the mellow parts of a nevermore album – certainly also recalls the sublime slow songs from previous albums, asilos, miranda, etc. – mainly is a vehicle for fiendish vocal deformation – been so long since the last time they slayed me with new, polished material, i forgot how weird and inventive they are – so used to the old stuff
thomas pridgen is crushing it – drum sound isn't as devastating as it was on deloused, unfortunately, but is meatier than on amputechture – a testament to omar's confidence/ego to delegate a drummer of pridgen’s skill to a role that subservient – maybe why jon left, wasn’t content to be a slave – omar is pharaoh, though, you know? he builds large – has the gall to make foundations with guitars – long long album, like a tantric orgasm – ourobourus throws me for a loop, another sound i didn't know the band was capable of – speed metal? reminding me of megadeth – trouble processing, then it gets into another orgasmic chorus, yes! soulful sound parsed through technical devices, techniques, manipulation, like the twitch of a finger or the dissection of a waveform
i'm wondering if soothsayer is sampled from some portable recorder in omar's travels – seriously, this music makes me see crazy things, moreso than what i see without the mars volta, it's like they're tugging on archetypal strings that resonate inside me – not listening to the words, but it's so expressive on every level, every instrument, every sound, every tweak – continuing to make use of horns, mind-boggling flute interludes – juan with his slash and burn bass, a machete – totally omar guitars – i don't care what anyone says, i love his playing – i’ll take his inimitable style over a more polished technician any day – not that omar isn’t technical, but he’s about as far from textbook as you can get – the lead – cedric and omar as leads – strange combination, sometimes complimentary, sometimes perverse, always fascinating
goddayum, a new album from this band never fails to inspire – now i want to record great music again – fantastic stuff – i don't think any future album can affect me like frances and deloused, due to them being in that golden oldies age, when everything was perfect and innocent, but their latest record is probably as good as anything they've ever done, and that's saying something
superficially, it sounds like amputechture, but at a deep level it's most like deloused – omar flavour injected all the way, of course – most prog album yet, hooray! major time dilation happening, i'm halfway through the second song, and feel like i've listened to a whole album already, in a good way – audaciously dense in sounds and ideas – i played the album on some mediocre speakers and it was impenetrable, confusing, noisy and non-musical, but it’s actually extremely well produced, well thought out, musical and melodic – it just demands a good system and a proper listening experience, or it won’t betray its secrets – like i’m listening to metatron at 5:45 the second time through – first time was utterly confusing, now i see that there’s actually a key shift a whole tone up – knowing that, it sounds perfect, the bass really hammers it home, it’s articulated precisely, but there’s so much going on, it doesn’t come across right away, similar to amp in that sense – some might consider it a flaw, but being the rabid mars volta fan i am, i see it as a necessary evolution – it rocks too, holy fuck this album rocks – not that it’s trying to rock, like amputechture was trying a little too hard to rock, but this one just happens to rock out, as the song requires, which is often – love love love the production – gorgeous sound, cinematic sound, bright, synesthetic, visual – the concept sounded like stupid bullshit to me, but now i can actually hear it, feel it, verbal expression being inane and inadequate, but as an album! with omar’s artistry… now i can believe there might be something to the concept that wasn’t put across in that horribly written essay – if nothing else, i can certainly hear and feel it as an unwanted yet partially-perversely-desired invasion of ghostly and wounded consciousness creeping subtly into someone’s sanctuary from some other dimension
wax simulacra, the only song i heard before this listen now fits perfectly in context – i like amp, but i LOVE bedlam, bursting, rich, hallucinogenic, some parts merzbowian, great use of distortion – holy shit, it's rapid fire tollbooth transformed – ikey is awesome on this – goliath is orgasmic, a giant of a song – assimilating cedric's melodic bent, his blues scale in the gravity well of a rogue star, extra galactic gospel
