filigree

the grandest miracle of all... is how mundane everything seems... prostifunkstication, prestidigitation, californication, better red than dead --- the cup of life's got a hole in it ,,, if you listen closely, on a still twilight under a waxing gibbous moon, you can hear the douglas firs, moaning on my behalf, about that tequila i spilled in 2005 ___ oh, what a waste === i'll never get that agave back +++ i donated it to the groundwater of the salmo river ranch

it was the plain truth that in and around blinking things being bought by 'tards of varying stripes and bars there was a "brutal" time being had by this girl we were camping with - i found it cathartic to hear her say that, it was brutal, i'm sure, for her, and i would be there soon myself

and now i'm here, a different vantage, survived another seven years and it's almost time for Terence and the Mayans' end of the world calendrical concresence, the blueberry in the bagel, and i'm pretty sure nothing in particular’s gonna happen - thy kingdom come? thy will be done? i dunno, i still got shit i wanna do, i got projects, and i think it'll take me longer than til december 21st to get a good start on them - i got retirement years, god willing, i paid payroll tax for a fucking pension, and the 1% still think i'm a slacker who only wants hand-outs, and i think a good 40 or 50% of these people are in partial sympathy with that sentiment

in any case, it's an oddly familiar feeling of dank strangeness triggering verbosity on a flat landscape rendered in minimalist acrylic hue so frowned upon by the art establishment, oddly familiar, after so long in a squirming coil of failed missions to alpha centauri, oddly familiar to feel the possibility of a continuum spanning days, maybe weeks, where there isn't a big drama about whether i'm gonna do the life-and-death, win-lose-or-draw sobriety intoxication drama with the stately blue book in all its heft looming like a retrograde monolith - it's besides the point, it's just living in a gloomy muck of my own sick thoughts, but welcoming depression as an old friend, taking the dizzying step of admitting i'm in a rut, even if it sounds like i think that all the time, when really i don't

it's just crazy vantage, networked by vonage, chalk full of binders, more chalk than calcium, more chalk than vitamins, chalk it up to a temporary filigree, skydiving past the end-zone, gravity-assisted weightless showboat minstrel jive, plummet, thud, filigree for a wanna-be husky petroleum geologist detective hobo

homeopathological

identically indirect words of love - was it coincidental that the phrase 'you are loved' showed up on both ends of our indian summer birthday seasonette? that was a weird thing about that, how love was always expressed as a thing that can not be said directly, only hinted at in lingual lawyers tricks - but that was still something - there's documents to prove it, heart-rending cards, the hand-made kind, ache-inducing stuff i can't bring myself to look at so i keep it in drawers

Doctor Danger

What if I just changed my facebook name? Oh, what in heavens would the ramifications be? I'm Doctor Danger, I've got a PhD in throwing caution to said heavens, why would I even ask?

What if that theory was true, that I heard proposed, supposedly by Dr. Timothy Leary, via the movie Waking Life, that in the moments leading to death, the perception of time elongates, to somehow meet eternal life halfway in a spaghetti singularity of consciousness? well, that'd be bad news for the ones who died by self inflicted gunshots to the head, or uhm well, for any old gunshots to the head, or torso, or in fact, any kind of death in which the immanent failure of the body's vital organs triggers a flood of pain signals through the central nervous system, excepting those of us who've been shown by the angel of death how a tender shave with the scythe, so close and creamy, can feel so good out of body in a null-space netherworld flotilla of right neighborly supRA-ledge omni thought buddies, a whole nother level above supER, and we're laughing at the sunking who fell from godhood, landed in kaliflorida, suffused with a felt presence of immediate experience that's so convenient for a dilated death-dive, not defying anything but surrendering, and it just so happens, it's a winning move, check, mate

but what neither of us know will fill the back issues of discover magazine, and all the news that's fit to print, but i'm holding out for santa claus anyway, just in case

look at how sentence case morphs, like a game of tetris, from conventions to ramshackle convents housing regularly scheduled episodes of deterioration. If I'd taken the iron pill I'd be blaming this uncomfortable gut feeling on that. Maybe the gut is plunging periscopes into a membrane of reality. Effects, affects, defects, prefects,
it all went downhill when i stepped in the same river twice, didn't i?
yes, i did, and it did all go downhill at approximately that time
at roughly the same spot in the same river, aayaand,,,
talk to yourself some more, cause this is the time to do it

