fuck, again

i have to meander far enough to bury a block of text in the woods... and that may take a while... insane, the games i play, with words, and posting, and the internet, and social networks - but so what? words are all i got sometimes, and it's slightly more satisfying if they are online, even on the underside, in the curl of the cable that's simply seen as a telephone line from a thousand yards away, barely one dimension

can I sever better? that is the question. sever the ties that keep me bound and wound too tight, and worrying about stuff like shirt collars and grooming for chrissakes... it's so weird that i don't even fit with hippies - how's that for a misfit shitfit? there are times when it seems i must grasp ahold of anything, anything but this! fucking fucking fucking fucking fuck. I'm looking at my competition across the room from me. the guy in the nike cap at the little table talking to the lady with the sour newfie voice, irish gone rancid - hoop earrings the size of bicycle wheels. I wonder if they'll tell me about all the other resumes they got. Can I swap my pheromones with a co-applicant? might as well trade a dixie cup of urine for the drug test while we're at it - not that I need clean piss, but I need untainted pheromones that don't unconsciously project an off-putting paranoid neurosis, a just-barely sub-clinical case of schizophrenia.

wow. that went terrible. i feel terrible. praying doesn't help. you'd think it would, wouldn't you? cause it's the right thing to do, it's spiritual, you're getting into the spirit of things when you pray. but it doesn't seem to change anything, even my attitude - i'm not saying it can't work, i'm saying i'm too stubborn for it to work on me - yeah, i'm not willing, or whatever - i've nailed that down, at least - i'm sick of this struggle to believe things - i don't believe in god. i don't believe in luck. nothing is very real to me except this predictable bullshit - this predictably disgusting, in-public SHIT! shit is such a perfectly crude word to describe what i've been doing on a day to day basis for a while now - i'm not going to fill out another form - i'm not going to create another character - i've wasted enough time - i've had enough hopes dashed

i'm getting closer and closer to opting out - and don't anyone co-opt my opt out - let me have one to myself - or actually, maybe do co-opt it, if you want, i could use some company, on the outside - funny when people think they can tell me to accept this or that or not - there's a line i'd edit out, except i don't care to on this occasion - don't care to do much editing

dying inside makes me want to die on the outside - maybe i could finally find a use for rum - "officially dying" sounds kind of fun, do i get a certificate? maybe a hand tattoo - what a shitty string of days - and it's not even that shitty - why does it get to me so much then? because i have so little strength in me - never had much, and there's almost none left of what was there in the first place - i gotta say something about confidence, how it's fuckin dust these days - i think i suck - whatever it is i'm good at, it's not much use to anybody... when did money get so important to me? fuck, that's sad, that it did, i'm conflating my worth with how market capitalism values things - but somehow, that feels like the only real thing anymore - and i can't stop comparing myself negatively to everyone around me - everyone seems to know more, do more, cope better than me, and even the ones that fuck up and flip out, well, they have better reason to, an all-around superior style - i think i might just be ranked last, it's seeming plausible - congratulations, everybody else, you try harder, you're more willing - i'm not, i had to draw the line somewhere

i'm open to alternatives - alternative lifestyles - theft - i should have thought this through years ago, i'm too old to become a punk just now - then i got just a little too comfortable for too long, and now i have to make decisions that are so much the harder in the cold light of day - but i might have to make them anyway, throw away a lot of comforts, for a peace of mind that might be serene enough to make up for lack of comforts i've gotten used to, and come to believe that i needed - there's something really sickly depressing about the need to believe something, what that says about things... that the reality is so hideous, you can peak at it from inside a comfortable narcotized bubble, but eventually, when that bubble bursts, the clear light of reality will quickly drive you to grasp at something, NEED to BELIEVE in something