tourniquet man is revelatory, they've never sounded quite like this before – brings to mind the mellow parts of a nevermore album – certainly also recalls the sublime slow songs from previous albums, asilos, miranda, etc. – mainly is a vehicle for fiendish vocal deformation – been so long since the last time they slayed me with new, polished material, i forgot how weird and inventive they are – so used to the old stuff
thomas pridgen is crushing it – drum sound isn't as devastating as it was on deloused, unfortunately, but is meatier than on amputechture – a testament to omar's confidence/ego to delegate a drummer of pridgen’s skill to a role that subservient – maybe why jon left, wasn’t content to be a slave – omar is pharaoh, though, you know? he builds large – has the gall to make foundations with guitars – long long album, like a tantric orgasm – ourobourus throws me for a loop, another sound i didn't know the band was capable of – speed metal? reminding me of megadeth – trouble processing, then it gets into another orgasmic chorus, yes! soulful sound parsed through technical devices, techniques, manipulation, like the twitch of a finger or the dissection of a waveform
i'm wondering if soothsayer is sampled from some portable recorder in omar's travels – seriously, this music makes me see crazy things, moreso than what i see without the mars volta, it's like they're tugging on archetypal strings that resonate inside me – not listening to the words, but it's so expressive on every level, every instrument, every sound, every tweak – continuing to make use of horns, mind-boggling flute interludes – juan with his slash and burn bass, a machete – totally omar guitars – i don't care what anyone says, i love his playing – i’ll take his inimitable style over a more polished technician any day – not that omar isn’t technical, but he’s about as far from textbook as you can get – the lead – cedric and omar as leads – strange combination, sometimes complimentary, sometimes perverse, always fascinating
goddayum, a new album from this band never fails to inspire – now i want to record great music again – fantastic stuff – i don't think any future album can affect me like frances and deloused, due to them being in that golden oldies age, when everything was perfect and innocent, but their latest record is probably as good as anything they've ever done, and that's saying something
casper the friendly ghost with rocket feet
bad
associations
in
everything
especially
facebook
that
sinking feeling upon opening
the
cesspool, all these people
i
sort of know, know too well
playing
in their own filth
open
sewers
disappointments
arranged in pretty patterns
a
vast swathe of write-off
my
circumstances get better
and
my head gets worse
coming
home from work to my new house
with
a whine to end the night
like
every other night
what’s
wrong?
how
can i say it in a way that doesn’t betray
what
an awful person i am?
let’s
say poisoned, sick
can
you believe a self-diagnosis?
strawberry
river syndrome, the symptoms
of
which include syringe-hugging self-portraits
where
is my medicine?
i’ve
self-medicated with opiates
sent
love letters, lust letters
the
righteous theme
playing
in the relative major of D minor
woke
up and worried
life
confirmed the dread
said
i’d be better off dead
cause
my methods don’t work
and
i have no function
every
day several people at work ask me how's it going?
how’re
you doing?
i
say not bad
pretty
good
doesn't
feel right to actually answer the question
today
i used less sugar
and
said mediocre
and
got a weird look, like
tmi
or something
she
wanted a definition
i
said absence of greatness
and
got a weirder look
nothing
feels right
except
feeling wrong
feeling
wrong feels right
like
it's the only way to feel
when
i talk to people it stings
it’s
so contrived
after
it’s over i ache
it’s
so empty
the
things it could be, almost was
almost,
always almost
i
watched my friend descend
into
a paranoid hell of his own making
now
i watch myself do the same
entropy,
health was anomaly
seeing
the downward spiral
and
spiraling down anyway
like
emotions will always overpower intellect
that
useless autistic weakling
neuroses
grow like cancer
synthetic
matter, synthetic thought
a
cure for cancer? we are cancer
okay,
i’m cancer, you’re fairy dust
i’ll
grant you that, and you’ll grant me
as
many wishes as i want
wishes
in and of themselves
a
resource that will last a lifetime
a
resource i’ll burn through like
a
pack of matinees, a wishpack a day
and
when i’ve reached my last wish
when
i don’t care enough to wish anymore
that
will be my death
glorious
apathy
the
death gnosis
knowledge
that there is nothing worth
wishing
for anyway, when reality
has
constricted to the narrow cataract perception
of
this long-survived tumour
one
for the almanac
rendered
redundant in the next edition
just
another double octogenarian
hushed
senile struldbrug
someone’s
gotta be cancer
otherwise
how would you know that you’re fairy dust?
