conveyor

stately jonathan sergei hector phillip slicey holmes methyl jekyll cribbon veronica rocksoff molly levonorgestrel maxiquadrillion d'don von minitrinity hecate borus nathaniel lydia charleston lumumba francois phenotype robinsino fuck messier whitman'll sparnford woke up at three o' the clock ano maturity because i say so and so others do unto me

ah, the richness of the waking-up metaphor, however inapropos - how profitable the vein of future lyrics a branch of assonance promises in an uncarved block of schlock and trite workmanlike information conveyed by belts - what's the cycles per second up to, thirty-two gigahertz? tomorrow's mills and processing facilities are here today, horray!

'n so, what is writing, again? i must have forgot, lost the sense of it - best case scenario, i'm a technician sans magic lately ('xcept the magic fader), but i do believe in magic, man - but writing, that wretched thing, feels weird, either solipsistic, or presumptuous, that anyone should read - either/or - perhaps i should switch to sentence case and re-embrace punctuation, just to crick and crack some bones i never knew were stiff to the point of brittle - ol' man johnny ain't what'e used to be - dick-ay, eh? at the rate of a pro-football player minus ever having any physical prowess - except the sneaky smallness of his frame, being able to hide and fit in tiny spaces to evade the giants, and the fast metabolism, nothing sticks to the ribs - he never was very limber though, never could do those splits and lunges and yoga moves, and now he's on the fasttrack from that subpar norm to malady accelerado, where he's supposed to "learn" what he's felt all his damn life, the fragility of physique, the reality of mortality, the fleetingness of life, etcetera - you caint school me on nothin' jack, i knew it already

okay jackey, maybe you can school me on a few things, i stretched that point a bit just to make a point that needed to be made and taken to counterbalance a giant bias of trite-ness that gets mistaken for sage wisdom, because convention gets so big and heavy it gets to attaining an oppressive gravity that people mistake for a universal constant rather than an accident of mass

Oxygen

song by hectorthecrow and Luc Forget
words by Luc Forget
guitar, dulcimer, and psaltry by Pamela Morgan
drums by George Morgan

lyrics:
i am oxygen
you are hydrogen
together we make water
we are the clouds who rain down
we gather in valleys
carving our way
through deep canyons
where we eventually spill
into the ocean
and evaporate, once again
to contribute to a new cloud

Trumpet Boris

song by hectorthecrow and Luc Forget
words by Luc Forget
guitar by Pamela Morgan
drums by George Morgan
featuring Luc's boy Fidel!

lyrics:
you are a trip artist
cause when i look at you
i'm never sure of anything anymore
purity's obscurity assures

you are so pure, you have no boundaries
i hate that i have to temper you
his name is trumpet boris, you said
how can i bring myself to correct you?

you are so pure, i love to watch you play
rockin' the boat that we're all on
old school, old soul, i am new in your eyes
but i am your father in this life

you are so pure, you have no boundaries
i hate that i have to temper you
his name is trumpet boris, you said
how can i bring myself to correct you?

you are so pure, i love to watch you play
rockin' the boat that we're all on

Magic Fader

lyrics:

i got a magic fader
smells like a magic marker
it is a lucky charm
it keeps my fingers busy

i got a magic fader
it makes the room darker
it is my lucky charm
it only works on me

i wish it worked on you, i wish it worked on you, i really do
it only works on me

i love my magic fader
i love my magic fader
it is my favourite fader
because it's magic

there is no magic anywhere
except the magic fader
that's why i keep my cold finger
on the magic fader

kootenay snow in the synapses
state boundaries make good riddles
empty heads make good rattles
good nexus makes a good good nexus

i got a welfare cosmos
i got a welfare cosmos
i got a magic fader
i got a magic marker

i got a welfare cosmos
i got a welfare cosmos
i got a good good deal
take it with a grain of salt and a gram of soma

If happiness could be rationed
and redistributed
would there be enough to go around?