camus thought there was a reason to live... i presume... vidal thought his life was "enough"... lucky fuck, easy to say, when you've lived a rich full life like that, published acclaimed books, grown up with privilege and access, hobnobbed with the rich and powerful, literary giants, movie stars - how easy then to equate death with the sleep of the just or something - what if your life was sad, short, and full of child-abuse and leukemia? and you died at, let's say, 15, so i don't get arguments along the lines of that, like, you're not really a fully conscious human being before a certain age - does vidal think, in that case, you had 15 years to contrive some kind of a full life, and if you didn't, then you wasted it yourself, so, fuck you if it wasn't enough for you? i'll have to take what i can get out of life, i guess, i'll possibly admit that, as much as i can in weasel words, but also, i'm not a forceful taker, you know? not a convincing faker... a maker? i'd like to be... i'd like to be one of those type who makes things, that are useful to other people, that aren't art projects for my own personal taste, that only i enjoy reading back and looking at and listening to

does anyone want to hire me to do anything? like clean things? if so, i'll take the first offer, i'll work for minimum wage, if that'll sweeten the deal - but i will NOT fill out another form and sit through another interview and grimace my way through another performance, and be waiting and waiting for the phone to ring, for a miraculous message that a job i went through the motions for has, in fact, been made available to me

i'm accepting offers... not maybes - no more maybes - i'm looking for a simple trade, manual labour in exchange for money with which to buy goods and services - why is this so complicated?

complicated lies, society is so full of complicated lies, and i've barely begun deciphering them - i'm slow on the uptake, a late-bloomer, all those terms that make me want to puke - i wish i was funny like a stand up comic - i was i was more compassionate - i respect compassion, at least, i appreciate it - i even have a bit of my own amateur version of it - it's probably keeping me here on this earth, for another cycle - i'm sure they'll be a lot of those, for fuck's sakes, again

the drunken goat poem

what am i doing? being twitchy for one thing - that's one thing i do well - and pining for vibisol - it'll solve everything! it numbs unwanted vibes for oversensitive sots - i mean those kinda sots that are really just folks, ordinary folks you could have a beer with, given a missing chromosome, driven to sousery and doomed to fail job interviews for eternity by a genetic predisposition to the unwanted unasked-for build-up of vibes to the point where a crippling social anxiety is reached - in the medical lexicon they call it a disorder, but it's actually a hyper-order... of bullshit - those poor sots, and their hyper-absorption of energy, and its prompt decay into paranoid radiation - it becomes a background radiation, so commonplace it's not recognized as "paranoid" at the epicenter, not the kind of paranoia you can trace back to saber-toothed tiger attacks, but just the vaguely off-putting brainwave frequency stack that must be the best of all possible worlds - energy can be a wonderful thing, like blood meandering in a low-pressure situation through vessels like the good ship cholesterol, a river journey with the sails down and the current spoiling the sailing skills of the crew, but when the blood leaks into parts of the brain that it's not supposed to be in, the life-giver can taketh away real quick

strokes are real, i can almost feel them, and they're starting to interest me a great deal, i could imagine a clot in the hypocampus, buried in an avalanche of synthetic morphine, a static thought bubble

arthur silber, the chronically poor, sick, blogger is valiantly writing through his misery again - he's even got the balls to ask for donations - i'm not actually being sarcastic and criticizing a blogger for doing that this time - i mean it, he's speaking to an audience through the medium of literate despair - i respect that - i can and will do all that, except for the reaching out part - got nothing against begging, it's noble, when you're contemplating a life of crime, when the desperation of being broke is making stealing not seem so wrong, i mean, don't just about fucking all of us steal in various sorts of ways anyway? so, raskolnikov, the little scamp, starts looking like a princely pauper even though we know he was set up to fall, or that's what we figure, being only a couple hundred pages into crime and punishment - and this is just pre-desperation, it's hardly anything yet - yet - okay universe, i give you the go, mock my petty paranoia by giving me just enough work to keep me in food, sans familial charity - anytime you're ready, grant me another episode in this series of corny tv situation comedies, the premise in each being that i'm "solvent", haha, a grown man, yeah, independent, making a living, of sorts - i'll take that to the food bank, i will, i'll cross that line