it's
so horrible to think
anybody
owes me anything
yeah,
look at me
bringing
so much sunshine into everyone's life
well
i tried, i did try, oh i wanted to
but
cancer has no function
and
i'm an endorphin addict with no connection, okay?
that's
why i'm so pathetic
because
i can’t subsist on table scraps
still
on the floor of the opium den
watching
thin hallucinations
the
ones i’ve seen before
running
low on synonyms
recycling
urine
apathy
is malicious, to me
i
require some sort of respect
as
the magic of the past fades further into memory
like
it was some lucky charm that wore off
microcosm
of a petroleum-addicted society
divine
death of a canary in a cage
sublime
to save the miners
hacking
coal cough, how noble
emperor
norton incarnate
with
my own currency, that no one will recognize
infuriating
and depressing, what gives? what changed?
is
it me or the world?
is
it endorphins, is that what changed?
cause
i know it would be so different
if
i had those, the real ones, nature’s
prime
mover
prime
numbers make me sad
i’m
divisible by thirteen
1/23/08
1/21/08
in retrospect, i shouldn't have read that last one
It's meaningful because it's the title. Sentence case slipped. Will regain an arbitrary foothold. Contradictory binary code, it's one or nothing, attempts at both short circuit an already short circuit. Confusion isn’t confusing enough, means too much. Transcribing as poetry, like it's art or something. Any perception is, in the right context. Machine language. Plug into me. I tried to plug into you. What did I do? Didn't drink enough. Not the natural intoxicated attempt. What god intended. Proof he loves us and wants us to be happy.
Enjoy your politics. Incidentally. Yeah, I'm a political junkie too, like people are football fans. It's not like I'm involved. I will be involved when it gets down to it, more than I want to be. Involved, down to the tripwire, the necessary tripwire. That'll be my death, on my overcast afternoon walk in the remilitarized zone, one of those purposeless walks, into a purposeless death, the poor bumbler who hit the tripwire. When paths must be blocked with landmines, because not laying mines is a worse alternative, when the moral code is binary. It's not something I like to think about. I'd rather think of poppies. But enjoy propping up the mormon with the electric handshake. Good luck. He might have a prayer, maybe too many of them. Too many prayers and not enough celebrity. Cause star power is what wins elections, these days. It's a popularity contest. In a business context. That's how you become king - you don't kill people personally, you aren't expected to get your hands dirty. I had the decency not to spam forums with my odious political affiliation - yay me, not garish but dullened. Politics stinks, but so does everything else. Down with everything. Even the winner is a rat.
deleted a whole other post - it wasn't adorned enough - it was like a jandek rant - it embarrassed me - i should have done like the jandek and release it as an album - instead i will release an album, finally, with cover art and everything, in 2012, a sublimely worked out solo statement, focus grouped for the benefit of my demented demographic, the ones who like alliterations and dissonance - mellow with mike, i relate to those folks in middle age burnout, less and less apologetic about their concern with comfort
such a sad time... for me
and what does anyone owe me?
