WEARY GO ROUND

Pursue music to the gates of heaven. Avoid the other place. Lacquer the handrails and apply pine tar. A swoon to okay anesthesia, a kind that might be allowed in the future. Still hospice envy. Johnny seeding powder, ceding power, but allowed to write. Fingersnapping utopias. The Performing Abortionists, getting rolling, recording, a trial-and-error process, editing, making a product with purpose and polish, to have.

The future is weird, it makes my joints weak, but not as weak as they were last week. The future takes with one hand and gives with the other. Smell and consciousness in fingernails after death. It's not all for nothing, just mostly for nothing. But it's that lil’ bit that means everything, or mainly feels like everything, like enough, like burnt almonds when you've burned out and there's nothing more to say. There was nothing more to say last week, but we got through another interval, where we're saying things again, sweet nothings. There's still more things to click, parts in the ass-end of inventories that didn't make any sense, that didn't fit with any other parts, but it seems there's little surprises, of random clicks and pops, that are the good kind of clicks and pops, even in a post-rock glitch-hop trajectory. If that's where this road leads, let's take it.

Or what are you doing there, are you forging an off-ramp, a path into the woods? Okay, I'll come along and check it out, humour you, try not to make fun, try not to be paranoid that you're making fun of me. The fun can pretty easily drain out of things if you think about them too much. Remember when math was fun? Remember when numbers were munchable? We used to treat numbers like munchkins and coded colour-kins, and mile long pianos in vast dark auditoriums, and aloof nothing-somethings. I'll come along and admire this attempt at a path, and sleep under the canopy, and remember when I felt closer to sacredity, and be the worst camper you ever met, which I still think is an exaggeration, but I'll allow for the possibility that the microfibers are creeping into me subtly, entwining with sinews, and I'm becoming cancer's symbiot.

There's still many possibilities in un-mined melodies that are archived by this lover of information, even as that double-bladed knife leaves me bleeding. Then there's kitchen knives, which I could love on another path. Could get into the preparation of food. But no, never, the culinary four stars aren't my rock stars, it makes me sick, that system, I breathe more naturally in other, equally toxic systems of glut and glamour.

I like how Windows, even Windows XP, remembers what order you left each individual subdirectory in, with the columns, column lengths, and sortings, so each one can be customized on the fly in an evolving system of progressively tighter aesthetic order.

disconnected from emotions - countdown to burnout

and a lot of other things besides... improvising toward the cold toes that warm up in the morning ... and so many tangents of interpretation - captain obvious here... trying to drop cover whenever possible... a strip-tease of cover - a veil dance, and a poetic metaphor about theoretical narcotization... jam night in the reflecting pool, distorted, scary, normal again, too normal, too fluid, too high a frame-rate, doesn't seem like a movie should seem anymore - that's why i mentioned dextro earlier, cause i remember, by proxy, that feeling of being in a music video - nostalgia for tchaikovsky's russia, just nostalgia that's all, harmless bittersweet nostalgia, that kind of thing


shirttails, handrails, coattails, slip and slidies - better shut the blinds, bury self in self again, find a layer to hide out on, renounce a certain percentage of perception, not have to feel the world's pain in aggregate, slough off, slip off the feeling, slip'n'slide, refuge in corners of the mind...

hospital terms, anatomical terms, funeral tones, mahogany imagery, respirator bets, stipulative definition of hospital tones, morgue terms, gurney words, gibberish, and surprise at death, still plans, welfare cosmos, plan reverb, remastered twenty years later, cryo-wake - blogger podcast output data

intensity of thc spun thinking, writing about it later, mostly harmless, like the earth itself... wondering if there's such a thing as spiritual sickness... hmmmm... puff and ponder...

to qualify before i quantify absence, there's a "feeling" now, to quote a qualitative adjective, it's a feeling, and not objective, but there's a feeling of just about everything being mostly gone now - too many predictable patterns - pot burn out, caffeine burn out, chi-less - there are safer headspaces for me, one among them being analogous to sobriety - but when all is safety, all is pretty dull and uninspiring - not really, but i guess at times i crave one of the baser methods for introducing something almost dangerous, at least to emotional balance - emotions, it's not that i'm disconnected from them it's like - well, hell, i don't know what it's like... i may NEVER EVER know, oh wow, imagine that... never ever - well, like, whatever...

emotions... i'm actually more connected than i am when i haven't got the more obvious mind and mood altering chemicals in my system - there's so much in play, in the food, in the water, there's zoloft, it's almost like voodoo psychiatry for me, at this point, i think, i feel okay enough cause i'm sticking this painless pin in this mockup doll, so, better keep on doing it... i'm actually more connected to those emotions, but it's a little scary, and makes me feel like sobriety, or what passes for it, is safer

there's also thoughts like, wow, where am i now? what has this life come to? well, it hasn't been all that dull lately - was it a good idea, to come here? well, i went with a flow, anyway, i kind of created a flow and then went with it - not normally so creative in that area - creative meander is more what i'm partial to - eddies, just your general eddie in the small pond

dreams have been really emotional lately, connecting to them in weird ways - lots of past, work, kitchens, kentucky-fried chicken machinations for some reason, maybe cause i applied there once, just applied, old ruins of rooms i never knew existed in my parents' house, old houses, houses in houses, subhouses, underground ruins, underground ruins that aren't quite ruins, that still got some functionality, some energy, some electricity in some weird subterranean scavenged form, catacombs, egyptian imagery, mummies, yes, fucking MUMMIES, but in a more informed form now that i've learned a bit about that stuff, like slaves didn't build the pyramids, nuh uh! so there...