once i fingered synesthetic braille
i didn't have to try very hard
colors were pitchy, contours loved me
spiritual hangover when penance didn't hurt

now things are different, there's lots more channels
and most of them don't work anymore
but i keep my finger on the magic fader
simplicity through sensory starvation

i am a monkey, i am a monkey
i am a monkey with a magic fader
it is my lucky charm
it keeps my fingers busy, yeah

stay to the left and you'll get through the labyrinth
stay to the right and you'll get through the night

i love my magic fader
i love my magic fader
it is my favourite fader
because it's magically delicious

i got a welfare cosmos
i got a welfare cosmos
pharm-fresh, filling up the cavity
let's call absence substance tonight

kootenay snow in the sinuses
perfect crystalline creek street nexus
saving waves in state boundaries
citizen of the welfare cosmos

i got a welfare cosmos
i got a welfare cosmos
i got a magic fader
i got a magic fader

i got a magic marker
i got a lucky charmer
i got a good good deal
take it with a grain of salt and a gram of soma

once i'd invite fast friends from the rotting
porch into my corner to
play, we'd play with the magic fader, it was
not my fader, it was our fader
we'd have magic parties
they'd fade, they'd fade, they'd fade
but there was a picture of a mixer
on the fridge to remind us of the magic fader

this is how we do it on creek street
this is how we like it on creek street
it used to be like this on stanley
'til he gave the lease to some earthbound family
not the cosmic family in my head
always already, always already
those members i'd invite into my corner
to play with the magic fader

stay to the left and you'll get through the labyrinth
stay to the right and you'll get through the night

this is how we do it on creek street
this is creek street welfare
galactic information warfare (sic)
every good boy deserves fentanyl

i got a welfare cosmos
i got a welfare cosmos
i got a magic fader
i got a magic fader

i got a magic marker
it is a lucky charmer
i got a good good deal

If happiness could be rationed
and redistributed
would there be enough to go around?

everybodygetsatrophy

lyrics:

here comes everybody, here comes everybody
humphrey chimpton earwicker's here in the third tier
everybody gets a trophy, everybody gets a trophy,
everybody gets a trophy, everybody gets atrophy

we like this poem
and this one too, five stars all around
we like this song
like we like facebook on facebook
like we like crack on crack
we like this picture
and the sixty million like it
we're picking this one to not like
to meet the criticism quota

it took a long time, it took a lot out of us
to play at being snobs
it's the hard won summit of a molehill, from which we see
the flatness of the world, and the mobs who took our jobs
the most serious and somber procedure of arranging
words and tones into pretty little patterns
feels important if you just don't think about it too hard
the solipsist will benefit

everybody gets a trophy
listening to your music is charity
i'm counting on your reciprocity
we stay alive symbiotically
everybody gets a trophy
so we can all pretend we're special
because we know we're insignificant
can't face that reality

music is worthless, information's free
the masses are superior to you and me
they work harder and they work dirt cheap
they keep busy contriving creativity

i haven't felt right since a lot of things
i haven't felt right since i saw the deadlight, it ain't no birthright

everybody gets atrophy
so much opportunity to do
what's been done a billion times before
the difference makes no difference anymore
crowd-sourcing apathy
let the trends become a tsunami
let it wash over me
with super-fluent superfluity

a rising tide lifts every boat... oh lord, i can see if from here
kill empathy - it's the only way
a rising tide lifts every boat... and drowns those tied to the pier
but everybody gets a trophy
a rising tide - lifts every yacht... oh lord, i can see them from here
kill empathy - kill empathy now
a rising tide - lifts all the yachts - and drowns those dockworkers tied to the pier
but everybody gets a trophy, that's right

rebuilding, re-breeding like we always do
but people aren’t special these days
we are masses and masses and most of us are surplus
someone's got us pegged
we're statistics, not tragedies, notes, not melodies
in demographic symphonies, playing dusk to dawn
they herd us through the mall corrals, put us out to pasture
buried under short-cut cemetery lawn

nobody gets benefits
but if you ever get in trouble
think of something sad to force the tears
and game the system with your pretty intern face
sympathy's your consolation prize
it's barely sympathy, much less empathy
really just self pity, self justification
the only kind of justice there can be

everybody gets atrophy
listening to your music is charity
i'm counting on your reciprocity
we only live symbiotically
everybody gets a trophy
listening to your music is charity
we gave it our attention for a string of seconds
a canteen in the desert of mutual apathy