i don't know, but i'm so empty
but i don't extrapolate, cause my only sunshine
is an ex-patriot, gone from my country
gone for good, and happy
and it's not that everything's fake and hollow
no, it's worse than that
there are real things
that aren't for me
that torture me with their reality
yeah, that's more like a jandek rant, except slathered with the gravy
of my personal idiosyncratic idiocy
believe the hype
i will hypodermically love you
from the bottom of my plantation
hand in hand and we'll jump right into that pool
the astute of you, that is, blogger scholars
of the future, you precocious year 2012 time travelers
will notice that this is the season
for quoting random metal lyrics
the up-level irony being that people
those not-schooled in period metal
will take these out of context references
for profound statements
i did not mean to blow your mind
but that shit happens all the time
Enjoy your politics. Incidentally. Yeah, I'm a political junkie too, like people are football fans. It's not like I'm involved. I will be involved when it gets down to it, more than I want to be. Involved, down to the tripwire, the necessary tripwire. That'll be my death, on my overcast afternoon walk in the remilitarized zone, one of those purposeless walks, into a purposeless death, the poor bumbler who hit the tripwire. When paths must be blocked with landmines, because not laying mines is a worse alternative, when the moral code is binary. It's not something I like to think about. I'd rather think of poppies. But enjoy propping up the mormon with the electric handshake. Good luck. He might have a prayer, maybe too many of them. Too many prayers and not enough celebrity. Cause star power is what wins elections, these days. It's a popularity contest. In a business context. That's how you become king - you don't kill people personally, you aren't expected to get your hands dirty. I had the decency not to spam forums with my odious political affiliation - yay me, not garish but dullened. Politics stinks, but so does everything else. Down with everything. Even the winner is a rat.
deleted a whole other post - it wasn't adorned enough - it was like a jandek rant - it embarrassed me - i should have done like the jandek and release it as an album - instead i will release an album, finally, with cover art and everything, in 2012, a sublimely worked out solo statement, focus grouped for the benefit of my demented demographic, the ones who like alliterations and dissonance - mellow with mike, i relate to those folks in middle age burnout, less and less apologetic about their concern with comfort
such a sad time... for me
and what does anyone owe me?
i don't know, but i'm so empty
but i don't extrapolate, cause my only sunshine
is an ex-patriot, gone from my country
gone for good, and happy
and it's not that everything's fake and hollow
no, it's worse than that
there are real things
that aren't for me
that torture me with their reality
yeah, that's more like a jandek rant, except slathered with the gravy
of my personal idiosyncratic idiocy
believe the hype
i will hypodermically love you
from the bottom of my plantation
hand in hand and we'll jump right into that pool
the astute of you, that is, blogger scholars
of the future, you precocious year 2012 time travelers
will notice that this is the season
for quoting random metal lyrics
the up-level irony being that people
those not-schooled in period metal
will take these out of context references
for profound statements
i did not mean to blow your mind
but that shit happens all the time
1/20/08
1/17/08
waking death
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X
1/13/08
~the strawberry river~
the strawberry river
~the strawberry river effect
~~the strawberry river syndrome
~~~how quickly it fades
to carbon monoxide clouds
joyce said he could explain every word - DID he explain ANY word, or did he leave that to others? as others so eagerly did, an exegesal free for all, a shared joycean hallucination, a ravgravy floatilla
DID the bitch write me ANY sonnet? i think not - and i don't think i was an equal partner in the great delusion of self - but i did reach out quickly and enthusiastically, given the erroneous hint of possibility, for the mirage, between drug deliriums, an endorphin rush, a cruelly deceptive hallucination, but there was facilitation on the other end of the socket, just enough for a spark, a shock, and a burn - no power - electric ignorance - mastering the magic of illusion - perhaps enough for another round, another stupid card trick that won't prove prophetic but will prove pathetic, to seven decimals, and i'll show my work
please, some charity for the moat people - the wretched wrecks on the moatbeach - can you spare another magic trick? see look - there's a guy with thick arms - it all makes sense now ~ so maybe i'll wait, till the music's over ~ persona non grata, sitting alone in the corner of the bar - ten dollars makes a difference - i'll buy happiness - embrace the garish path - hi, we're the pick of destiny - oh look, you found the charity case - congratulations - but our princess is in another castle
1/10/08
Muffin Mother
Oh, it's terrible - the king has been transformed! Please find the magic wand so we can change him back!
A new pen works nice - for modern redundancy. Which doesn't feel "modern" anymore. There is no feeling anymore. Just Rabbithole Malarkey. Bring back the Russian Melancholy. Leave the Rabbithole Malarkey. I want to hear the night wind again.