...another day slipped through my fingers. dot pollution
that's okay, it's just a day

Learning to live on rocket fuel

What is happening? Despair, that is the inevitable consequence of genetic decay. We're down to a quarter life now. And I'm somehow worst of all, a trough under the heavy bottom. Our children will curse our name? Yeah, maybe. That's what I'm thinking about. And irradiation. And hot things and things that give off things that Geiger detectors detect that make everything cancerous in a few days. "Sheer exhaustion", finally, what death comes from, what a horrific phrase. . Cc. ., ., .., ..., . Z z - z y

I had to put the book down, "on the beach", it was too disturbing. And not in the way that an apocalypse dramatization normally is. In a quieter more insidious more real way, like not a sanaTIZED mass death, but rather dreary sanity intersecting that death, made somehow sharper when people are trying to milk their last months racing sports cars in dangerous and deadly rallies and there's a little humour in it, but a kind of cold British type that's delivered without a smile.

It hasn't all caught up to me yet. But actually, at least locally, the amount of stuff that has to catch up is decreasing logarithmically. And look what I've already got over! This is nothing compared to that!

sorry about the gouge in the wall

i'd like to say it won't happen again

so i will

and you'll like to hear it

but of course something like that'll happen again

cause secretly, it's a thing i stupidly like about myself

that stupid recklessness

there's method to the madness

that method being, to go mad, that involves methodical work on superfluous selfish things and things peripheral to that, a fuzzy cloud of delirium and lukewarm fever

but there's always an abyss in nullspace in a select few nanoseconds that's an ephemeral home to dreams that are almost a consolation - but mostly fever - and so much sweat - and urinary delusions - piss paranoia - hearing loss - a heavy head - loaded with blanks

what is a statesperson?

does a statesperson imperfectly implement a solution to a problem not everyone can agree upon? the infuriating and confusing thing is that within the varying degrees of practicality are all kinds of things, hideous and beautiful, and we, us common lay people have got to come to our own decision, about which one is the one we're gonna take

more refurbishing of old compositions

i've been doing a lot of this in the last few months, but haven't got around to posting any links - so, yo echo chamber, here's a bunch of old things i wrote that i've recomposed a little, and re-recorded a lot ('course all my music is now posted on my blog, cause i've just discovered the pages feature of blogger):

first and last

Damned

Synergy

Depraved Parade

insolence

dereveries

Kalimbe

Prelude in D minor

Prelude in G major

Prelude in B flat minor

Cabin Fever

"Non negotiable," it says, in large type at the bottom of the paycheque. Strange they felt it necessary to add that. I wouldn't have assumed there was a haggling process that followed, but why do they gotta rub it in? Why don't they just put "wage slave pittance", and get to the point? And oh, whoops, clumsy, they dropped it. Go on, pick it up! Atta boy.

Ghandiose death, with god on your lips. God, I am proud to be your humble servant. I'm spinning off the wheel of life, whee! Where it doesn't matter what happens to whitey, the color wheel is done. Off the wheel is God, that's my definition.

Or, God! Make this pain stop! I thought it wasn't supposed to hurt! I thought there was a special grace in case of assassination. The only reason I look so stoic and heroic is cause I can't get enough air to scream! And thank God my awareness is fading before I've had the chance to beg for life. Maybe it's just awareness that goes, not feeling. Maybe things will exist, I just won't be aware of it.

Wait a minute, that's what I thought all along! So why's it such a revelation? Special dispensation? Revelation in the veil and devaluation of awareness. Maybe I don't need to be Aware of every damned thing to enjoy it! What's revealed as I pass the threshold, from life-by-proxy to unlife-by-proxy is that what I'm not aware of is still part of me, something I'm able to feel. Sounds kinda flat though, doesn't it?