music is worthless, information's free
the masses are superior to you and me
they all work harder and they work dirt cheap
they keep busy contriving creativity

i haven't felt right since my last fit of ecstasy
i saw the deadlight, it was no birthright, it's gonna make me wish i never had sight

kill empathy, it's the only way to survive the 21st century
we've done studies, you can't bring your mercy to the 21st century
it's okay, you'll be fine, we'll cut tragedy
make it passe like christian charity
it's a highly nuanced upgrade - some nerves need be severed
learn to love the blackouts and the operation will go smoothly
we'll cut funding to your soul, you can live without a soul, did you know?
you're a brain in a body, arbitrary, we can save your ego
forget your soul just save the ego - the solipsist will benefit
cause you can't contain the biosphere's pain
cut off your nose to spite your face, scorch the earth and mine space
the only answer is synthetic distillation
design drugs, customize genes
cook up schemes, solidify memes
kill empathy, it's the only way that we'll survive this century

everybody gets atrophy
so much to do, but so many to do it
it's been done a trillion times before
the difference makes no difference anymore
so let the crowd source our destiny
let the trends become a tsunami

a rising tide lifts every boat... oh lord, i can see it from here
a rising tide lifts every boat ... and drowns all the rest of us tied to the pier

talking monkeys, earth's greatest magic act turned into a housing tract
crammed into little vocational cavities for lack of opportunities
be sure to buy some anesthetic for your poor sore pegs
of jagged genetic defection
we're food for the next five hundred generations of germs
they're one step ahead, two steps, four steps, eight steps
revenge of synthetic perfection

we're all on the spectrum
you're not unique because you're weak
we're all in the hive mind
no your weakness isn't strong
we don't care about privacy
don't even know what it is
privacy's pre-millennium
can't imagine what you'd want with it

we're all in the hive mind
hive-mindedly hating each other
cause familiarity breeds contempt
and most people think they're better than most people
it's so pitifully predictable that i think i'm so different
just like you think you're so so different
but at least we think we're different in different ways
something to cling to

everybody gets a trophy
listening to your music is charity
i'm counting on your reciprocity
we stay alive symbiotically
everybody is a hero
for getting through an average day
congratulations hero
you blocked out that reality

put on your leather and join a side
pick a seat on the sadomasochistic thrill-ride
no empathy allowed on the thrill-ride
no sympathy given on the thrill-ride
that's your vision dreamer, let the sunshine out
let the inner light burn, let your bleeding heart clot
let the capitalists take care of it
let them venture let them gain
and fuck the ones who lost the game
deal with your own pain or be chained
to the gross global product of suffering and misery
against the grain of society
you'll be insane with empathy
seek self in the hive mind
there's no shame in the hive mind
and kill empathy
it's the only way you'll win a trophy

industrial munitions, lots of competition
plenty of ambition for precision machinery
cheap food, cheap gas, cheap labour, cheap life
the product of the 21th century
summertime is all the time
and the living in queasy in economy class
trying and dying while the water dries up
just giving it the old college drop-out try
or maybe cancel the struggle with anesthetic death
and reach for the pistol or the crystal meth
cause those saps on the coast had no warning, but you do
and who needs the chills of the heat death?

the country voted to do another line
keep the binge going, a second term is fine!
send an amazon donation to the starving hordes
eat popcorn, watch disaster porn
i'm unique, just like everybody else
like ashflakes of nuclear winter
like dental records fossilized
and blank plankton in the tides

they say one day the culling will be done
and we'll be back in harmony
or spaced out in space colonies, no thanks to me
i'm too busy consuming facts of life for breakfast
excreting rich cream filling
recycling waste for efficient malnutrition
unwilling to be the first victim
let the brown drown, the ones who couldn’t find higher ground
the hut people on the flipside of the planet, damnit
let them bear the brunt of the purge
like they always do, they're used to it
thick-skinned holy mass of messiahs
god bless 'em, no! don't look at me
i'm weak, i admit it happily
i don't make a good martyr
my genetic specs support vast sensation
at the cost of delicate nerves
they're destined for the microchip mothership
we'll escape this planet with, some millennium
some millennium, some millennium
some motherfuckin' millennium