Oh people that populate this pathetic life, oh friends, TRAITORS, traders, dealers in junk bonds: not these tones. Let us raise our voices in more pleasing and joyful sounds! Tell me more of the Miraculous Mother Mary in a Muffin - your memory of the virgin's appearance in pastry, in the unholy sanctuary of a bakery, where workers cursed freely. Why common scoffers won't understand boddhisatva gawkers at divinity in chaos. How we're not the morons you think we are, because of our hyping of the Blessed Virgin in the Muffin. How a sign from God is personalizing the uncountable chainlinks of thermodynamic flux, to produce, TODAY of all DAYS, the miracle of Mary! Like shakespeare from a monkey. Why not worship that? Yes, too bad I can't explain it like I could in the old days, when I was sharper and remembered my rap. Quite a burden, being the elder statesmen, and senile spokesman, of religious reverie for its own sake.
Remember when it came out of the woodwork? Listening to a Haydn scale on vinyl, committed to the physical conveyance of a spinning record, a piano sonata on a wax cylinder, sitting next to the parents' stereo at night with headphones, paranoid, eyes darting around, making sure no one could see. When the run was magic. A scale! The artistry, running like a river, a fun-run.
Now the run is a done run, so sayeth the server. The run is just a run, and the feeling has run out of it. Ear tickled, tickled, tickled numb - run is just a run. Thanks for telling me. What do you suggest instead?
And there you have your answer - instantly. Get out of my head. Don't distract me from my speaking engagements with my appreciative minions. Flying monkeys.
1/08/08
Vacuous Scheme
Hey ho – starting off in a way that may facilitate future endorphinistic algorithms – is there an endorphistic future? I’d serve it if I can. New server girl’s got haesel hair, drives me wild. Would like to see her again, might have to wait a while. Forgot how the other resemblances manifested, exactly. More than just the hair though. It’s her first day. She’s a little nervy but a confident newbie. Hyper sociability, deep cool beneath, with that same girlywoman countenance as the other one I’m thinking of. If I’m arrogant enough to think I sense integrity – I do.
A.K.A.
The Girl with the Haesel Hair. No prelude here, haha. No prelude in the plaza.
I’m known as the guy who doesn’t talk. More than a kernel of truth in that. It’s insecurity. Don’t ever want to be on the unanswered side. I will only allow that with someone very special – who will then drive me to despair. I don’t let just anyone do that. Though maybe I should. Make everyone special, and therefore not special. Spend my entire social life on junk bonds. There’s a fucking idea.
Damnit, writing makes me tired. I could fall asleep right here, leaning over the counter, despite the morning’s caffeine megadose. I don’t want to write about it – but I need a nap. Oh yes I do. Droopy eyes. Leaning closer to my notebook in a soporific downward drift. Sleep would be so good. So so so good. Half lids.
I want to take a siesta. Like Vito Spatafore. Used to the mafia hardlife. Not used to the worker’s hardlife. Able to deal with violence and murder. But not tedium and tiredness, on a cold and endless winter morning, in rural New Hampshire. Commanding himself not to look at his watch – because he knows he’s desperately, hopefully overestimating how much time has passed – not time for lunch yet – but maybe… FUCK! Not even close.
Plates rattling, but I’m sitting on the lower counter like some postured dishgnome who has made his home in the pit, unkempt, uncaring, wet clothes. So I don’t see who’s there. Could be Haesel Hair, I don’t know. Wow, she offered to bring me something to drink. No one’s ever done that. I love newbies.