vibisol is the new penicillin, we need a new penicillin, it's no longer the panacea, material is anathema, it's oxidizing my every action up and down the periodic table, i can feel it in methyl groups - there's an epidemic of brain parasites, i heard, and what do you expect when our brains are getting good and plump - a fat lot of good it does us, overripe and rotting on the vine

what vibisol does is it takes all these vibes that a case study like me thinks he's feeling and, through noise canceling technology, neutralizes them - the only byproduct is a harmless photon emission - what vibisol could do is almost incalculable - i'd try and calculate it anyway, if i could rally the strength to attempt a sci-fi premise that even sort-of sounded like it had any basis in plausible hypothesis, or perthesis, i could use all of the above as a prosthesis affixed to a rubber ball, and pogo conveniently out of a carefully improvised trap my narc neighbor laid on me last night in my dreams

that being said, vibisol does hint at the possibility of an infinitesimal speck on an infinitesimal speck being a literary rabbit hole that sounds like a cut up but isn't, and is, in fact, a trap that novel writers get into, of thinking of life as a HIGH STAKES GAME that they made up, with a lil' help from camus - to get serious for a sec here, if i'm going to ascribe some ring of truth to statements people make about what the character of the universe is, how it prefers joy, or it prefers duality, or it doesn't care so you better enjoy what you got while you got it, even if it sucks, i'd err on the side of the scientists, not the novel writers - the novel writers are always so dour and gloomy, i find, and they think life is so literary, and profound, and philosophical - the scientists, on the other hand, they got beyond philosophy - science used to be called philosophy, but it evolved into a more sophisticated thing, where the word profound becomes profoundly meaningless... there are greater truths in science, like, for instance, at the moment, it seems as if the phenomenon of mass can be linked to a subatomic particle called the higgs boson... and other stuff like that - even though this stuff needs constant revision and refinement, i find it to be truer than anything philosophers and writers have managed - the pit of shallow wit is practically an exhumed grave at this point

in scientists i hear something closer to religion and reverence than anyone else, an awe of the weirdness and wildness of how the universe actually appears to work, when you split atoms and measure background radiation and stress test and model, regardless of whether this character may suggest benevolence or malevolence... it tends to be the literary types who suggest the universe is so cold, so terribly cold and empty - scientists tell me there's more energy in a thimbleful of vacuum than a stick of dynamite - there's also thermodynamics, which is a downer this year, or is it? but the sense it makes isn't so tyrannical that i might as well walk out naked into the tundra with no intention of coming back - where's all that mutability i'm supposed to see in reality, i'm wondering... can i coax it, cause i would if i could... ?

what am i doing right now, but typing in this technological reality... i'm so glad i have no urge to quote jacques derrida - i'm also glad there are people who stay in school, so they can quote derrida, so i don't have to, and never will, NEVER! i haven't been deputized to do that, if there's one thing in this life that i'm sure of, it's that - now, if only i can figure out what i HAVE been deputized to do - surely it's not writing this, this is practically analogous to walking the wheel in the turkish looney bin, left is communist, right is whatever the bright center of the universe is in that cosmology, allah is south by southwest and jesus's in utah with the latter day saints - maybe i gotta come back to the catholic church and get re-baptized and then eat the body of christ and get beyond the symbolism and have a religious experience of the kind the gaming consoles blocked by feeble emulation, then get confirmed, and then become a deputy for the pinkerton army

but i wandered in the rain, so far from my starting point, and left my vibisol parasol, and i'm all wet with vibes that i can't explain in significant figures or metaphor, and i'm smelling of mildew, a running on cog off the job, coding on meth, beautiful code that does nothing except sweep the odd numbered kitchen tiles on wednesday and bleach the even numbered bathroom tiles on thursday - there's interlocking permutations and many substances besides bleach which figure in to a pedestrian decimal place, just two or three, conceivable by the common person - there has to be a purpose in all this molecular profusion - things don't just happen, i can't wish that away, that things could just happen, and why would i wish that away anyway? what i wish for would destroy me, surely