nuance continues to squirm, divide
split hairs deep inside
the folded-on-itself cerebral cortex
nuance to prop up hypocrisy
to rationalize racism, vindicate apathy
disconnect me from reality

virii mutating, natural intelligence
casually bandied-about apocalypse
like a sci-fi premise, a rusty eschatology
shallow sutra, string-bean poetry
all washed up on wreck beach, tsunami-surplus

everybody gets atrophy
gimme gimme gimme gimme a trophy

finally finished recording a solo album

quite a relief to be done... maybe i'll actually write some words now

fuck, just wanted to say fuck, but not on facebook, fuck that

wish i could write something - could theoretically have a lot to say, but i'm too drained, wiped, burnt out from demands of life, overwork, being overworked, pulled in too many directions, fed up, wanting to escape, like a geographical cure - gordian knot, the impracticality of taking off - i almost could though - but not quite - maybe some actual crafted words later - perpetual later, manyana

the surrealness of the family unit

magnanimous bullshit

stop making sense, it's unbecoming, unladylike and unmanly, merely dreary sanity, skinnyfat, pimply wisdom - that's just the way it is, that's just the way i am, i took out life insurance, it's my policy, see'n's'how honesty's on the blink, but money will serve to quantify things

ck-ck-ck-ckyeah, baby!

i got nothing to say

but i'm gonna say nothing in the form of a hat dance

i got nothing to say, but i'm gonna say things anyway

okay, that's about enough on nothing - about enough, but not exactly enough

i got nothing to say, but i got rid of all the drafts in a blog caulking project on a tight schedule, sewing a pant leg onto a patch, it'll make a good pauper's rag, if i know anything about that, which i don't, but maybe i'll get lucky

i bumped down the clown, dr. rockso in case you didn't know, the rock 'n roll clown from metalocalypse - i meant to write a post about how i often feel like dr. rockso when he's on that sea-saw of trying to go straight-edge, then caving in to crazy, but i'm not much of a writer of words lately, i'm just mooshing around the idea like a lump of stress putty, keeping hands busy on something pointless when they could be getting projects ready for deadlines instead, but i'm not feeling it now, not feeling like i got the words i need, for said projects, so fuck it, i'll moosh around an idea instead that's almost formed enough to be a good song or even better, an epic blog post, how long's it been since that happened? too long - it's almost there, that lump, but not quite, instead it's a monstrous tumour, but good news, it's benign!

that being said, the envelope lost a few nodes, the line's dotted, the model train's off track... and a person got shot in my dreams - i surveyed the happening like an odd god on the nod - i'd settle for dreams if that's all i can get after death, but that's probably asking too much - still, i'll call, i'll put my dreams on the table, i've got to leave it to a settled pile of shuffled cards, i'm not the master of my own destiny, i'll make a life out of that defeatist principle, write a sensitive folk song along those lines, die in delirium when it rolls around to that, and have a hang over on the ledge below the edge - an encore of looking for the black cat that isn't there, but it's about the stumble in the dark, not the non-destination

even perfection isn't perfect

torch snuffed

why is the sutra looking so backward looking lately? neurodynamics

i dropped the torch in a lazy fit of drowsy itch - it's over, but i might make a few ghostly moans anyway, and continue to remember a thing i had with a womon, an amazing thing for a creature such as me, how did it ever happen that i had that chapter in my life? among other things, it was certainly status, and self-respect - and it was love, as well

perceiving through quivering meat-curtains of emotion - that's what i call reality - the feeling of personal apocalypse dread seeming so trivial in retrospect - yet - there's another one waiting for me - unless, maybe, i can be so crafty, more crafty than i ever have been, and wriggle under the mandated dread - all i can do is be crafty, practice the craft, the dark arts, act as if there's no god - no sign, no nothing, except all this absurd existence, whatever it is

make a mockery of prayer - make a noose of perception - make mince meat of emotion

what child is this?