1/07/08
flat
distorted figures walk the streets
it’s 1999
the woman who hates everything i like
when i like anything
does she even like anything
except her own sense of superiority?
virtually every time she opens her mouth
some obnoxious, arrogant, condescending
pseudo-sophisticated bullshit spills out
but why should i care?
novelty waves make me sea-sick
seem merely dense folds of habit
and twitching externally, i accidentally
brush up against a body, a stranger's hand
or a strange friend's hand
or i don't know what
anyway, i don't feel like posting any music
it's either depression or mania
or labour, if i can work for something
when there's nothing to spend
maybe that's a third way
it's good to sink
in a reliable manner
the guilt fades, mostly
along with any possibility of respect
comfort in mediocrity
and lack of responsibility
beholden to nothing but gravity
why am i writing this? i don't know
because i want to bury the mania, i guess
back to the flat plane of no possibility
the drug obsession
is not in good taste, i will be the first to admit that
but life is an ugly thing that doesn’t
pay homage to human aesthetics when it sprouts
between sculpted stone cracks
and dogs eat their own shit
and then vomit, and as far as nature is concerned
everything’s working fine, the gag reflex
kicked in before toxification
and zooming in on a certain layer of life
that is as intricate, important and vital as any other
in its bio-chemical perturbations and machinations
is as valid
as a predilection toward ecological metaphors
or the writer’s feedback loop
or whatever
it’s 1999
the woman who hates everything i like
when i like anything
does she even like anything
except her own sense of superiority?
virtually every time she opens her mouth
some obnoxious, arrogant, condescending
pseudo-sophisticated bullshit spills out
but why should i care?
novelty waves make me sea-sick
seem merely dense folds of habit
and twitching externally, i accidentally
brush up against a body, a stranger's hand
or a strange friend's hand
or i don't know what
anyway, i don't feel like posting any music
it's either depression or mania
or labour, if i can work for something
when there's nothing to spend
maybe that's a third way
it's good to sink
in a reliable manner
the guilt fades, mostly
along with any possibility of respect
comfort in mediocrity
and lack of responsibility
beholden to nothing but gravity
why am i writing this? i don't know
because i want to bury the mania, i guess
back to the flat plane of no possibility
the drug obsession
is not in good taste, i will be the first to admit that
but life is an ugly thing that doesn’t
pay homage to human aesthetics when it sprouts
between sculpted stone cracks
and dogs eat their own shit
and then vomit, and as far as nature is concerned
everything’s working fine, the gag reflex
kicked in before toxification
and zooming in on a certain layer of life
that is as intricate, important and vital as any other
in its bio-chemical perturbations and machinations
is as valid
as a predilection toward ecological metaphors
or the writer’s feedback loop
or whatever
1/06/08
when it rains it pours
was just thinking, and really FEELING, that mckenna was so right about there being novelty waves - i dunno if it's a "timewave" exactly, his invisible landscape idea is a little far-fetched, albeit brilliant -- but he is right about that ebb and flow quality - some moments just seem to hold way more possibility, and new things build on each other - and other moments seem weighted down by the gravity of habit - i could even buy that this ebb and flow is encoded in the I Ching - i guess to my mind, it's not an invisible landscape, but more the "trendlessly fluctuating" process - an explanation he found laughable - reductio ad absurdum - not that i can't believe in telos, but i don't see any explanation beyond feedback loops from this vantage - i don't have the mind that he had - broad and deep - funny, i'm still a mckenna fanboy - but it took a novelty wave to remind me - a habit that hasn't died, heh
was also thinking the title of shpongle's last album "nothing lasts... but nothing is lost" is so perfectly in keeping with mckenna's synthesis of philosophy - he said the hardest lesson you learn is that everything changes - crumbles - the river - but there is the superstructure of information, machine elves beckoning beyond the blood brain barrier, if you can believe in that sort of thing – a tryptamine surplus helps - maybe we should ration intentional chocolate - that'll be my welfare cosmos, when i'm elected dictator for life, in the democratic republic of the universe
i still think the singularity of ultimate novelty is way behind schedule – i’m not looking to 2012 – i think when that year rolls around, i’ll be done with drugs and partying – i sure hope so – i’ll drink wine, only with meals, and i’ll know what goes with what, and i’ll read books again, and i’ll eat health food, and have a few fashionable boycotts, and i’ll have some job that’s beyond the service sector but not something i could call a career, but a niche in the local economy, that requires a small amount of skill, maybe organizational, and i’ll have a jaded but not too jaded fiancé who’s pretty, but not hot, and almost but not quite as neurotic as me