and by "purpose", i don't necessarily mean something literary - maybe i just mean causality - even as the desire for chaos, confusion, and sense erosion is so strong in me - but i'm tempered and tethered to persistent architecture that's not exactly built on sand, there's just a lot of sand on the bedrock, and the bedrock may be on a fault line, but the big one is not reality, it's tomorrow that never comes, tra-la-la-la-la... the garden party just doesn't feel the same anymore now that it's weird to get high, and not weird in a fun way - it's not so fun walking to school and back both ways uphill, it's not like you kids today and your club drugs - it's so surreal that there are people who are, at this very moment, having their first beer ever, unfamiliar with the whole trajectory that's waiting, that i would have inked on me if i was into tattoo autobiography - my friends have drifted apart, to the four corners of the continent, and we're all getting older, and are y'all looking back as much as i am? i hope i'm not the only one with this nostalgia twitch, tho i know it's so unseemly

maybe i'll sleep innnnnnnn, til i get eaten by my dreams in the fuzzy shades of day

bedblog

blogging in bed with my thumbs. haven't done this in forever. or ever. the tosh died, whatever death is... the tosh is in limbo, a machine without a spark, like bishop, who would rather be nothing. I won't be spry enough to even think about stealing meds from the care facility when I'm old enough to be a resident. this arbitrary auto caps is idiotic.

a decent crop of dreams later... actually, it was more than decent, it was fan-tasty! music composing and performing dreams, a signed to a record label dream, a tears-of-joy dream, which was the only teary dream i've ever had, and they were joyful tears, how weird is that? and building a tower on top of the roof of my friend's house in nelson... oh, and my spin on the ecstatic "exoskeletal" chorus from that cedric song, haha! what a righteous dream fragment, so weirdly sacred... now what am i doing? back to this, finishing a draft - burying things on blankets under blankets, curdled fever dreams, bunches in sweaty crumples, jaws on mandibles, oh heck, oh fudge, the dream was a nice opener at least, to this morning of multiplying virii - happens every time i quit smoking, i've made my throat and lungs hospitable again, and the germs start throwing parties in me

work don't work - school's a waste of time - i'm not gonna say the grass is greener on the other side either - i think i should get into selling drugs, HATE-FUCK THE WORLD! cut to the chase - i think i missed my chance to do that though, but i'm still keeping a lazy eye half-open for opportunity - still looking at the ground, for "ground scores"! my eyes are drawn to the dirt and the concrete and the ample detritus of that plane - as if that little crumple of plastic has something psychotropic in there, when has that ever happened? in dreams, yes, in shamble dreams, but rarely even in them! but sometimes, and though it never happened in reality, the dreams still draw my eyes to the ground

just offer me a fuckin job, okay? and i'll forget the whole me-against-the-universe thing, i promise... i'll never ever quit again, i'll hold onto whatever position i can get a labour contract for, for dear life, for the rest of my life, cause i never want to have to look again, it's never seemed to drag my sense of self-worth through the gravel like it's doing this time

how do people do these things? these getting through life things? i guess they must be strange and different people that i can't contemplate - my parents are wonderful people, they seem to fit in their own little niche, but their genetic combination is giving me maths problems, the equations produce infinities, they seem insoluble, they crop up more and more, they don't go away with a little medication here, a little 12 steps there - therapy, the sick joke of therapy, the self-delusion of spirituality... this is something i haven't been able to articulate, but i long to just dismiss this shit i'm struggling to believe - it's tiring to try and believe all the time - the most honest thing i can say is, i'm fucking confused, i have no idea what's true and what's purpose - meaninglessness is the trend, nothing coheres

hoopla

please weed me from your auxiliary workforce - i don't like the feeling of potential energy that could make me your electron, like you're their electron you poor automaton - people like you actually exist on this level that's been super-atomic since before we were single cells? there are actual sam walton quotes on blue backdrops in training rooms? like just maybe one of us peasants is gonna be the corporate diamond in the rough, discovered on stavanger drive?