and last night, oh wow... a tundra on the northern bc coast, a tundral community by the sea, and the inuits practiced mummification too, and had elaborate temples in a network of ice tunnels in and around and under a tall seaside cliff, and there was this ancient inuit pharaoh who had a burial chamber way up north, past the arctic circle, and i learned about this through briar who was showing me a documentary about it when we lived together briefly in kansas, yeah, i know, dream conflation, it happens a lot, don't blame me, i don't make my dreams, i just write about them... the documentary about the ice pharaoh whose name sounded like tuthankhaman, but he had a haidi feeling about him, so i felt from the documentary... so one of briar's friends came to visit me in this bus i was living in, along the side of a coastal highway with pristine pacific scenery and gray skies with little shards of sunlight every now and then and this friend had some kind of snowmobile that was a supersonic jet as well, and we drove/flew to near the north pole to take a tour of this inuit tomb, i was checking it out through briar's connections, but there was a sad feel to it, maybe, well, suppressed emotions obviously, but i wouldn't presume to know what they add up to...

dreams fascinate me though - that's one of the many cool things about my bb, she agrees, we have a cool conviviality when discussing dreams

sea-sawing between states of mind dragged through the mud or spun past the ionosphere by drugs can bring hollow feelings in transitional periods... but i look at the man, etherized on the circus circus table-go-round, and i think to myself... what a wonderful world... i've had worse problems in the past... maybe not everything is a problem - drinking, getting drunk, and falling down became a problem for me, but - oh, here's johnny, axeing through the door, i don't have the will and bravado to continue transmogrifying references into word soup and salad so i'll sign off

crash smash natch... suggest hypnagogic.... dog cat leash unlike this. auto correction resolves pointelist fuzz into projected onscreen macro mega parceled  translated hexicezimal layer point.

 1/10th as wild as you never thought. same old patterns. reserve the right to refrain from plunging into an icy stone cold cave no doubt. I don't get it.

extra layer of hypno ice on the Lower floor. dextro seems somehow innocent. a pleasing flanged fray frinkled and flay fink led.

superb extra jazz and elbow jabs everywhere a receptive audience and empathia. okay, with auto correct off, the terrain is freer but so much steeper. don't want to linger over the rockface raving and sticking his tounge out like a sickly weakling still suckling from too much tension in the dark room

dreams of old bedrooms, can remember a series like never before. always keep in mind the possibilities of fun. and dream series of gas stations in a version of new york. a woodside gutter stream in greater new york. there's too much more to ever count how much permutation of evolution and information goes into that. retroactive effects.

dynamics of altering mood with chem keys. remember, phone. well this is a new one. and trazzie sinks in a bit. I don't care to solve this. there probably is a gordian knot solution but insane to think I could ever figure it out. suicide after one week on a desert island.

ode to dreams

50 more years of this and then aquarhombus drowning? hopefully on ambien - a request - who knows if they grant them? to compartmentalize my karma, i put some of my loose change into the hospice donation box

ode to dreams chorus ran out of breath - words could slip off the handrails - i played sheep for a few months - trivial pursuits - open mike with mike bullard - a different person here, a different person there - not significantly different though - arthritis of the rhyme, cancer of the consonance, rheumatism of the rhythm, jaundice of joie de vivre - i'll carve a statue of you from the thickening atmosphere to commemorate your consumption, the heroic feat of having drank that much poison and lived, for a while, a sick seasaw, seen, here and there, about town - dull blades

dark kitchen dreams, there's a series, cross-breeding with the other theatre troupes - maturation merely means more resonant aches, and the things that seemed so sharp are now so dull, they don't stand out clear against background bullshit and radiation - but it is fuckin cool to sort of intuitively and sensitively understand what radiation really is, on a level i can only sense through metaphor, but in subtle ways that allow this, in the subether realm, tactility, nerve nodes, tiles of gentle body bitching

witch hazel, citronella, DEET

decimate bacteria with synthetics - but we know what causes cancer - can sort of sense the thing like why things bite back, at a certain stage of life, different for every iteration of an organism

what happens at this stage of life is, the past can be revisited, but getting high isn't getting high anymore - it's, oh, this sticky thought pattern - it is sticky - and it is interesting, there's still interest - there's higher def perception of time slowing down - the nature of that time - maybe with a few more IQ points, or more neuronic structure soul-boosted with alien donation and unicorn connotation, whatever it is that gets caught in a certain standardized test snare, theories could form about the way things work

work - has a negative connotation from this corner of the self-reflecting universe - yeah - dark kitchen dreams, can i request a lab coat next time? in the nocturnal tram underground...

why can't i just write anymore? say things? something happened to this venue. and to me. could be quite temporary. as everything is. as life is. as death is, i hope, like a weasel. that's what we say down here on this planetary plane. like a weasel. most recently, i dreamed of death as a tall rhombus shaped room, like the interior of the aquatic center in nelson, with a declining plane lining the four walls, and a bottomless pool of water, increasing in darkness and pressure with increasing depth, squeezing out the mind the further i sank

squeezing out/in - how bout those languages in cells? i could almost see it, groove on it

sore, burn, burned out, fried, crispy, ache tracers... i'm glad i quit my job - it seems like the right thing to do - and the next right thing? just about anything, as long as it's next - the show's still going on, getting more and more familiar, and yet more ridiculous at the same time - and comprehensible in a campsite of modern amenities and products of china and culture conglomerated - silly stand-up comics takes on kentucky fried chicken franchise and this globe with a surface scum of genetic copies of ourselves, more or less

paranoid, hunting for mosquitoes, cause they can die - at a higher frequency - if we analogized the time-dilation, we'd be dropping like flies too - the little flies, the non-mosquitos just fly around silently with no seeming purpose which is okay with me, i stared at them with a new vision, i stared at them because i could, could focus, time was slower

no obligatory obeisance to a guilt-ridden neurotic's seriosities in this rock opera - no opera seria - and no need to invoke some opposite extreme of loot the future for the sake of this night, or this hour - it's not that anymore - it's a partially re-wired structure, suggesting possibilities, office space, it aches, it's got insulation to be put in, needs teams of electricians, drywall installers, plumbers, all that stuff - but it's bankrolled by a crazy billionaire - it'll be work, and play, let's say

friends crumble together

i still think i should steal for a living

i won't be a master thief, i won't be an apprentice, i won't even be on the fucking journey - i'll be a rogue, and it'll all be for the two ends of the mind-altering spectrum, crack, and heroin, in that order - i'll craft a reason for why the world deserves it, more or less, how i tried to make an honest living, how i'm simply not up to the task, i'm a defective product, this is all there is to do, there's no one minding the store, no point in holding back...