was also thinking the title of shpongle's last album "nothing lasts... but nothing is lost" is so perfectly in keeping with mckenna's synthesis of philosophy - he said the hardest lesson you learn is that everything changes - crumbles - the river - but there is the superstructure of information, machine elves beckoning beyond the blood brain barrier, if you can believe in that sort of thing – a tryptamine surplus helps - maybe we should ration intentional chocolate - that'll be my welfare cosmos, when i'm elected dictator for life, in the democratic republic of the universe
i still think the singularity of ultimate novelty is way behind schedule – i’m not looking to 2012 – i think when that year rolls around, i’ll be done with drugs and partying – i sure hope so – i’ll drink wine, only with meals, and i’ll know what goes with what, and i’ll read books again, and i’ll eat health food, and have a few fashionable boycotts, and i’ll have some job that’s beyond the service sector but not something i could call a career, but a niche in the local economy, that requires a small amount of skill, maybe organizational, and i’ll have a jaded but not too jaded fiancé who’s pretty, but not hot, and almost but not quite as neurotic as me
1/01/08
grace did not shine on me
voidful
buried icaro
don't worry
i won't download any more
my instinct is to recoil at your voice
i'm sorry that's what i do
cause what's under the surface
is something i won't even attempt
to describe
but i'm glad it's there
almost always there
i'm glad i kept it to myself
but the icaro is buried
i still haven't learned to live
with that void
buried icaro
don't worry
i won't download any more
my instinct is to recoil at your voice
i'm sorry that's what i do
cause what's under the surface
is something i won't even attempt
to describe
but i'm glad it's there
almost always there
i'm glad i kept it to myself
but the icaro is buried
i still haven't learned to live
with that void
Well, now THAT was a psychedelic trip!!!
Much more than I bargained for.
Was just gonna lie down and hopefully see some cool shit
but holy living fuck was that intense
on a par with any shroom or acid trip I’ve ever had
total breakdown
full on hallucinations, seething currents of colour
contoured, creased, self-effacing folds of
blood-pooled personal aesthetic, THAT space…
except introduce, into the mix
my ex, calling out of the blue
wow
puked my guts out, synesthetic puked freakout
feared for my sanity
thought i’d lost it completely, out of time, out of ego, who am i, who am i supposed to be? imperative, vague sense i could get something out of this, but impossible, horrible tension, even after purging physically, life is an impossibly crazed dynamic, impossible to feel, grating dichotomy, “cool” lost its relevance, had nothing to hold together
so i reached out for whoever was there, she was there, on the phone
was actually good, novelty, and yet old timey
sick hallucinogenic intertwine
but amid the chaos, searching for something that was healthy, that still feels vital
something before and after the giggling fit of the absurd intermediary
always opportunities for self delusion, isn’t that all there is?
so much of the time wrapped up in platitudes, like even now
but turn your senses up to 1000%, and then… behold… too much
too damned much
kind of nice aftermath though, a tryptamine afterglow
like i’m refreshed, blank slate, can be a different person now
i did totally flip out, seemed inevitable, but she was there
so there was a certain style to it, when we did things together
when she took me places, and put clothes on me
and i took her places, in my head
well, now i can do something pedestrian
like drink beer, but i feel like i actually did something good for my head
taking that DPT, like it wasn’t a horrible mistake
even though it made me puke, and felt wrong
but it did remind me of how illusory everything is
with tryptamines, the sickness is the first thing you feel
and then the sublime radiates outward after that initial conflict
giving possibility to life, it’s a reverse hangover
whereas with most other drugs
the feeling of possibility is the first thing you feel
and then it fades, and turn artificial
tryptamines are good that way, they leave you with something
that was a nice goodbye to DPT, probably my last trip with that chemical
my first real psychedelic trip in years, nevermind that stuff with k
which is another thing in itself, but with less bearing on waking life
but getting back to the tryptamine for one last hurrah
was a fitting tribute, a grotesque and hallucinogenically riotous farewell
yeah, it was enlightening, no bullshit – and i must give my past trips their due as well – they were all serious high stakes territory – no fooling around, no happy go lucky kiddie trips – they all brought me to that place – of hyper context and sensory overload.