after the first hour of that eight applicant group interview, i wanted to barf out of my tear ducts - i lasted til the end, maybe that counts for something, but so did everyone else - so i performed the service of the surplus, to make neighbors look better, almost presentable, so this regional outlet could say they didn't hire the defective fraction - there needed to be a defective fraction so they could say that, when the crop is tainted, some share will have to pass for cream, they can write on a form that they raked up the pliable ones they can train to do whatever - ouch, that stung, it was the only point of pride i had going in, that my character will show in the work i do, not realizing what they're looking for is lego bricks with pliable plastic pegs

sure, none of us was happy to be in that circus ring, but guess who retained the status of most reserved thespian in the role playing for selling products games? no i wasn't having "fun"!? and no, i wasn't the tenth time you asked either, but i tried not to seem negative - i wonder how well that worked, me being such a great actor and all? what agony, i'd rather starve than go through it again - character profiles, hmmm... that's when i knew i was fucked, wasting wasting wasting my time, dumping it by the mound on already piled mounds in vast wastelands of time, and how about some more temporal refuse for good measure? sure, pile it on, marone!

i had to think, i'm being this much of a circus animal for the mere possibility of that low a wage? cause they say it with a straight face, talking without shame in increments of forty cents like it's the seventies or something and what could an hour of your time possibly be worth? time is cheap but it's money anyway i'd bet they say, 24 hours a day, and given what a kick the human cattle drivers get out of their jobs, time must be bargain rate for them too, they've taken the lesson - well, there's employee discounts, maybe they'll take a loss on toilet paper for the lucky few that make the cut - "control your costs better than that of your competition", says sam walton, they wouldn't let a font of wisdom like that go unattributed, not in the training room - and what is with the yellow asterisks? blue hoopla from on high, the billionaire owners and their hoops - i held on though, once i got one of the managers to nail down the situation that it wasn't entirely a case of eight people being set in competition with each other, there was more than one position being filled... that's what she said, i just had to know it was slightly better than a roulette wheel before i kept jumping for the rest of the rounds - among some meander on policies i caught a scrap about dress code prohibiting bare midriffs, and was disappointed

oh so queasy walking back, like i'd already run a marathon - i'd dug my nails into knuckles leaving gouges - the worst part is how i know now it's just how things work, couldn't be any other way, given the state of me being maladjusted like i am - i know my character isn't great - can't channel skills and energy and soul in these conventional ways - and i also know how self-pity figures into it - that's not nice knowledge, even that consolation spoiled by self-awareness - well, not entirely spoiled, there's still writing, a sacred outcrop haven from shame, some place to be proud and howl, a ledge below the edge

spin cycles come out in the wash though, a certain layer of sickness could be rinsed off for a while, in a while

the vagueness monster

there was a way to walk and talk by catapult from tent village to stumbling grounds, from mist to bogfog, and it sprung from the pretty cloistered funk of a guy we were hanging out with, who said, yeah, the k gets you walking, cause it's so sproingy to be walking when you're in that way, and the c gets you talking, so when you're in this bank of fog, and you wanna bank to another bank that's maybe got a river snaking by its bed, and you wanna see your kinesthesia, and talk about it too, with people that're barely there (but you know them better than you thought you thought a second ago) at cosmic family reunions in corners of pockets, and view it all from a dispassionate vantage in the absence of the sensation of gravity, well then, you take a rucksack with you that's a mixture of two powders for a walktalk, or a talkwalk, a c&k combo, a walkytalky!