that being typed, as i'm wont to type things, on blogger, so i'll sleep a little better having written something, i'm not going to be cracking open some wine, any wine, to see if i can get back into it again, i know there's nothing to be getting back into, well, it's so spaghettified on the other side of the event horizon, it's logic defying to even think about going back there - what's forward? i don't know, i don't think i can live in the future either - the moment, well, the moment's sore, and it's a little weighted down by me projecting, like i do, but it's also one of those things where the infrastructure is holding out, in late june, again, maybe it's so much a trend now that i haven't developed a proper weariness to the apocalypse is nigh drone...

but MY apocalypse is nigh, i don't know when, but my face is hinting that it's coming - i just can't imagine how i can't be dragging my apocalypse into everybody's world, i guess it's not as shared as i think - and i'm not autistic, maybe i'm on the spectrum, but grant me a little bit of empathy and i will do what i can to meet you halfway - or maybe not, maybe today isn't one of those halfway days

Live bloggin

I'm doing something to murder time... Thinking about times past when I would write in slow moments during my working stiff shifts, back when the party seemed to be able to go on indefinitely... And there was even stability besides !

Can I just get some honest work for money? I didn't think it would be this difficult... Why doesn't it get easier ? Yes I learn more... I learn to fear more, don't I? How strange that I ate dinner right here, on the ravenhead tour.... And talked with Lyndon about sending away tracks to be mastered . I'll love the servers, she said. I should have said something comforting like oh no, they're plastic, you're flora... I dunno. Instead of getting defensive. I could tell she was in pain at the prospect of the servers. But, what can ya do? History is boring... What is this, just references now?

He's 17 minutes late.... WOW... 17 minutes of me clenching in the restaurant... You'd think it'd be easier by now. You'd think I'd be stealing coffee now. Yes, I should steal for a living, that'll settle my stomach ... Resolve issues. Marthafucking interviews... "meeting" euphemism... Reinvention horizon or has the imagination ratio run below the graph line of no return?

Thank you god if I got it. I can manage a modicum of modesty like Modesto and get by, mayhap

Tyrone Bibbins Esquire

Please find attached from the endless regions of space in the middle of this godless endeavor a token signal of super-ether. Or leave it to beaver. Either-or, it's up to you. I'm down with whatever.

Suicidal Ideation Is The Ideal We Are Striving For, by which I mean, me, and the crew that committee-wrote the unibomber manifesto. Or to curl the burl in a more friendly way, retirement, and not in the bladerunner sense. More in the Victorian sense... newly wed and nearly dead. Oh, it's nothing but poorly reflected reference in an ancient gleam of silver. Or sciency entropy, all thermodynamic. Seriously, I cannot do this opera seria anymore, it's become so terribly Germanic to me, where have all the tarantellas gone? To bizarro-world Napoli, I imagine.

Suit up, show up, or suit up and lounge about and go back to bed in said suit, how about that? Do a taxi driver routine in front of a mirror. Everything in its right place, every comma and apostrophe impeccably placed, timed to the tenth of a second, there's still things that can be placed with precision for purpose in the cold vacuum of space. It's not exactly absolute zero, and there's energy in a vacuum, and there's cosmic rays, and little tendrils of big bang consequence spreading out like the fingers of a limp wrist. Lazy plankton riffing on rhymes, no aspirations to pascal's reason, but even he paid homage to spiky shocks from the left ventricle.

Ah, words are fun, there's still something to be squozen out of that. It's like the deepest drill currently in this plundered crust, still sticky with a little tar, it's just that the tip of the drill with all its noisy diamond machinations, it drowns out the whole noise of why we came this far, so, say, psychedelic tar, faaaaar out man, mind manifesting, it's not a simple u-turn, i have fond memories of things that used to seem important. But now they can be fodder for metal riffs, cause there's joy in a pounding rhythm section, escapism, pathetic and righteous.

Stadium Jail

remember mind expansion? it's good to have a revolution every 2nd generation or so, so said a guy with clout, even today, so say i, gripping handrails of bridges so dry, moistening tinderwood with sweaty handsss, annnnn... cut off, etherize in the figurative sense, saw, operative, vaguely anesthetized, thinking back to times of playing music in bands, strange raisonettes, gray stubble, shambles dreams, still? like, still?

think whatever y'all wants, things can be arranged one way or t'other, connotation can be ceded to colloquial concerns - ask me about my discount specials - i could seek out new life and new civilizations - i could spelunk new caves, adapt to newer and blacker shades of darkness, yeah - just close your eyes, any of you who be implicated, it's a mere phosphene, and i know that can form beautiful patterns behind your eyes, and sometimes quite hideous at other times, but it's just me being a busy energizer bunny, still with enough money to be somewhere else, but thinking, maybe the wound's got to be cauterized first, at least a cursory perfunctory cauterization before surgery, before i split - it's not so crazy i still have a little bit of money, what was the report last time? what did the receipt say, when i said about what i have in the bank, the blood bank, it's so circulatory, and iodine is not exactly an analgesic - are impulses unambiguously wrong all the time? they did get me into this, maybe they can get me out of it - they used to have pulses in them, but impulses made them strong

at least there's a little more absurdity this time around the spin, a little more inertia towards escape velocity, a little bit of removal from the first time tragedy second time farce - not really, just words, but comforting to spin them into spain'll, the next two towns'll over - you'd almost think i had sucrets somewhere, it's almost as if that's the case'll

you should see me on k, i'm serious about hilarity, then, belying all seriousness to begin with - well, there's a certain sweet spot in that vicinity anyway - amazing how attitudes can be flipped so quick in the wee hours of the night, a snowball that started with mouse-clicking...

