keeping it simple

with windows default wallpaper - the nature theme

can't delve into my image archive, old patterns and poison - i like corrie, she told me it isn't too late to go back to school, she did when she was forty - well, i don't hardly have anything to say, but i said that, anyway

btw, corrie looks amazing for over forty, and i mean amazing like lithe, unconsciously sexy, short, slim, revealing - but first of all, you don't say to a woman "you look great FOR..." and second, you don't say that to a councellor

cold comfort for change

leap of faith it's worth it - i won't talk about cells - they're organic, not jails - you can have my empire of dirt - i will let you down, i will make you hurt

the, the
the the the
the, the finger condom broke - hope it doesn't get my hand pregnant

oooh, you're a dirty dish aren't you - you dirty dirty dish - this is my meal ticket, yet again - let c equal burnination - head full of AA, belly full of beer - mind full of sharp pizza cutting fragments - c'mon, let's make it happen - while there's still supply lines - i'm fucking serious, i haven't given up yet

matches sooth the burn

i like matches, they calm me, they grant me serenity - they're friendly and helpful, they light my cigarettes, they light my life - especially those long wooden waterproof matches that strike easily on the sides of their big boxes, and tease me with a little spark, a glow, and a fizzle, make me think they're going out, then fwoom, the whole fat tip of phosphorous goes up in a plume and the warm chemical smell wafts out, such a beautiful scent - i don't like matches, i love them - they're my solace, when i've turned the world to shit - sleep isn't even doing it for me these days, my sickness follows me into dreams, but matches are my friend

too much love

too few lovers - oh, maybe i didn't reach out enough

you know, despite what they say, and "they're" quite right and wise, love is worth it, it's even worth risking my recovery from drug abuse - so, i would, if i could, but i can't, so i won't - i dunno, i just figure, i've learned to get by without it, the kind of love that makes me willing to risk everything, that whole shebang, that drives me to play my A game - let's digress but stay on topic

i'm in a feelingful place at the moment, so, might as well feel, and not worry too much about the meaning - might as well sit, skin exposed, and just be, whatever this is - i'm so incomplete, and really feeling it lately - but at least i got out of that agro bar, snuck in under the 5$ cover for pay per view ultimate fighting, it's so ultimate, ugh - anyway, it's one of those things, where the frosted lucky charms won't do it, as a metaphor, but those dresses, or whatever you call them, will hit closer to the mark, those short cut, i dunno, i'm not used to talking sexy, much less writing about it, those dresses that hug the skin tight to accentuate those girl contours, they're like blouses, i guess, but they're almost like body suits, but they stop just a little after the whoohah, or just a little short, depending on how you look at it, i don't even know what to call them, but they're dressy, and this hottie was wearing one while i was playing pool, but it was so not my scene, no, not really, tho it could have been, in another life

i'm living more in my mind right now, i guess, and living through a bit of a grinder, but feeling a lot, and ill-content, fairly, i'd say - it can't come to any good, but whatever - you know, it would be cool if i could say "whatever" and be somehow alluring, but that's a feminine thing, that's a charm wielded, or even casually tossed about by the ones i covet - yeah, i'm in a coveting mood, and it don't make me special, but dayum man, or, nevermind

it's not a funky feeling, no no, it's just a word, it's just a woooooord, oh no, maybe it's a little more to me, love, i'm feeling it from afar, the absense is palpable, or it's very present, but the ability to express it, physically, the necessary counterpart to emotion, is kinda absent, yeah

a chocolate chip cookie

for when technique is useless - for when dreams are stillborn

miscommunication should be forged, through lack of words

acting on hallucinatory assumptions, let god sort it out

wait, who, what? what a leaden word, break the chain, ditch the anchor

go godless, c'mon all ye faithless

tech nevermind, fuck, what a drag thoughts are, associations

i'm an asshole
i fucked up a good thing
i hope you find someone more worthy of your charms than me



what else can i say, fucking philosophize? surplus words
flogging a dead horse


elsewhere, i'm a journeyman, making music
indulgently
now i'm looking from outside, as giving nothing
a nest of dead ends

there was a spark, earlier tonight
it blew out, that's life,
and that's that saying

i should become a mute
make that sacrifice
get beyond words
beyond self
but stick
@ ground 0

it is what it is

it's inauthentic

it knows my old tricks, my new tricks

desire, spent, let's satisfy mechanically, get it over with

synthesize satisfaction, call it an interval
a mundane tick, like alyssa said

it's surplus words, a reference
to a fellow writer said fellow will never read
she'll have a baby in calgary, i guess i don't
understand

i'd better make some use of wake time
or find a summer home in dreamland
someplace that will take me in, in neon
on a black screen, a private library
with bleary medlies of oldies movies
and musicals and monies

i'm burned out, what did i lose, can't remember
surplus words...