it was hilarious - a lingual collision of providence and portent that could not be untangled thereafter, but we all sort of glowed together for an instant like an idea bulb in a cartoon... yeah! he said, as it turned out, that happened at that shambles - that's where it was invented that time... you didn't just think of it now, it emerged from that fog, and almost as soon, sank in the bog... until now! until now, when one of us hit upon the walkytalky communication method across gulfs that shouldn't be gulfs by all reason, i mean, you're sitting across the room from me! but it's also like there's a chasm between our two familial units that splits the rug into a positive and negative universe, both being null-space, and me being okay with that, as long as i keep falling in this direction, or rather, any direction with a similar rate of spin, and/or "search for similar" as soulseek lets you do, and miraculously relay with electromagnetic people who are like family after so little! you think you were the only one who hit upon that idea, of the walkytalky? nah, remember, there's this non-local, non-linear causality where things you're gonna do are influencing the past, and it gets even fuzzier than that at certain vertices in this connect the dot drawing of telepathy tags

sorry, i should say, at one scale it looks like fuzz, at another a ripple, and there's no solid state ever, so, already, you're relying on theoretical dimensions for gauging anything - all i can do is type this type of thing, to even try and do justice to memories that are calling over baud connections, susceptible to future sun flares and skimming the misty surface

he said something about me lacking people skills, but never sleeping pills, at what prompting, i have no clue, while snorfling up the rails i'd graciously laid out for him - that was after he showed up at our house at 3 am looking for a party, cause he thought he could count on his brother, ol' faithfully fucked up - but this time brother was asleep, actually asleep, at night, to get up early for work - but me and luc weren't, so i didn't take the people comment personally, and i didn't let it ruin anything, or anything like that, or everything was in ruins anyway, and there was so much to be done among them

those were the days when we would watch videos in a little box screen in a hole in the world's margins, redundant videos given that we happened to be in a music video most of the time anyway, so videos within videos - and along with this guy was another little guy from the civic - it was the impossible, improbable, implausible creek street solid state of existence - i have the feeling it still could exist, if i'd let it, if i didn't let so much blood

i still have the capacity to sooth people in my pocket, when suddenly i'm deputized to describe why existence isn't such a conundrum - and i'm full of fear like you, and i get pretty black at times, and it's only the rarest of times that i can see that black as beautiful - but with you, and a solid state, and hi-gain, so high it anesthetizes me through audiophonic overkill and the consequent levitation, i can see how warm the absence is, how it pops up in the presence of this treble register waveform over there in a dream variant of the back to the future part ii plot - yeah, we were both born once upon a time, don't you think? you may not remember, but you can backtrack from this current cortex, can't you? so why not again? maybe we'll meet again, we'll have to de-learn one language, re-learn another, and all sorts of plural processes that add up to wishful thinking that is coincidentally true when you measure the velocity.

resisting resistance - keeping the mind open - to a hedge maze of bets - a labyrinth of betters - better rats make me look bad - better traps make me look placid - make them look cagey - hedge mazey, hey

keeping the mind opulent and commodious minus myself... for the birds - philosophical lollipop hypnospins - even delirium drained of power, weak and lucid, meek hallucinations

taunting reverb, but i think i'll read a book about king lear from the fool's perspective, and partially remedy this choleric swoon in a hedge rut

"it takes the weight out of living", he said, does it? ah, how bout that? i murmer, from way over here, remarking on the thing i raved about last decade and ranted about last year - i can still hear the thing they sing about, living on as tension in a head temple, today it's more the right one

and, this'll have to be cut off

planting

words, growing underground, under eyelids, spreading roots in a micro-ecology of minds

waking up to a little ripple in the groundwater, just a little, that keeps me going

i miss my woman - moments of sensitivity are dismembering me just lately, beyond raw nerves, emotional sinkholes - but i know my way a little, just a little better around this obstacle course this time around - i know there's a checkered flag somewhere in the circuit

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...