-

beryllium

that is my code name for briar, on some occasions

my love of chemistry and my love for a woman meld in that moniker

so i guess i'll talk about that, since it's on my mind - the thing i lost

women - you can't live with them and you can't live without them

i guess you can, but it's harder - it may, in fact, be harder to live without than with

certainly the heart grows fonder, in absentia - to an excruciating degree

i wouldn't have thought i'd be carrying a torch six months after the ambiguous turned concrete break up, but i found the torch materialize in my hand from thin air... 

imagine different time streams... choices at the quantum level, pre-destiny, or fissures in fate...

throwing caution to the wind and having a child - or maybe just a marriage, like an adult, like my sister, always three steps ahead of me in this life thing, and yet two years younger... we share genes, but we've diverged in our life paths and created different time streams

a marriage, with no kids, but a commitment, a ring from three months "salary" (haha, some fraction of what i pull in washing dishes for minimum wage)... i complained bitterly about my job at times, but it's true, i've been lucky to be employed in even menial positions - nothing is really menial when you get right down to it - it's not good for me to be unemployed, which is why i seek volunteer work - it's not good for me to be single, which is why i'm kind of grieving a bit over the loss of that woman - only now, is it hitting me hard - i'm not gonna be a hurtbag about it i don't think, i haven't gone to that extreme, i've barely complained about it at all, not like i did at the bitter end of the five year thing with the other girl - she was a girl to me, but also a woman, a deep and disturbed one, who i think has made some better healthier time streams for herself

not sure if this has bearing or not, but actually i am sure: my friend luc presciently and rhetorically asked: how thick does the steak need to be? actually it wasn't rhetorical and eternally pertinent

the joy of sculpture, lego manipulation becomes a castle of tumours - not eyepowder though, that wretched alluring thread... finchy saved it, for posterity - we're gonna need records

sound shapes, like bobby terrence experimented with

Cadmium

the forgotten element

irony is dead, long live irony

i don't quite remember how to write, or what it was for, but my heart still beats - medulla keeps meddling - i don't remember what it was for, cause everything seems to be past tense now - i've been in a downward spiral of diminishing returns trying to recapture old feelings - they're the only feelings i know

there's a scary asshole self who is negative, like mephistopheles, who carves a lumpen proletariat into a renaissance man - it's interesting to note that i know this man, that can farm words from the driest desert, who always has something to say - the mileage i get from liquor combusts memory efficiently, in equal measure

please

pleasure

i don't quite remember what writing is, or what it was for, but it pleases me, or did in the past - it's pleasing to plant seeds by just typing and feel that something is taking root even after i'm done typing, and simply lying in bed, drifting off to sleep - the words remain like a lineage - at least in my hippocampal torus network, so solo... so many lonely people - suffering alone

i wonder if i could foment a personal apocalypse or two with words... i used to have that hubris, now i just wonder - but maybe i'll be driven to try it, is it still possible to drive this hurtin' unit? make a play for the something or other, fuck some shit up? pain pain and gain? i ain't talkin' bout no revolution, i'm talking about love, but what a bizarre word that is today, i'm so defeatist, i don't deserve anything, do i?  that's what got me into this most recent mess in the first place, was aiming higher, aiming for love, like as if i would have any business operating on that stata

please

honeycough ' " ?

it's a package of noodles, but not just any noodles, they're kraft with the alfredo cheese mix and they've got a crinkle shape, and they're not emblematic of anything, and awww... they're even a source of iron! that's so cute, that they take the time to let you know, the people who make those noodles - just fyi, you wouldn't think so, but this stuff has a bit of iron it it, you know? there's a little kick of iron to it, what you do what that information is your own business, but hey, just fyi, it's in there, just so you know, just putting it out there

oh, honeycough, you were always so good to me, you made my throat numb even when it didn't need numbing for the conventional reasons but you aren't biased against my reasons when they circumvent convention, and the numbing of the throat was a not-unwanted side effect of a much broader spectrum of effects - it was touching to notice the lack of sensitivity in my throat when i would induce a cough for a lark, between inside vistas brought on through stimulation of imagination via sense-deprived dissociation - yes, i certainly wouldn't have been inclined to cough with that many mg/kg alright! - anesthesia remains underrated - not that it's not highly rated by many people for many reasons, but even so, it's not thought of fondly enough, it could stand yet more fondness of thought - and i don't think i got done chatting with the devil, there were some loose ends, and there's still living to be done in getting to them, to, if not tie them up, at least play with their ends a bit more, like a twenty year old cat that's got some spring still in her when she gets 'nipped up and sees some loose string dangling there, but the string needs a flip to get dangling, there needs to be a helping hand, some kinetic energy

