exhortations

hedonic exhaustment – oh, hedonic exhaust ment – now, time for a mint, a melatonin mint - pop it under my tongue and let it dissolve, slowly - the flavour pervades like a fog - melamints - why do i take them? to help me sleep, or more likely to help me dream, because tonight in particular, i need dream therapy - i've exhausted options for waking life, having focused maniacally on pleasure to the maximal sum possible when sober - materialist mechanized gratification ad abdurdum - i struck an oil pipeline, found out it was flammable, warm and somehow chilling at the same time, i tapped in like there was no choice, mainline, i didn’t know stuff like this existed, i was so lucky, so so lucky, it was so good, so fucking good that it had to be the devil and i had to make a deal, i still don’t know what to do with that incendiary stuff except get more and more and more, there will be blood, i guess

mint-flavoured melatonin, though i mostly sleep in the dark these days, but it doesn't hurt and the peppermint stings a little, cool burn, and i like the taste - so, there's any number of temptation gauntlets in the future but i can't think about them - i only figure i won't have to pay the piper for this sort of pleasure, it's as empty as anything else, as substantial as chemicals, as disgustingly real as that, and as fleeting as an artificially induced serotonin spike, but it hasn't got the same cruel neurological aftermath, this digital indulgence

still, i feel abused, like i used myself, which i did, in a lot of ways, and the world used me, and i grabbed ahold of the world’s giving hand while the other took from me, pride for pleasure, as i collected, collated pleasure, categorized beauty, aesthetized in a big crunch, conditions similar to the birth of a universe, second time farce, could scarcely breath, pumping blood like a muthafucka, and i used the world as a way, for narrow will and no purpose, just a metabolic sub sub-routine, pathetic and inhuman and i'm still a lil buzzed on the caffeine or maybe some dealer fifteen floors up flushed a kilo of blow down the drain and into the sewers where i swim and that’s why that thing is whatever it is

there's fucking knobbing beauty popping out of every grate, goddamn cocksucking beautiful blossoming metal hoops and body piercings, nose-rings and clitoral chandeliers, cheeseball beauty i could never think of myself, a glut of style, style inside style, chintzy VR utopia - when i finally got to the ultimate junk of that product line i wasn’t even consciously looking for it, i was just looking looking looking, in every direction for the next thing which i didn’t think existed and it was called SPH, it was a thing - a full body orgasm, localized, but it wasn't crack

it did remind me a bit of that, though, and in a way it’s just as blunt - but i declare i MUST possess a vice of some kind, i demand to have one, and if i can't get down and dirty and disgusting and sleazy and bad and bent in the conventional way, i'll do it in some mediocre and pathetic way that doesn't fry my brain in the blatant upfrontal lobe way, and buzz on that for a while, and then take melatonin to steady the mind a bit, and facilitate dream therapy which is truly nature's medicine - and that’s almost enough for me, but i’ve been known to add synthetic sprinkles for inscrutable exhortational flavour

so, what have we learned, anything? consummation of consumption is not actually a con game, only fair trade, but this is why i’m writing, hence, producing something, instead of taking and faking and faking and taking, and using, and spending – i need this, to feel anything again, i need to piss in the wind, 0s to 0s, 1s to 1s, i’ll never be done

if i was really that tied up with the CHUDs, i wouldn’t be writing this – even though i used them to get my cheap thrill – and they used me to make money – and we’re mutually low, we’re in the same abysmal bracket, even if you two are in a chasm above my pit, what used to be a dishpit - i never called that pit a dishpit but “they” did, and they still do – so we’re basically low and attached to that sleazy system, consumers and abused producers, aren’t you? haha, that makes me laugh, cause i’m in a tragicomic mood and things are dark through the life frequency modulating algorithm i’m seeing in everything – but the system didn’t count on this explanation of it, did it? so, i’ll call it elevation, and actually feel elevated writing that, even as i’m hedging my bets by self-deprecating with sarcastic inflection, via the “i’ll call it” classifer

Symmetry is Redundancy

the path of least resistance.

Low Torso Guy is listening to Pantera. He's got five quadrillion funbucks in his pocket. They talk trivia in apparent enthusiasm. On obvious enthusiasm, like it's a plane that Evil Kneival is about to surf, but it's through the camera lens of a FOX special. Anyway, it's all part of the International Airport Arrival Concourse that envelops the earth in a spherical shell. It's less than meets the eye, and it treats them as equals, and there's room for a sequel.

Economy is for shoemakers.
Meditation is for the drowsy.
Making axioms rhyme, making rhymes axioms passes the time, channels duress stress, the long-lasting fume run.

Remember when? Of course I remember. And I feel nothing for it, of course. The money will roll right in, so no matter, no problems but solutions, soul-selling solutions, like paper money for gold bullion, if you like that sort of thing. I'll just sit and grinnnn, as the money rolls in.

Tell yourself:
I wish I could be brainwashed. My thoughts are so unclean.
I wish I wish I wish...

Ring of empty, tint of empathy, clueful stupidity. That's me. Full of clues, a whole rolodex full, a tautological cycle, like a Wagner opera.

Then there's the soft voice with the hard edge, plus it comes in fifty thousand flavours and RGBO quadroptic display - offer expires when cockblocked by a peacock photographer, it'll happen, trust me.