Just to prove I can, heh, change case manually, like the old timey folks used to do, with their wooden cranks of case-changing mahogany machinery.

impulses could get me across two or three state bounds, and that might be worth it - nay, will be worth it, once it's minted, and banked

yeah, things are charged, in this high stakes game of magnanimous charades, and although i'm involved in an ungentlemanly disagreement with a lady, i do wish everyone well, and no hard feelings, and this isn't a fair use of fair game, it ain't no use at all, nor abuse, it's simply writing thoughts that are put into a web box that i prettied up nicely for myself and a quiet hiss of distant overpass traffic - it'll be better

guilt was never a good motivator, and i will stop rebelling against non-comformity by conforming, and rather rebel, as instructed, and answer to thine own self in a certain farcical way that falls short of the pithy ideal, and grab my only friend in the world now that drugs and smut are gone, still gone, always gone, eternally empty from here on out, and find a guilt-free rush in moving digital data around in such a way as to give me a pleasantly vapourous purpose in life, such it may be, yeah, this may be living, something like it, i'll call it

there's no volumes that need be written about all the things i may or may not be responsible for, all the things implied and implode and heads a 'sploded, and 'splosions hurting in theory... cause it's immaterial, it seems like it ought not to be immaterial, it should be ground we can stand on, in fact, are standing on if memory serves, but it doesn't serve like you think it does, not both masters anyway, and it isn't ground, or it ain't ground, and it can just be overlooked and shrugged off, or sloughed off the smoking pantlegs of the spaceman with the cleansed computer - oh, it's cleansed, it's got that new spaceship smell, and it will probably retain that luster for a while

well, the intent is getting buried, which is as it should be, i'd think - it would be good if i forgot what i meant, if i did - i doubt that will happen though - but it's getting confusing which is good, a lot of metaphors, and decay, and marcato strings in a flurry - and that's okay - shaky, but okay - it can shake and drag the lake, and shake, there hasn't been enough of that, shakes build character, the kind of character that survives for sixty-four sammy davis junior years

i dunno what else to say about all this fucked up ridiculousness, what can i add to that definitive statement???          maybe it's good there's nothing much else to say except to pull out hair, and gnash teeth, and rehash overblown arguments and justifications - cause that means, forget saying things, and feeling so much strain that saying this or that is never quite enough, time to just do stuff, like what was gonna happen anyway, and feel oh so horrible, but at least move toward something else, whatever it may be, the unknown, you know? i feel like i already know, to a nauseating degree, how the same old shit in this vicinity is gonna go - lapsing into madness of the kind that is mad in the way i first learned to use the word, as in, fuck this makes me mad,  insult and injury that i perceive i'm receiving - surely the product of my soft neurotic mind, blighted, and in need of a rest from this supposedly real shit, no, i need some illusion to live, perhaps, or at least, i want more things on my terms - more my-term type things, which i have an entrepreneurial scheme to engender - yeah, that's about the size of it, really - a plastercast

hey, i might even put up a front, and say everything's fine when it isn't! imagine... there's no talking... about things - just asides - a sequence of asides, like a meandering tone row in a particularly stoic section of sorabji's opus clavicalemballisticum - many noted historians have noted that many notable historical figures have bottled up more over less - cause it's about time for that spoke in the wheel to come back, at least the front spoke, if not the rut that wheel was in at the time - but there can still be a front for a new theatre - grease paint - i can contrive a story and stick with it, but only if asked, it's not like i'm trying to share anything, or care, or show n tell, or give him or her the scoop on anything - there's no story, just some tabloid headlines, you're supposed to see through it to a 404 error - oh god, give me 1 sammy year, get me outa here, soap choked hope, music 91! there will be no debriefing, no counseling session, no volleys of phone calls to friends and loved ones and nodes in the support network - i love you network, but i'm too entangled, i just gotta brush myself off for a second, and retune my good ol buddy, my gitar

Daynights

Greatest hits. 800 hobo names. Bonechill. Stock-market. Things could fall if taken too seriously. Let us all let the heavy lids sink.

steak matrix...

... It's rare to find a tendon this tasty in the steak matrix. We had to go all the way to the wallfloor of the space colony. Captain Kidd came along of course. How could he not? He morphed into himself early on, and we made rotini from nebulae. Yeah, I kid you not.

The steak matrix was said to limit freedom, but I felt that in doing so, it made what remaining freedom there was that much richer. Kidd said there's no such thing as a free lunch or automatic correction, but I'll be damned if I didn't feel as if I beat the devil that day in the wallfloor dungeon, even as I lay behind iron bars, building my character to monstrous proportions like some sedentary Heracles on sabbatical.

There's debris still floating out there you know, quarkhorse and sucrets and equations and starlight piercing steady, more steady than what you see as the "lesser lights", that are nonetheless quite bright, I'll give yuh that. And damned if I don't still feel like I'm paying 0% compound interest on that loan the devil granted me. It's not grace and it's not disgrace, it's a slomo shipwreck so we got plenty of time to bail, can even enjoy the view before we hit the rowboat and paddle against ocean currents with a goat. The steak matrix will allow this, iron rebar reinforces the businesslackumen furnishings that could boost productivity in a thousand needy offices. The steak matrix will be here for a while. Form, function, health, wealth, cancer,,, information in formation, domino stopper, arterial plug.

My reaction to all this is that, yah! Uh! Duh! Ohmygod... La la la laah, I can't hear you, IV drips sure are interesting, Benjamin Franklin sure was smart, i wish there were more things left to invent but I'll take a free ride on the wheel and coast til I hit the inlet, bloom schlackalaka, it'll all come out in the wash, my music is sarcastic you just didn't hear that, and my writing isn't aaaalways sarcastic, it just echoes from plugin abuse, superinflated currency for freakonomicists, and if the hotdogs don't kill you than the botulism will. Jerry Garcia got a lot of drugs done and that wasn't nothing in the scheme of things. All people ever focus on is the music, there's so much more! There's cancer and death and samurai warriors and a wardrobe that leads to narnia. There's Christmas cake and Christmas cheer and engine oil and pseudo ephedrine and hydromorphone and Latin mass and won't you sing along? Will you not? You know the words, you own them, I metabolize the mortgage, my mightiest mitochondria sees this smugly on a cellular level from his backyard, surveying his goober domain, cause he'a a male mitochondria and thus given to flights of farandolaeic foolishness, like he's "solving the worlds' problems", the whole bloody solar system's, when really he's just rubbing up against a membrane and creating enough friction with proteins on pistons to allow a macrocosmic life to span the chasm from this second to the next. Decay doesn't read as something so terribly nasty in a mitosis yard, it's a drama, and a denouement. And the broth has been spoiled twenty times over already, it's got a few more spoils left in it. It's simply sweet and then sour, in ten high thirty international flavours. That's how it remains in the steak matrix for the foreseeable future.