shaky philo

oh no, bruno - too much

is not enough

wound up in abraqt filterless

note to self: the fun is over





been slacking on writing



salad dressing



still being a weirdo



 write a menuet and trio
with shaky hands


writers have dispersed
we don\t reach each other

solipsistic





sober up and find yourself

you have that in you




dreams are a refuge

i don\t like to think about time


rhodes wanking
simple reality enough for you?
yes, i am a moderately skilled keyboard technician
yay, who cares, friends do -

so this is the way of summer / jazz rises on the air

crow wishes he wasnt so jittery / weed & caffeine
far cry from the hard stuff / kay & to kill ya
oh yah baby / that's the way we roll






lol




- dDDD####ddDDDDDDDDDDdDDDDDDd

df

wood sprites

councelling

what was that dream again?\
geometry - geology - VCR  RECORDS

carlos

the guy who looks like this:\
  "O    O"
O         O

=         =
  ====


hallucination is salvation is hallucination
i'm not adopting a tone
not posturing

information
contracts, tax, money - filling me
peoples lives, prick measuring contests
 
i'll probably forget\\

shuffle around little peices of paper, digitally

for better or worse, i drew the guy
that looks like this
in menuetto and trio format
AaBbCcbBaA

refurbishing old compositions

Finally got around to editing some old compositions of mine. For years it's bothered me to listen to these, though they have good ideas in them. Wasn't sure if it was worth an edit session, but since Clavia just updated their piano sample library for the Nord keyboard, I thought I'd give some of my early pieces a new coat of sound, and a bit of a re-write while I'm at it.

Fever Dreams

 with an epic Steinway grand sound.

Fugue in E minor

I sequenced this years ago, with no dynamics. Instead of contriving some, I've used an italian harpsichord, which works with the motoric style.

Dangerous

One of my first ever compositions. The original writing was naive with no expressive nuance in the sequence - but I've kept it around because of its audacious contrapuntal texture - in that, it's like nothing I've written since. It was described as "cubist" by a reviewer. So I've kept its unique features, just removed a lot of the clutter in the voicing, and for the sound, I've used an upright piano, so it sounds a little like a mechanical roll-style, like a Nancarrow study, with a lot of Baroque flavour in the mix. It's still very notey but less so than before, could be playable theoretically, but I wanted to retain the mechanical feel.

buffer?

UH uh aah... don't you go anywhere, nicotine patch - i want you to turbo-charge my dreams

twilight mind, cause i forgot the title i was going to use

Noise won't stop. Saliva won't stop. Surface nuisance prolongs twilight. Mind’s eye subsumes sensation. Tactile geometry of numbed-out prepositions. Planetoid spectator moving mountains, continental migration. Pain of aeon is ultraviolet, tossed off, melody for honeybees.

Relaxation exercise, flex and rest, still, frustration throbs away, impossible to pin down, making psychic somatic, cells cancerous. Or is it just depression? Until then, depression in the absence of cancer, simply sadness, illness frozen, pain static, opportunities missed. The sheen of dreams over those ice peaks is kinda like other people's heaven, the kind you keep hustling for, when you can be bothered. It's a chore, hustling for heaven, but it seems so bright, under the cracks of those doors. The ghost of pussy, wrapped in drugged-out hugs, a preta burrito. The master sinew resonates at every frequency, it wants to be stretched but it won't be found, I'm twisting psychologies trying to find it, but it can't be found, the closest anybody on this planet ever came was the proof of fermat’s thereom.

Twilight mind happens in the hour before REM, under the horizon, through the spaghetti shears when I'm left to my own dream devices, delousing machinery - shyeeit, almost learned what the sublingual code was for; goddamnit's still on the tip of my tongue. I's fated like bait to talk about the universe, and wasn't I going to say something about a zero sum game? Name the game, if you're not going to play. Play the game and the name drops away. No, that wasn't it.

Terminal naivete. Yeah. Wizened delusions cake on and on. Layers. Players. Haters. Trans-temporal empathy is where I find consistency that's worthy. I'll try to feel my way toward what I know can only be a fraction of the younger man's reality - he had to deal with a situation that can't be imagined from outside the gravity well - and he dealt with it by saying and doing things I cringe at today, that sometimes make me want to erase everything, and all of your things too, or maybe just relax and ride the stupid wave to anonymity, self-annihilation through absurdity, whee! Oh, I cringe at that stupid bullshit that's attached to me, like a birth certificate folded into obscurity, like, whatever, as if. Still with the umbilical web, is that what I'm caught up in? Deeper with each thrash of revulsion. But those stupid things have a hint of obligatory nobility, when your visor's got a tint of empathy, and you can see the time and place like a multi-dimensional cross-section, or, nothing like that really, but just the barest smudge of dimensional dynamic that renders the cringe laughable. Terminal naivete...