Remember when, how many times we gotta white knuckle it? How many times we gotta define it? Pressure point, self reinforcement, life-line in a diamond mine, leitcontour following:

(easy = sunday morning) > broken clock righteousness

Hoping for nothing
that I know of, surprise me Nemoy,
black pools of KGB deadness.
Cuticl, the 120 proof placebo.
No faith except in fate.

Clyde Kennedy, who is he, a "Big League Hypocrite"? Not sure, better look back... and proceed to stagnate, make a date with stagnation, blind naturally and still born.

I'll be your mirror
                          OR
God has no mirror
                          OR
Jewelry is gay
                          OR
The mind creates context
where none exists.

it's punch up time!

when you're wearing a cedric bixler t-shirt

we're all the same, more or less


i'm strong when i'm in the other end of the cycle
give me anaesthetics and i'll go to the moon - with some fishing line and iron will
it's not nice to burn the table, even though it feels nice to burn both ends of the candle
but it's not nice, especially when the table supports you

3D vision and the california blues
time-clock warrior

nobody knows, anyway
it's all up for grabs, the truth
even after all this time, i'm not sure
waiting for the counter evidence
if you think you're sure, you're deluding yourself
or eluding yourself, or, something i haven't thought of yet

anyway, typing in a rhythm

i'm sharpening my teeth, not with intent to devour another
just to get by
i guess i won't annihilate the check and balance
i guess i won't strangulate the check and balance
but i would like to forsake the check and balance
it's a lot of wasted time, and it fucks up the rhyme
cause it's punch up time!

bobbing mah head

sweating
the small stuff
that is everything

wish i could shrug it off
but i would need to be in
a very different place
of my own making
then i could fully detach
from the consequences

"looking healthy"
they say, today
because i'm not on the verge
of a death stumble
a pseudo-suicide tumble
no more get out of jail free cards for me

so tired of solemnity, such crushing seriousness
i played so hard i forgot how to play
i want to own my own irresponsibility

the grass is greener on either side
here is black crossroads, scorched earth

haven't i cried and confessed enough?
it hasn't impressed on anyone
least of all, myself

ok, there's been too much negativity

enough with that, there might even really be this thing called peace and serenity - and i have things to be thankful for - i've got to calm down - i will

glance

oh, it hurts so much
to see you again
and i'm sure it's so awkward for you, poor girl
oh, so awkward, but it's fucking painful for me

so just pretend you don't see me
i'll pretend i don't know you
as i run a rack of glasses to the bar
enjoy your meal
just keep on pretending
you're so practiced at pretending
it's not a lie if you believe it to be true

oh, i'd love to come by and say hi
but it's so much easier to lie

and it's my right to live in the past
you can't take that from me
but it won't impinge on your healthy new life, i guarantee
so savor your recent tragedies
they're not for me to share

cause i'm in the ancient guild of dishwashers, still
old school shenanigans

the easier softer way

playing old school starcraft with luc from 11 till well past midnight, then walking home...

it's not exactly "high on life" but it's a start - it's not stumbling about the wrecked/remorse hamster wheel - it's the easier softer way - neils suggested, if you don't know how to pray, just pray in gratitude, for whatever gold you can dig out of the day-to-day mundanity - i'm grateful i didn't poison my body yet again, and trash my soul, and muddy my mind, and trample my dignity, yet again, so soon after - oh, now i'm sounding so solemn and spiritual, which makes me a little sick, but it's true, i guess

and i'm grateful i got to play starcraft, and forget about wanting a drink, and go on a bit of a nostalgia trip - and we nearly died after the zergs rushed our base, we were down to two burning buildings - whereupon, i would have quit, but luc, god bless him, wouldn't give up, he's into tactics, and he likes that the terran buildings can fly, so he flew our last two buildings onto what turned out to be an island! luckily... so we built up a base, and found some minerals, and immediately set up air defense turrets with our mineral wealth, and held out against the air attacks and attempted invasions, and even expanded to a new island! and decided it was time to go on the offensive, so we did a little recon, and scouted out a landing place, because our resources were running out, and we needed more cash

so we went on the offensive, it was a gamble but it seemed to be working, we nabbed a vespine gas mine, upgraded our technology, started churning out wraith ships and siege tanks, repelled the attacks on our landing zone - but it was an all-or-nothing point, we needed to go on the offensive, attack and take over or get squeezed out eventually - so we went on a daring raid, 12 wraiths, 12 tanks, with marines and a mix of units in reserve - wasted vast swathes of zerg territory, but then the attack on the land base came out of nowhere, blinsided by the zerg army - our reserves were wiped out - our land base destroyed - a miscalculation - we rescued as many SCVs as we could with the dropships, but we'd blown our chance - evacuated to the islands where we held out for a while - i made the metaphor of japan's final days in the pacific war - we laughed

yeah, i remember when i used to have fun playing starcraft - back then i would have thought that drugs were for lunatics and losers - and i guess i would have been right - but i can't be snap and solemn and judgement and still be honest - i know the serrated e'edge of the see-saw, there's something beautiful about it, about hacking reality, about tweaking and fuzzing out - something beautiful and many many things ugly, and i'm in the process of conditioning myself to think that i'm sick and tired of being sick and tired - am i? i'll say that i am

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