Placating Imps

of Pavlov's slow mutant variety. Synesthesia was push-button easy in a dream, and the fretboard was an open book with a deep index, so easy to cross reference. Creative names for courthouse corner offices. We could have a league of our own here on the Celtic generic sportsfield. Too bad about the goldfish memory, but it isn't that bad, worry is worse, absence could make a beautiful woodcut, even against the grain. Cats, sex, nazis, and Mr. Happy... BRING IT, said the void. Scrotum shaved with a razor sharp to the nanoscale and not compromised. There's always a craft to man and ship and when it's ship ing you can rake in an obscene hourly wage for a working stiff. Yeah, the more money you have, the harder it is to keep track of, but try

Gurgle. Glurgle. This is my life now. It'll go good with gray stubble. Maybe eventually with national geographics, my "cadillac hour". There're whole flakes of fragments flying by, I'm gonna buy them wholesale, sell them to the highest bidder, the one with the top scores in the blood said one owns, or is perhaps on loan from God (MA), a wholly-owned subsidiary of Natura Covalent Bonds and PolyAtomic Ion Conglomerate.

butterscotch

seven tabs - past is history, future's a mystery - butterscotch, seven tabs, here now

Werther's Original, new blogger posting window, hitting the tab key seven times to cycle through the menu options to finally arrive at the posting window - feeling guilty, angsty, weak, bored, melancholic, ill-humoured, lazy, sucking on a werther's, pleasing flavour while providing a synesthetic map of tooth decay, quiet, thinking about being in a moment where the angst is only a product of living outside the moment, thinking of the saying that often annoys me, but playing at wielding it as a defense against anxieties, thinking, fuck it, focus on the werther's, which is nothing special, but kind of nice this second, and writing about it as cryptic fragments, and then explaining those fragments for the novelty of it, and burying posts that seem like noisy outposts of halloween shindigs in the asshole of the world, one of many

heard too much about anesthetics today, observed myself getting caught up in the details of medical history, something of note, made mental notes, arrived at this point, nothing special, an outpost, a tower in the forest, light on, wireless connection strong

a guy finished his practicum, whatever that means, i'm still not entirely sure... thinking about being closer to where they manufacture and distribute substances that would tie off this life, staunch bleeding, blood backup, back to the source, medusa and medula and lackluster lucidity cordoned off - an amusing attempt at an italian accent - quietness - i could learn to love the moment rather than ogle it in a sneaky darting snatch-glance, too bad about the learning disability - but i have this theory about how an amazing deluge of energy could flood into me from some unknown source once i'm free of this academic obstacle course i feel a compulsion to ace - that ship sailed, but hey, the whiny godvoice nags, you've still got the lifeboat, you can make it to port in a reasonable timeframe, so get rowing, but i think, there's probably an island pretty close to here, i don't have to cross a goddamn ocean, i dunno if i even like that port, it's nothing but rum-runners, but the island, i could imagine a life there

but careful there bourgeous-to-be, living for the future, remember the guy who's son broke his leg and his neighbors said, oh, too bad, and he replied, maybe...

Non-Trauma

The Deon family is neat and nuclear: Dad's in the driver's seat, Mom's in the passenger seat, Alison and Jonathan, five and seven, are in the back. Everyone's strapped in, listening to the whines and drawls of the Double Exposure duo on the radio. In the trunk is an apple pie for Grandma. She'll join them when they get to Trail and they'll all go to church. It's the Sunday morning Grandma visit, starting with the hour-long drive from Nelson through the winding valley roads. Suzie, the tan-hued Subaru hatchback, is on its last trip, but no one has an inkling.

There'd been a dump of snow last night. The roads were bad in the morning. Not ominous though. Now the air is teetering back and forth over the freezing point. Past Castlegar the slush is thick and seems unsafe for driving. But what're you gonna do? Jonathan doesn't worry, at any rate. He's thumbing a wad of play-money his dad got from a friend of a friend of someone at a political campaign, satirical caricatures of a candidate’s rival on imaginary currency.

China Creek is an unmapped hamlet, a few houses they pass on the wide curves. It's where Mom lived when she was daughter Judy, with her mom, who is now Grandma. There’s a mountain slope on the right and steep bluffs on the left. They’re high above the river. The two kids in the back have gazed out at this part of the river on hundreds of these trips, wondering if they could swim to the gravel islands with their stubby trees and imagining what they’d do if they ever got there.

Suzie is kicking up slush like crazy. A car approaches around a bend from the opposite direction, close to the center of the road, maybe even a little on the wrong side, Dad thinks. There's so much slush in the air he can hardly see the road - he's even lost sight of the car. He swerves right to make sure they won't hit each other and loses control. Suzie’s slipping around in slush at highway speed, veering back left and continuing to slide. The edge is closer and closer and there’s nothing Dad can do. Luckily there's no more cars coming so there’s no collision. Unluckily, the trusty guard-rail is absent from this bit of road.

The moment before the car goes over the edge, Brian says "Shit", and Alison thinks for the first time that something serious might be about to happen because Dad swore! There's strange angles, a sheet of slush on the windshield and Judy says "Hang on." There are seconds of flashing bouncing chaos, too fast for memories. Judy thinks, absurdly: We're upside-down. Later, Jonathan will recall only his head knocking against his sister's head, and a headache. The car is tumbling down the embankment, rolling twice, hood over hatch.