...in twilight mind, a cosmogonic primer. It seems more sensible than anything has a right to be, and it feels like the screw is almost in place under my hand, the neural map of my hand under the cortex... just a little twist should do it, turn fun into profit, words into deeds, unlock the bonus level!

Of course, the “key” turns up spinning, aimlessly, in extra-terrestrial gravity, for a pastoral trifle in some perpendicular dimension. It's a tableau, that's how it's coherent, if need be. If not A, then B. Let B = 0. Let it be. The fragment. The conversational cul-de-sac, between me and Rose at the beach near Johnson's landing, when we revived the subject of death yet again. She told me she really thinks there's no conscious continuity after the brain's expiration. At least, that's what I took from her words, which is probably what I was meant to take - because I would err on the side of being wrong if I thought I could get away with it, but I don’t think that. Exhibit B, reality.

There were values in that half-dream my cousin half-woke me from to play Mario Kart. Probably the reductio raison I'm writing this.

ol'

the best part of me is underground - no, nothing visual lately, unless you count lego sculptures that always end up looking butt-ugly, no matter how careful my plans are, and how diligently i sort the bricks - that's not a metaphor, i wish it was - it's a lot of hours i'll never get back

Eta Carinae

listen

Chapter Break music for my dad’s audiobook recording of his own novella. It’s a bit of a mash-up. That’s what happens, as it turns out, when I compose thirty seconds at a time, for interludes – but the excerpts by themselves sounded lonely and trivial, in the larger suite, there’s more of a flow. The story is about light and astronomy, with apocalyptic undertones or overtones or some kind of tones. Here’s the original tracklist, to give thematic flavour:

1 -- The australian outback
2 -- The rounded mountains
3 -- The red earth gave way
4 -- spectra
5 -- Uluru
6 -- giant ancestors
7 -- constellations
8 -- kookaburra
9 -- the observatory grounds
10 -- Holy smokes
11 -- half of eternity
12 -- Eta Carinae
13 -- blazing star

...well, I’m off to cross-post, hippetty hop.

subwoman

i wish i could stop dreaming of you
you're so irrelevant and so in my subconscious
subterranean girl, not super, what am i, on glue?
mostly sub, but i remember those dreams, so often

i wish i could stop dreaming of you
i wish i could get with someone new
like most people do, instead of huffing glue
and communing with delirium

but i have no job, and a drug problem
deep down i don't think i deserve a woman to love me
excepting an unterfrau for an untermensch

this isn't how i meant to live - dry and sterile
monastic music worship
i'm getting things done, in some hollow sense
but rock n roll is bogus, right kg?

Seikilos epitaph

post-office tonewheel slipgrip

swimming around the unconscious - could never get a handle on that car - making a run down the hundred kilometer highway stretch, and bashing into several support pillars of the roadside diner - again - i figured this time i would make a clean path, but no, whack, whack, whack, again, but i'm still alive - but i think the fenders dragged along some plastic figures, one of them looks like lisa simpson - somehow i'll have to explain that

somewhere along the way, is the post-office - along the way, from tampa bay to a cluster of apartments, where i tried to rent a room, to live in, on my own, and maybe with an ex girlfriend, but that never happened - ah, the post office, THAT was the post office i was trying to get into during a black out - it almost makes sense now, but not quite - bubbles, lots of bubbles, that's all


there's no telling when the age of sweat will end - maybe when the glacial rivers freeze up

this is as close to serenity as i get, post-office - i may save the mad bears, if i get the chance, if the appropriate level of energy builds to an anti-climactic crescendo

No more deep integration

I remember Richie. They called him "stinky". He was tarred with it, because of a septic fuckup under the floor of his alloted dormitory. Also probably because he had an acid reflux problem, and was forced to burp nastily every few minutes, so everyone assumed he was some sort of scumfuck who grossed people out for kicks. I remember this fat bald crackhead threatening Rich with ass-rape if the state of affairs continued. Assume makes an ass out of u and me. Well, mostly u. But it makes me a dirt-bag. But I'm used to that. It's the one thing I learned in middle school.

Rich was tarred and feathered. Maybe that's why he was my friend. Lord, I try to stick with the right kind of people, the kind who have figured out at an early age that you can suck in plenty of oxygen and nitrogen through your mouth, while easily ignoring the nasal cavity. It's righteous! How simple and natural it can be to filter out those pesky molecules of olfactory significance through a little tweak of the lungs. So then, if your pristine industry-standard perception is so offended, you can simply shut it out, and shut your trap, and not have to bitch. And everything will be so much cooler. Yes, I seem to jive with those kinds of people, although it's been so long since I've been in jive talking company that I almost forgot what jiving is, or what it feels like. Yes, I try to stick with those folks tarred with circumstance, maybe tarbabies of happenstance, who maybe happen to dance with this coincidence instead of pro-actively performing a complicated kabuki for entry into level one, of society. But I still get stuck in these paranoid yuppie bourgeois sinkholes on quite a regular basis.