I’m actually enjoying the tryptamine post-trip glow - the body buzz – now that the horror is over – just happy to be alive. There was a lot of potential there. I’m accustomed to slaving for old patterns. I’m horrible that way – I’ve got a memory. I’ve got etchings. I cut deep. I go over the patterns, wear them into grooves.
Hey, I gave myself plenty of time to recover, at least. Yeah, I’m back to the old paradigm drugs, the booze – the ones that go with this paradigm. The dao isn’t as bright as it used to be. Those innocent times. I was ultimately innocent and ugly a couple of hours ago. I’m wired to respond in a finicky freakout way.
Back to black and white.
Much more than I bargained for.
Was just gonna lie down and hopefully see some cool shit
but holy living fuck was that intense
on a par with any shroom or acid trip I’ve ever had
total breakdown
full on hallucinations, seething currents of colour
contoured, creased, self-effacing folds of
blood-pooled personal aesthetic, THAT space…
except introduce, into the mix
my ex, calling out of the blue
wow
puked my guts out, synesthetic puked freakout
feared for my sanity
thought i’d lost it completely, out of time, out of ego, who am i, who am i supposed to be? imperative, vague sense i could get something out of this, but impossible, horrible tension, even after purging physically, life is an impossibly crazed dynamic, impossible to feel, grating dichotomy, “cool” lost its relevance, had nothing to hold together
so i reached out for whoever was there, she was there, on the phone
was actually good, novelty, and yet old timey
sick hallucinogenic intertwine
but amid the chaos, searching for something that was healthy, that still feels vital
something before and after the giggling fit of the absurd intermediary
always opportunities for self delusion, isn’t that all there is?
so much of the time wrapped up in platitudes, like even now
but turn your senses up to 1000%, and then… behold… too much
too damned much
kind of nice aftermath though, a tryptamine afterglow
like i’m refreshed, blank slate, can be a different person now
i did totally flip out, seemed inevitable, but she was there
so there was a certain style to it, when we did things together
when she took me places, and put clothes on me
and i took her places, in my head
well, now i can do something pedestrian
like drink beer, but i feel like i actually did something good for my head
taking that DPT, like it wasn’t a horrible mistake
even though it made me puke, and felt wrong
but it did remind me of how illusory everything is
with tryptamines, the sickness is the first thing you feel
and then the sublime radiates outward after that initial conflict
giving possibility to life, it’s a reverse hangover
whereas with most other drugs
the feeling of possibility is the first thing you feel
and then it fades, and turn artificial
tryptamines are good that way, they leave you with something
that was a nice goodbye to DPT, probably my last trip with that chemical
my first real psychedelic trip in years, nevermind that stuff with k
which is another thing in itself, but with less bearing on waking life
but getting back to the tryptamine for one last hurrah
was a fitting tribute, a grotesque and hallucinogenically riotous farewell
yeah, it was enlightening, no bullshit – and i must give my past trips their due as well – they were all serious high stakes territory – no fooling around, no happy go lucky kiddie trips – they all brought me to that place – of hyper context and sensory overload.
I’m actually enjoying the tryptamine post-trip glow - the body buzz – now that the horror is over – just happy to be alive. There was a lot of potential there. I’m accustomed to slaving for old patterns. I’m horrible that way – I’ve got a memory. I’ve got etchings. I cut deep. I go over the patterns, wear them into grooves.
Hey, I gave myself plenty of time to recover, at least. Yeah, I’m back to the old paradigm drugs, the booze – the ones that go with this paradigm. The dao isn’t as bright as it used to be. Those innocent times. I was ultimately innocent and ugly a couple of hours ago. I’m wired to respond in a finicky freakout way.
Back to black and white.
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