Suzie rests in a crumpled heap, about thirty meters from the railway track, itself only a few meters from the edge of the forest, which is a few tree lengths above the river. The car nose points straight down the hill. Brian sees clearly out the front of the car. Most of the windshield has shattered. There are shards on the peripherals, smeared with slush and snow. There are trees and boulders nearby. We didn’t hit any of them, he thinks. How is that possible?

The inside is sprinkled with glass-chips. The passengers are still in their seat-belts. The radio is still on, still Double Exposure. Brian thinks: we ought to get out of our seat belts, quick. Judy says: "Oh, the pie!" The back hatch has popped open in the accident. It's how they exit the car. Brian notices the ceramic pie plate as they're climbing out.

The Deons gather on the slope, knee deep in snow. Before they have a chance to assess the situation, they see people at the top of the hill, on their way down. A family coming down the road noticed the tire marks in the slush, and stopped. A woman calls down, asking if they need help. A young man scrambling down the hill in socks and shoes is first to arrive. He pulls Alison up the slope. Jonathan is wondering if he can go back for his play money, and what else he might've left in the car, but is interrupted by a middle-aged man with a bushy mustache helping him up the bank. They could’ve gotten back up on their own, Judy thinks. But the help is nice, given the state of shock they’re all in. It's something like shock, isn't it? Some "degree" of shock?

When they’re back up top, they see that their rescuers have a van pulled over to the shoulder. The parents are being looked over for injuries. Brian has a cut on his face but feels alright. The man with the mustache points to Jonathan and says: "I thought I saw blood on his neck."

"Oh... I think that was from one of our cuts," Judy says, and people nod. “Everyone seems to be okay,” Brian says. "It's really quite miraculous.”

Other people are stopping now. An off-duty police woman pulled over. The kids sit in the back of her cruiser while the parents talk outside. Jonathan overhears something about how they might all ride home in the police car, and is excited. He thinks it's something appropriately dramatic for having just been in a car accident. But the family that stopped was heading to Trail anyway, also for church, so they offer to take the Deons to Trail with them. Jonathan is disappointed about not getting to ride in the police car. Normal people, now? Doesn't seem like a fair trade.

Everyone packs into the van for the rest of the drive. Turns out the rescuers are from China Creek, former neighbors of Judy's family when she'd lived there in childhood. There'd been no recognition, but the connection is made through conversation. They drop the Deons off at Grandma's house. She'd been expecting them to arrive in time to take her to church. In excited fragments, the four survivors tell the story. Grandma takes it pretty well. She doesn't appear surprised, exactly. "Oh?" she says. Jonathan is disappointed and bitter for a couple of hours. That's all she says? he thinks. After we almost died?

The Deons of Nelson and the Pichés of Trail skip church. The kids are delighted at this, and everything seems a little funner. Mom and the kids stay at Grandma's house in the afternoon while Dad goes with Uncle Paul to the wreckers' to see about the car. Before evening falls, Suzie’s twisted metal corpse is back in Trail. Paul drives Dad to Nelson. There, he takes the green bug-shaped Honda Civic back to Trail. The Deons drive home that night in their anachronistic fall-back vehicle, which does well on the freshly-sanded highway.

Jonathan tells the story to his second grade class for Monday morning show and tell. He's disappointed that it doesn't get more of a reaction.

Brian and Judy will see the car once more, at the wreckers. Only a handful of belongings are retrieved, including the pie plate. It's still in one piece! The kids aren't present, and Jonathan never gets his funny money back. But he does get a little pin from the provincial insurance company. It features a stylized lego-like figure with a diagonal bar across its torso in negative space connoting a seat-belt. Under the figure is the caption: "I'm living proof!" There's talk of doing something "in the paper", to recognize the family's seat-belt use, or low insurance premiums, or something, but this doesn't end up happening, to everyone's relief.

Jonathan is now a little spooked about being in moving cars, especially in the winter, on the highway. Sometimes he'll say to his parents: "Are you sure it's safe to drive today? It's 'pretty safe'? How do you know? What if it's not safe enough?" But he'll get in the car, cause what're you gonna do? He'll get on airplanes too, even though they spook him more than cars. He's reading a morbid paperback called A Book of Disasters, full of vignettes about "the worst earthquakes in human history", and "the deadliest nightclub fires", and things like that, neatly divided into sections about trainwrecks, shipwrecks, tornados, etc.

The Deons will often pass the stretch of road where they went off. On weekly visits to Grandma, the new, nameless Subaru will pass China Creek, and the embankment by the river with the gravel islands will come into view, and Judy will think: Oh yeah, that's where it happened. And she'll have a quick look and then try not to dwell. Brian doesn't think about it much, but when he does, a strange feeling bubbles up briefly, what he imagines must be felt in the presence of miracles. "It does seem miraculous that none of us got hurt", he says on the rare occasions that he's called to tell the story. And then, in a sheepish way, as if apologizing for bring a weak-minded spiritualist, he'll describe the incident as God saying to him: "I guess I've got more in store for you, buddy. You're not going to die yet. You've got to carry on some more."

Alison is younger than Jonathan and less traumatized. She isn't saddled with a memory stamp. Not that Jonathan is either, really. Memory is weird, he thinks, years later. It must have been loud in the car when we were bouncing around. Why wouldn't I remember what it sounded like? There's nothing... but I remember that stupid wad of play money with the political caricatures.

booga booga!

hmm, i think i'll wear one of my many warm comfy wonderful fuzzy hoodies today - as the weather in this time and place perfectly warrants the wearing of such a garment - perhaps in addition to that, i'll visit the corner shop on new gower street where i used to purchase many snacks, until they told me i wasn't welcome in their store with my scary scary hoodie on

funny enough, was just thinking about that quote while walking home from a meeting a few nights ago: a liberal is a conservative who's been arrested - a conservative is a liberal who's been mugged - i still think it's clever, but it's not perfectly accurate, cause arrested and mugged are not neat analogues for opposite things - when i was thinking about it, initially i was feeling sorry for the liberal who's been mugged in that analogy, and thinking, damn, i'd rather be the conservative who's been arrested in that equation, cause the poor liberal-turned-conservative, he's got no edge, he's just the victim, just a poor sap who got his wallet stolen and is whining about it, that's not the guy i wanna be - so, in my mind, which i'm sure ought to be the opinion-making standard bearer for everyone everywhen everwhere, the liberal who's been mugged carries the association of pitiful victim, which is funny, cause isn't conservative politics all about, shaddap you whiny baby, so life isn't fair, get used to it, maybe you'd be rich like me if you worked a little harder!