Thank God that's over. Baby shoes, never worn.

Feeling weird

Things are weird these days. That's what everyone says. Even death is weird, people feel weird with death, like what do you do? Well, you celebrate the deceased's life a bit, cause it feels good to do that. It's part of the deal, we figure that participating in that makes it safe to assume that we'll be celebrated a bit some day, when we're not around to join in. If only my wake could be like finnegan's. But it feels good, in the muddy mire of weirdness.

My sponsor lost his sponsor. To liver failure, after 25 years sober. The 2nd liver didn't take, but if it weren't for that transplant interlude that give him another year of life, and fucking vitality to boot, I never would have met him. And damn am I glad I did. But he left weirdness in his wake - that will become a spot of gum from the eighties on the concrete, fluorescent colours unnoticed from above except as a speck in the gravel grain, contributing as pixel to the mean hue.

With my last ounce of strength... I write and post a five star review of the iPhone app "7 little words", on iTunes App Store site, calling it "surprisingly fun" and questioning my instinctual pigeonholing of word games as being pathetic time idling for people with nothing better to do...

So, something, a way of reaching out to the world, in goodwill, a gesture, something to be remembered for in all hypocritical generosity, despite whatever else, he did that, he posted a review praising a word game he liked. Surprisingly liked, like it was an unexpected fig from the ancient tree.

With my last gram of strength I think about how black humour is so easy to traffic in when circumstances are only moderately trying. The divide is so deep. When the black humour is cutting inward as much as outward and you recognize the opportunity for heroic writing if nothing else, it's never less fun or funny. But it's something to do between work, word games, and digital media with dishes stacked, unwashed, stomach protest barely noticed, background noise, and the slow grinding of a better feeling taking too long but maybe at least noticeable like the sliver of a second hand on a clock.

newton the human

what did i do? not much, but what did he do? quite a lot, while younger, too - but he stood on the shoulders of giants, he said

and me, for my part... i did a little... i didn't shuffle half-heartedly through every second of my life - i wasn't stillborn and stagnant, but i hit a stalemate early, and proceeded to play drinking games with the ticking chess clock, like i had all the time in the world, for re-arranging letters in words - but i had an arc, and grew, to a point - maybe not for the better and i didn't grow forever - the last movement was a trite ritardando

but there were some funny places, wry times, when i made unique use of things that had been made available to me, after a long road paved with good intentions, maybe the road to hell, but a long one with good intentions, of female persuasion bearing the brunt of procreation and males dissuaded from suicide by the promise of yet another one of these exhaustively trashed generations, making francis cobain's pre-hab clinic graduation ceremony, taking the hit for me, so i never had to be a dad, but you had to get your diploma, and it worked out great for me, so you could service my power line when the storm knocked it down, that allowed me to type a line i thought was witty, which sadly became number three in my top ten points of life and legacy, most of them tied to technology and a rarefied cultural circumstance in a vertex of geography and history's graphical overlay (it won't interpolate cause the function's fucked)

but one of them was tied to a woman. . . which i never thought was my game - but i was still human, getting my pantlegs snagged on poorly plastered-over juttings of antique pipe-maze from evolution's sub-basement boiler rooms that power this program the master mainframe's running for azathoth's avatar, he played my life like a first-person slacker - shiva watched the show for a token respawn cycle, yawned, "slipped" on the power bar, stubbed her toe and cursed at azathoth, made Him feel like a dog, a pavlovian one - and i described it like that, half-grinning, half-chagrined, having taken pride in a little thing from a big ugly thing, clinging to the outcropping, wanting to live there, being bound to self more than anything else, let alone everything else