honeycough, you were good to my body and even better to my mind, i always felt a bond with you, your graphics, your adorable name, the people who manufactured and sold you, their trusting naivete, or maybe there were some knowing winks i didn't know about - i can't make this any harder than it needs to be, mister, cause it's the best of all possible worlds, and what a sad fact that is, although some rare times it feels just fine, that this is the best we can do, because that is a beautiful reflection of this music i'm moving through now

My Account for Individuals

What can I do on My Account?

oh, my account... they set up an account for me, how lovely, i know it was a page of a page of a page created from web code, automated scripts, but the result is personal - it's a story that will make you believe in god - cause there's nothing to be done with this but to ascribe some meaning that we prefer, as opposed to an impersonal randomness

Cooler temperatures outside. Best to keep a hat and mitts handy




knuckle tile

bait space
trying to cultivate vaccuphilia
-
people tell stories at meetings, oh god, how they tell stories
and i could tell stories too, but i'm stymied, cause
where to begin? the second i've got an idea of where to delve into it
the guy next to me goes on a bragging jag about how he used to be
such a baaaaaaad mutha fucka, but infuriatingly, in the guise of
how i was so sick, so sickly sick, but thank god, i've recovered
and my life's so much better, but he mostly just wants you to know
how baaaaaad he was, and you wouldn't have wanted to mess with him back then
cause back then he was gettin into all sorts of brawls, and who knows
what mighta happened to you, if you'd messed with him back then,
cause he was so sick, but lucky him, he found a god
so he gets to have his plague cake and eat it too

skid row give'n'take

faxx-ache

good god, 'twas the best bad beer in this whole bad ol' lil' world

so then, i remember when, cause those remember when stories
make me think of the most fucked up shit from my daze, and
the most fucked up shit makes me crave the most, cause that was
always the attraction, the more twisted the better, the tawdriest was the best
and the needles were perfection, and then the other guy steals my thunder
and i don't know where to begin, cause what i hate in the others the most
is what i'm so deeply ashamed of in myself, maybe cause they get away
with being the reformed dope-fiend raconteurs
whereas i'm left merely craving white powder goodies i haven't tasted in years
you'd think years away would bring some serenity, but even more than booze
for me, the real drugs, the ones that radically rearrange the dopamine
and kappa-opioid receptors, are the ones that have really stuck
in my memory

SOUR coffee, notes, country, constitution, sour taste, foul-weather friend, i'll call to complain, but i won't ever kill the carefully cultivated vibe by copping to any good feeling, ever - or, well, i'll mention it once in a while, i do try to mention it, it's one of those chores i grunt through when enough downtime has passed, i guess i'd better say something positive at this point, maybe if i do, it'll create jobs, cause god knows, people keep creating people, so we gotta create jobs for them, otherwise, they'll kill each other in armed conflict over dwindling supplies of kraft dinner

i did hear a good thing, that resonated with me at the meeting today, it really did, it resonated, even though i have to italicize the word to emphasize how it turns my stomach how trite it is, and how it's used in trite ways by trite people to express trite things, like the lil bite of trite i felt today, about how we used to pray in desperate ways to the porcelain god, is something that you lose in recovery, and need to be reminded of now and then to keep you grounded - and i remember that, and now that the desperation is gone, and the sides of the toilet bowl are dry, there's just a vast flat crater whose cliffs i can't see, and would that it were tranquil like the lunar sea, or numberwang abstraction, a more realistic hope, that, but it's a parade of irritation following me home - here's a positive note though, it doesn't follow into my dreams, my dreams are still a sacred space of happy horror vacuii

the hand i was dealt.... he asked me how i felt about it, a year and change ago now, and back then i answered, earnestly, that i would have to say, it was pretty good luck in the parental lottery, and geographically, i made a killing, and i was forced to admit this, objectively - and i really didn't feel a lot of resentment, i had plenty of other issues, cravings, hopelessness, iron chains of shame, tight loops of self-sabotage, but i didn't seem to have a lot to work with regarding the supposedly all important resentment issue, i actually felt bad for not having enough of it, like it would have made the step-work more intense and profound instead of a breeze