the conservative who's been arrested, he isn't associated with being a victim in my mind - even though he could be, massively, but i'll get to that in a sec, i'm sure you're way ahead of me... to me he or she or they or it or whatever, carries suspicion because he's been arrested... so probably, not necessarily, but probably, he did something wrong, unless he's in some place like china where he maybe just used the internet or something - so he's probably been the guy that mugged someone, and at least profited from a crime, for the moment - so i thought i'd rather be that guy, or girl, or woman, or thing, or people, cause at least i wouldn't be the pitiful victim of a mugging, but rather the rebellious scoundrel who made off with some rich dude's fat wallet, or maybe i was only suspected of doing such, cause i looked suspicious, and i got hassled by the maaaan, and later i can go around telling everyone, i went to jail maaaan, i've been through some shit you couldn't understand... or maybe i got hassled by the local neighorhood watch guy who forgot to take his meds that month and called the cops on me for the crime of wearing a hoodie and then i got arrested and put in jail and sodomized with a... with a... i dunno, some object that you could imagine someone being sodomized with that's particularly ridiculous therefore provoking laughter with the much-loved comedic chestnut of the prison rape joke - and i found the overreacharound of the cops so odious that i stopped being a conservative and became a liberal... or maybe a libertarian, hmmm

anyway, my point is, analogies are fun, but pointless - or something like that, hahahaha!

categorical logick

surviving... staying awake... teacher's trying to demonstrate an idea, but the universe is trying to demonstrate entropy - i hope he doesn't see apathy - makes me think of that bad-ass dad of my childhood friend, reduced to a pitiful middle-aged man in a catcher's uniform trying to compete with the rainstorm for some kids' attentions: “look here, this is the crouch shuffle!” - i forgot why we're here - just cause, cause everything hinges on it, cause we lost the plot and this is all we got

playing, waiting, with typography and mesh - why do pens always leak on me? why am i sitting here? fly me to bermuda! lower me, raise me, i'll take the underground route if i have to, i'll plumb through pipe-world knocking blocks the whole way - oh look, restless leg syndrome, i'm doing it myself, unconsciously, the accuser becomes the perpetrator, prolly was all along, isn't that how things happen? i do it too, yes, and seeth at others - "everyone else is traffic" - chris, the bank robber for an hour junkie that died - a character that is, presumably, real, that stuck in my mind from the mary karr book because it stuck in her mind

look at these sunken eyes! not directly though - and pretend i'm on topic with my notes - i'm Slumpy, the Temporary Thought Stenographer - i tried, now i slump - people care about my welfare, abstractly, concretely, there's local charity, non-local well-wishers, the government even kicked in a tax refund, and that's good when you look at the big diagram - and i did my time in high school, so therefore i've earned the right to help myself to a modest amount from the collective pool - true, i didn't grow up to be beneficial, and i'm one of the takers, maybe once in a while an entertaining faker, but it's good to have some of those around, it feels good to support them i'd imagine, can only guess about being in a higher tax bracket

oh, the sadness i project onto everything - everyone is falling apart, like me, they must be - cause how nice it would be if that wasn't true, and nice things aren't realistic, they're symptoms of wishful thinking, so it must be true, it's not just me, it's everything that's in decline - some hold it together longer, and that's nice, a nice bit of niceness the universe throws down to this planet as a bone that someone grabs before the others

"tadpoles have gills at some phase" is not totally pointless to say, to him, i hear, in his voice - as this isn't totally pointless to write - and, bonus, it looks like i'm taking notes! albeit too many, too intently

oh, goddamn gordian knot solutions, that is the underlying addiction - of course, any drug, for an addict, is a gordian knot solution, and thinking there's a quick and easy solution to getting and staying clean is also a gordian knot solution, they're all delusional solutions, but i've at least managed to get free of those two illusions - but then, i'm still a raging addict to the false promise of gordian knot solutions - if i can't slash the knot in one easy beautiful machete move with drugs, if i can't slash the knot with some poetically compressed path to contented sobriety via spiritual awakening like on screen and in literature where it looks so simple and easy, then i can give death a make-over and think of that as a neat easy solution, and there i'm really just letting the deadlight in again and embracing the whole idea of drug-assisted pain-gain alchemy, staunch the bleeding of this miserable life in the best western hotel room, even, with a tight tourniquet to cut things off and delight in the head rush before blackness

gordian knot solutions, maybe i'll use that thing, about them being the underlying addiction, if i ever sponsor anyone - not even gonna make a chemistry pun here

"duh proof's in duh puddin", said the guy they always have in the group to moan about how nobody's here, nobody came, it's just this same lame gang of old moaners at the convention, arghgod i wanted to rage righteously, cause i'm mentally ill, not thinking but feeling like i have reasons to be rageful when i don't - i know, it's illness, and i'm poor at managing the psychic malady everyone has to deal with in their own maladjusted minds - you're maladjusted if you can read this, cause the frequency most words are written on can be picked up with a certain adjustment almost everyone has made, but that means maliciousness in dealing with the rest of the world, particularly the part sartre said was "mute" - there's new tricks they've come up with, still, for adjusting your nervous system, indeed, anyone's system, to the system, it's getting tricky to come up with new tricks, but there are a few left, and there's a place where tricks aren't needed, where we come from, but nobody knows where to draw the line, and tricks are needed in the mish-mash as a whole, and this is the place in which they're needed, which seems to be where we indigest with form and function, and maybe we could breathe without that stuff but how much of function is necessarily malicious? it shifts, like a trickster