but sometimes

i can take pride in "everything else" too, and feel a part of that

and sometimes

i can feel shame in "everything else" too, but the shame never extends to exactly everything because when the shame comes, it only exists by contrast with something that must exist somewhere, someone so good as to enable all this shit we do in our sprawling, spiritually-destitute decadence where a little newton goes a long way, yes, a moon rocket is decadent, but not in the same way as Husky Energy's office suite on the 6th floor of the Scotiabank Building on Water Street, where three computer monitors per cubicle are the average (mind you, not the median) and i scavenge USB peripherals from their trash bins, cause i'm part of the cleaning staff, i have that access, it's what i do for a living, it's where this life has led me, not the path of least resistance, i put up token resistance at times, once going so far as learning how to drive and be another self-righteous road-raging member of this motor society, which can be convenient, i'll admit, but oh, the agony of learning even basic things, in this society, and i basked in pyrrhic wins by cryptic victory laps, but when you chalk it up, i didn't resist much, and consequently, no real victory over anything

and on this office chalkboard over here are mathematical equations that relate to drilling pressure, i'm guessing, i don't understand them but they look impressive, he's not just some contemptible business drone, he's an engineer, with practical skills and brainpower profitably entwined, and i'm cleaning for an oil company, apparently i have enough left to lose to be willing to collaborate with corporations that are saving for fallout shelters for their families, cause they love their families, but not their janitors, cause their janitors don't smile - well, the dominican does and the philippinos do sometimes, but the canadian one, he's an insolent white little weasel, and i can't blame them, i wouldn't like me either, being all non-smiley, but maybe they'll take the dominican, the nice bible-reading man (who suffered enough already for our sins, you can tell by his thick accent) with them into their oil crash calamity buffer drome, and sure there'll be hordes who won't get in, the kind that never win contests, the born-losers rockin' the free world at a one-man pabst party, 'twas ever thus, the BPers would say, but they're all azathoth's figurines left out in the woods at night, right?

so when i feel the kind of shame that can extend far beyond myself, it always stops short of the idea of this one person, the good son that keeps the family together, just barely, hanging by a thread while eleven other siblings drink and bet themselves and their children to ruin, but that good son somehow pulls a christmas out of his ass every year, he saves christmas, and christmas saves the family one slice of wholesome happiness a year, and it's all because of someone like him, the only one among us sinners (incidentally correlating to the jesus function via vertices) [or the adopted daughter of the lesbian god], set against the wastes of innocent material, wand cruel dynamics, and gratuitous grace of nerve reprieve in the irony of oceanic desire, bottomless, and the irony of damaged nerves, benevolence, in the global sandbar summer of love, so shallow everywhere so bring your boat over to my bay, we'll have another sandbar party over my way, and then when we're done having that, we'll party back at your barsand

once i admired the mandible mechanics of a social insect, though i doubted it was a point of pride for that bug, as a being - but maybe it was, and if it was, then i could relate to its pride when i've thought that for all the lowness of me in this era, with opportunities undreamed of by an unbroken chain of ancestral genetic iteration stretching back through prehistoric haze, and the chasm spanning what i could do - and what i did do (sweet fuck all) with this situation... there's still some personal trivia that makes my head swell stupidly at stupid times and i get those stupid waves of nausea in feeling it, and love/hate the feeling - but it's true that i can type with speed and precision on a computer keyboard - which is a neat trick, i don't see anything outside my species pulling that off - and there are even some in my species who covet that ability - and oh how cute it is when anyone, ever, looks up to me for anything, awhahahaww

and i can read, too, how 'bout that? and i can talk, and walk - this nerve clump in my skull cage (the most densely ramified matter in the universe, some say) is some sophisticated shit, man - and if you think i'm something, you're barely scratching the surface - just check out this guy newton for example, he's got a derived unit of measurement named after him - he got it through higher level functioning than i could ever be bothered with - not that i ever had the option to function at that level through sufficient bother - but i did have the option to at least dig how you derive a newton, and i couldn't be bothered with that either - it would have caused intolerable bother, for everyone - i would have graduated high school and gone on to a university shooting - it wouldn't be worth it - i would have killed the brainiac who would have gone on to figure out cold fusion - and all for the brains to figure out how to build a fertilizer bomb

but i'm kinda proud that newton's a human and i'm one too - i mean, we don't come from the same family or anything, but our DNA maps aren't that different - and hey, we even speak the same language, just different-era dialects - and we can both read, so we're practically blood brothers - even though we'd probably hate each other if we got together in person, and i'd probably make him ashamed to be human - and i'd still feel grudging pride that he's human, pride by osmosis, but i'd hate the way the universe works that makes these people who make me ashamed to be me...