At all costs, I've avoided the admission that I'm in the middle of a stupid schoolgirl-type freedom vs security drama. Blech. But I can't get out, until I acknowledge the situation. Yes. Now what? Well, I'll tell you what not. No more deep integration, if it can be avoided. Yeah. And c'est la vie, let the critics be. Let them point out the hypocrisy I'm already aware of, on a level they can't imagine. Imagination is rather spare, in the burbs, where you say you're dirt poor, for the novelty of sympathy. Man, I miss the people that don't judge me, I forgot how cool that was. How cool anything was.

stagnation party

like this, like that - everybody likes everything on facebook - a necessary evil, like everything else - i wish i could turn off the sidebar, that advertises what all my friends like - i like the bukowski book, thanks rose - his masculine bitchiness fits my mood

it's this thing again, this thing where i want to express something, but i'm tired, and uninspired, apathetic to everything except apathy, wanting some way out - i can't express anything except how my left eye stings and burns, because i got ash in it, then forced the lid open to try and brush it out, which didn't work, so i doused it with water, and rubbed at it, and now it's so sore, hours later, and my eyes were kind of fucked up even before that, always sore and achey - the least they could do is look bloodshot, so i could feel like i'm valiantly struggling through some ordeal, but they look normal, except for some vague thing that looks like a dent in the cornea, but that might just be me seeing something that was there all along as a possible injury, because i'm looking for causes for this invisible discomfort

i want to close my eyes and take a siesta, the coffee doesn't keep me on the hamster wheel, caffeine isn't much of an anti-drug - the good times are gone, aren't they? i'll have to settle for reasonable and responsible times, or maybe there's an ashram i can sweep up around when i feel the zen meditation as too monotonous to bare

yes, this is where life has led me - this is the consequence of, whatever all those things added up to - this is me, as precursor for future fossil fuel - that's what organic material is good for

The Attack of the Imposing Figures

Narrow unexamined behavior. Narrow examined behavior. Narrow behavior. On the

straight and narrow. Narrow. One more narrow, for the muddled metric slash imperial measure. One more narrow, for bad measure. A narrow extra bar. Put narrow in your barrow, take it home with you, it's what I'd do, in my right brain, with no philosophy or poetry, just a tired inclination to try and say something, anything.

So, I learned to run this maze, I got my circuit. I learned there's a button at the end, that I can press, to feel alright. Except I don't feel quite alright about it anymore. But maybe this time, it'll be like old times, when I press the button.

LOITERERS WELCOME

the sign said, trying to reverse psyche me out of hanging around. I examined this ploy, and went my narrow way, to the blues bar next door, and played an open stage, without drink or drugs. But I don't call that novelty. I haven't milked George Street, haven't sucked so much as a drop off the teat. But that's neither here, nor there, maybe a crossroads, but a speck through the lense I'm de-telescoping through, to this vantage of what's normal, either sleep dep or sloth, over medicated, too sober and too much coffee, but no amount makes me manic anymore, there's just some kind of grinding sanity, a narrow sanity that I can't see past, to what must be with the remainder, the coincidental confluence after application of the narrow theory that works pretty well for cleaning a house and driving a car, in every sense of driving a car.

Now, what can I say, but that I want more - it would be a yearn, but the anti-depressants keep me in crushing mediocrity, I barely feel alive. No ache, no sharpness, just the dullened pain of unfulfillment. Not that things are all that bad, no, this is a trough on an upswing. Yeah. But it all looks flat from the observatory, the place where merit has meaning, things have value, magnitudes are measurable. Because the dullened yearn is still there, buried under bullshit, and it wants me to write some poetry, not to write poetry, but to fucking well express what's raging against the lucid daydream, in fitful halfsleep.

Narrow search criteria. Yarrow sticks are probably a coincidence. They might prove something, if I could apply enough paranoia to the problem. Absence of proof is not proof of absence, HEY! That is what I was gonna title my improv, it still amazes me what things I retain in my memory, that serve no purpose, but I still gotta respect the integrity of that cerebral cortex. Maybe its non utilitarian functioning is why I love it, It, that alien gray bundle of nerves my feeling is perversely bound up in, by some cosmic accident, cosmic man, how else would I say it? It's what I came up with during this 666th trip down the maze. And I tell you, I don't believe in talismanic numbers anymore. I guess I'll just thank Santa Rosa I'm simply mediocre and tired and bored, and not complicatedly manic, and feeling that joy is tragic, and all frigged up therein. Close poppy.