some people wobble so wildly that you wanna put them on tv and eat popcorn to it, and call that your balance, a budget for cable and a free-standing sofa, that'll work for a while - everyone's mentally ill but not everyone is lazy, that's the crux of it - i've got a decent heart and soul but a weak will - well directed work could, well, not fix things, but could be helpful, could illustrate the best you can do with a life in this mess we're in, where no one gets out alive - a bid, not to fix things, but heroically battle against impossible odds for the sheer grandeur of it, like how rudyard kipling obnoxiously tells you how to be a man, my son - a finger in the dyke, a seat in the downing street clustershag, a princely bearing in the palace because tourist are moooney, and nigel didn't make all those plans so british steel could go bankrupt cause there was no monarchy to inspire large-scale building projects - but i don't wanna, no - i wanna die like uday hussein, if i can't die like christ, but if you wanna lay on me a kind of schizophrenia that will make me feel like i'm your son, and live, and die, accordingly, god, sure, lay it on me, let's see what happens, i know there's a lot of jesii running around at the moment, i've met one or two, but i could mutate a new strain - and i can't commit to death just yet, damnit - oh well, okay, that's fine, then, i should be thanking those things that made all of this necessary, and possibly possible

searching for the ultimate regime... the one that is good but not perfect, that's strict enuf to get results but tailored enuf for me to be comfortable with such a routine and happy enuf to stick to it... searching, searching, high and low, to the kwikimart mountains... it's utopian kinda, but not totally, not impossibly, and not necessarily in the category of "gordian knot solutions" - if i could be arsed to do it then it wouldn't deserve to be tagged and bagged as a gordian knot scheme

good god tho, energy is hard to come by these days - i'm a tired old man who never grew up - it's hard to be a prematurely old child - it's tiring - the awareness is draining

The badger is underground! The badger is underground. That's okay. Let 'er hib'rnate for as long as she can, there'll be no term limits - everything will be ok/anesthetized - awareness will be distilled into a drop

i will be the world's leading authority on gordian knot solutions and how to quit seeking them - one day, when i figure out how to quit seeking them... after sufficient folly, oh, i hope that's soon, this folly is hard for me to stomach, it doesn't feel like folly, it feels acidic - one day i'll be deputized to be a ditch-digger, cause the world needs them too, a ditch digger giving the occasional bit of sage advice to the roadside chain gangs, but still taking more than i'm giving - cause it'd be nice to take what people have to give, rather than giving shit to everything like the universe is my complaint department, which it is, among other things, they'll never take that away from me until they do - ugly duckling to narcissistic swan to survivalist scavenger to carrion

don't wanna

what if we all entered into a suicide pact? what if? well there's surely some flaw in that design that's glaring to most and hidden to me, but i can sort of feel that it exists, like a crack that'll break your mother's back, like it'll make you come back as a dog with an abusive owner

so, you or he or she or they can shoulder the burden, pick up my slack, while i pledge allegiance to nonexistence - does it have to be nonexistence? no, but probably - that's the cleanest, and somehow when everything's so messy, i crave some kind of ultimate cleanliness - cause whatever i do, wherever i go, nothing's gonna fix anything, nothing's gonna reverse time, not even nostalgia

there's really nothing more to write, there's no words to put it into - i'm in decline, premature middle aged burnout, and i know a drink won't help anything - perhaps transcending the wheel of life and death would help, that i could almost imagine, migrating to the center and watching everything spin with a grin, and giggling and gawking at the spectacle

why are there always little strands of hair that settle about anywhere i sit still? i think i can guess - will i ever know why the stomach is so upset? that i doubt

some people have strength for alcoholism - some people have joie de vivre in middle age - what is my excuse? i have none - can't be bothered to even look now - it won't add up

what if, instead of channeling feelings into physical self-harm, i dropped all this school that i can no longer give two tin shits about? and then what? well, i could help a woman i love not be lonely, cook and chauffeur, read stories

earth arena paraphrase

sitting on the dock of the bay, remembering blair's ass-kicking karaoke that made me sink in my chair, sitting, half-heartedly fishing for metaphors in the mud, new ways to say that the potency says so, so deal with that, the potency of pudding stone

i wish english was my second language, then everything i said would be creative, i'd rattle it off noisily and there'd be one special orbital person that would elliptically love it like it was ordained by the laws of righteousness and zebra crossings

the ungraded imperium decrees these fields of broken glass fertile - the unimproved authority says, so, like, love it or leave it but, oh, you can't leave it, can you? how could you? it's not an option, but can disrespectfully remain as an idea to return to, idly - in praise of idleness - steal rations of worship, the kind of worship that impinges on others in the work-gang, when you're worshiping in that way you're not working and then they're forced to drag you along and support the weight of your chains, on top of everything else, and the profit margin for survival is already razor thin

grease firm, waste estate, debris realty, dust polity, scraparchy, domain of chaff, fief of filth

i'm done with it, fuck it, take it... you can have it all... i'm dreaming of saintly scavengers, beautiful beneficent tinkers, better times in extra-temporal galaxies

the sun can set now, and also rise, like on premise beach, in the video game version

morsels of sucrose vox immediately appreciate in memory
sound exponentially better in the mind's ear, the ten second delay
so i'll hang on the next fructose phrase
for lack of engaging activity and presence of body aches and general joint soreness and oncoming flu and absence of sleep

kinetic molecular stasis

everybody's on adderall
they're doing the pee-dance
in sync with their study-buddies
knees bobbing to the left of me
feet tapping to the right of me
could you stop vibrating for a minute please
you pepped-up
stable angels
testosterized for the test?
if not, i'll helen-kellerize
shut my eyes
and plug my ears
while i have to be here

gotta admit
i find it hard to sit still too
maybe it's the environment
the food
the toxicity
or more likely, spiritual corrosion
or the two in collusion
an auxiliary evil

keep the husbands in the dark
they're happier that way...
but what if they're not allowed anesthesia?
in that case, feed them ordeal poisons
get them to purge, i guess
one of these times, it'll take