...but it's not all about me

so it turns out that pride is inversely proportional to ego, a nice contrarian twist - so why do i get so gloomy so often, when there's bliss in ego-less immortality, so close to the taking, with just a slip of the identkey and a slip off the self?!

in those little moments of joggling, the door seems to open for a second and what i normally feel as wishful thinking, and a gyp of an afterlife, is actually the REAL DEAL, a kind of big picture peace and tranquility with bite: the bite of the first worm through the lead-lined coffin buffet - when i'm no longer the embalmed corpse in the coffin but the worm excelling at being the worm - ah, what i used to think of as enlightenment, now ringing like a brain aneurysm, an artifact of over-zealous cells i so enjoyed a decade ago - the zeal is gone, salvation is late, or way too early, so i'll continue adding projects to my daytimer, some to do today, some to do tomorrow, some to do in a month, some to do maybe soon maybe later maybe never

anchor phone improv

pinned down on self aware island. good thing I'm not part of this program, imagine the pressure if I was! lots of kids. balloons. families. been a while since I tried to absorb much for journalistic purposes. a-social, not anti-social / forget labels

relative safety at the corner table. a little moment. remembering other little moments that I don't normally think to remember. the balloons remind me of that ride I got with the natives from long beach in one of my many hitches back from the Tofino job. the baby in the back seat, facing the DVD player screen. but he wasn't watching the DVD, he was focused on his balloon, batting it around the backseat of the car, and me deputized to play with him, a natural way of amicability as partial payback for the ride. and no strain or contrivance on my part, how rare and precious that was, to just instinctually join this kind of bond, with no burden of obligation. isn't it nice when pleasantries are pleasant? why must that pleasure be so rare for me? and the parents in the front so chill, no acknowledgement needed, just driving and listening to this strange flavor of metal i'd never heard. so I played balloon with the baby, with dilligence, batting it back to his side of the car when he managed to flail it my way. and it was so clear how he found it to be the funnest funniest game in the world. so free of that ambiguity that clouds everything. it was nice. I'll take it.

now I got this phone as a shield instead of a notebook. and it's got advantages in that it doesn't look like I'm writing as a shield from social anxiety. I could just be one of those always texting assholes. then I'd be anti-social but I'd still sort of fit in, in some sad way.

the devil's ass-crack

i could do what's in front of me - but i have the feeling it wouldn't do any good - i could delay though - and that's what i'm doing - cause i'm not exactly jonesing - and doing what's in front of me, well, it's not all bad - it's not half bad even - maybe i'll do half of what's in front of me - or some fraction, anyway - dishes and laundry, at least - and plants need watering - it's not nearly enough to provide focus, direction, let alone purpose (forget purpose, distraction would suffice), but it's something

i don't make a good goody goody or hero though, i've found - i make a better anti-hero - not that i make a great anti-hero either, just marginally better than the former - i'd probably make a good paranoid android though, yeah

a token effort at being less self-absorbed by reaching out to the world and focusing on the external, is not just a token effort - but it still smacks of one - which makes one wonder, why bother? but i'm sure i'll keep trying, cause it's fundamentally for myself, anyway, to assuage guilt, to be able to say to myself, i at least tried to do something selfless today - i find, though, morality gets boring quickly, and to be boring is the ultimate sin, the deadliest - makes everything feel like death - i suspect it could have quite a lot to do with serotonin

serotonin is a beautiful word - a lot of chemical names are, especially the molecules of organic chemistry, and even better, bio-chemistry - and botany - they sound like music, and saying and typing the names with their correct spellings, hopefully, is like playing an etude de virtuosite

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