and now i'm as bitter as strychnine - or is it arsenic? As33? And fuck the chem cooks. nux vomica, poison nut, semen strychnos and quaker buttons - anger, so much anger these days, and bitterness, and envy and jealousy and discontent, and petty emotions, oh my god, i would just dyeee if anyone knew about them, so, what'll i do? i'll type them into the blogger window, cause that's safe as soy milk and scientology bashing

i meant every note, or what i meant to say was, i meant those tiles, meaning cleaning tiles, meaning in gleaming tiles - and while cleaning tiles, why do i get nervous and feel like i need to finish quick, or something? it's the fear of being seen actually getting satisfaction out of the menial labour of cleaning floors and getting manic with it, and having it laid bare that i don't do it out of some heroic self-abnegation or even work ethic exactly, except insofar as work ethic is tied up with an obsessive compulsive need to carry some task to a state of what i deem completion according to a set of arbitrary rules i've drafted and revised a hundred times in my head conforming to the evolving contours of my neurotic architecture - and the insanity of the impossible task of keeping grime at bay being an aesthetic unto itself

maybe there's some purpose in finally facing truths head on, especially the truths about those most sacred cows of the most serious and sombre procedure of arranging words and tones into pretty patterns, or ugly patterns that are pretty in their pointed rejection of what would be the "pretty" choice at every vertex like a film-negative - maybe there's a vital need to face up to the farce, rather than grazing the truth of its ridiculousness in a not-so-graceful shuffle - maybe that'll feel good in a strange vital way, while enduring pain i forgot existed, that i hadn't known since dark days of juvenile halls, and might take on new forms at the same or greater intensity... i do feel i'm still so full of lies, the worst of them artistic lies

lies like i'm ever writing just for myself, as you would if the word journal had any meaning - certainly not since blogger, or even before that - since boards - there's been a yearning to share, and yet, the stunt of sharing has proven to be so sick-making, if not contagious

maybe i can rewrite this to disguise some intent, heh, but i won't - good god, how disgusting... i'm so bitter and ungrateful, blessed and hateful, and i'm so sorry about the things i say, and even sorrier about the things i don't say, but maybe i need to accumulate some more sins, need more blatant material for the next confession - maybe i need some, heh, ORIGINAL sins, haha, get it? like it's a play on the biblical idea of original sin and also a brilliantly original piece of comedic wit that no one ever could have possibly thought up before me just now? and i have to write that with extra sarcastic inflection just to be absolutely certain that you know i meant that sarcastically, and was not seriously proposing that my comedic usage of original sin was somehow original

And Thank You, Blogger - most sincerely and non-sarcastically, the most earnest feeling I have among the many earnest feelings I have for inanimate objects and institutions, which are the only feelings of earnestness I have for anything, and the only objects worthy of earnestness, I feel - thank you blogger, for aligning my text to the left, like I asked - it's amazing how much stuff works, in the digital world, amid my myriad mouse clicks and impatient banging away at hotkeys - by all rights, blogger, you would have choked, the user errors would have compounded, but your code is so streamlined, that you pretty much grasped what i was trying to get done, and after a few format stutters, eventually got down to doing my bidding - i'll call that justified

you got me comin' back

song by hectorthecrow and Luc Forget
words by Luc Forget
(he's supposed to sing the lead and play the guitar parts too, but long distance collaboration can slow things down a bit...)

lyrics:
now you got me all wrapped up
and i can't even do anything about it
now you know me inside out, outside in, and i don't
wanna think about it, don't wanna talk about it

now you got me thinking it all over
you got me thinking about smoking cigarettes
oh my heart, and my brain, are at a smoky table
vodka and russian roulette

oh you got me coming back, i'm such a hack
but you just played it, you played it oh so cool
you saw me coming and you set, you set me up
you knew that i would play
you knew that i would play the fool

now you got me thinking it over
and i don't even smoke them cigarettes
oh my heart, and my brain
are at a smoky table
vodka and russian roulette