The unfuckability. None of it will matter when I get on stage. Although my hands are shaking. I should do some callisthenics. Can't even swipe right. I know how to play nine songs tho. I'll do what I can.
Guy dressed up as Dr. Rockso. "I do cocaine!" they supportively shout. Would like to join in the hilarity, because I really do appreciate it so much, you don't even know how much I appreciate, can't see it through my grate of cringe and scowl. Don't think these notes are gonna be good for much.
What to do, what to do ... Waiting. In bad company. Jer on sound, and I'm accused of being shrill - by some independent observer, not the guy who said it at that show six years ago. I guess it's a standard thing people say now, something I should have dealt with earlier. It burns me. Exhausts me. Makes performing feel futile. Maybe if we're doing more shows, I should... you know. Invest... and all that. In some kind of equalizing output pedal or rack or overpriced guacamole. Like that'll work. Maybe I'll record the show after all so I can reference what will be the inevitable issues soundcheck amply showcased but failed to solve. At a certain point I get tired of asking for adjustments that prove impossible. But I take pleasure in being able to document how I can't hear shit. Can't see shit. This is like one of my fever deliriums.
Waiting for the show with no booze to blunt so many edges. And no, people, I don't get laid cause I'm in a band. Oh, plenty of people do, they "clean up", but not me. In fact, I get told that I'm "creeping people out" cause I'm sitting alone in a corner drinking my coffee. Well, in all fairness, I'm in the corner of the room where people are trying to dance to the DJ music, and I'm creeping out "the girls" specifically. Should specify how it stings all the more for that specificity. Some drunk bitch told me that. Like it's my problem that she's creeped out. Yes, put it all on me. I'll drink my coffee somewhere else.
So fuck the empty promises and clichés and faulty pheromones and how I'm not good looking and can't talk without being fucked up and other shit I didn't need to hear and extrapolate from accordingly, and how I underestimated the amount of nicotine I was going to need for this ordeal, and so I have to bum smokes from people who are almost out, and then share them with the drummer who complains that I slobbered on them, and then apologize to the sound guy for my keyboard's shrill tone. Well what do I expect, trying to play in a metal band? He made me smile, at least, when he passive-aggressively snarked that we should all just turn up 'til we bury each other. I've tried to educate myself on technical matters, but in the trenches, the only way I know to wrest my head from the mud is cut through with double digit kilohertz.
I got nothing to do but rant to my phone, so...Well. This is slightly better than standing around on the peripheral of conversations wishing I could take a drink or contribute anything. I can grind out another hour and a half, locked inside the car for solitude. Maybe I should take a nap 'til the show starts and conserve energy required for navigating through this antithesis of controlled conditions where it just doesn't work right and I'm not myself. Not at my best. Could have better wisecracks under better circumstances.
At least we won't be stuck out here in Balfour, cause I got a car and an exit strategy. Kind of want to get out and do something again, but how quickly will that get stale, with the open maw of awkwardness waiting? Maybe I could charge the phone tho? Yeah. And smoke another cig. Cause even with this sealed vehicular buffer, I'm too close to people in the grateful dead parking lot, people who trust their vibes too much, thinking they know what I think. Let's just do the set already.
Yay, I powered through the show and stayed sober.
Leaves me with a bad feeling. Angry. Frustrated. Disillusioned. Foolish. Solitary. Alone. Unfriendly. Unfuckable. Why am I doing this now, of all times, when I'm staying sober? Someone spare me a dart, even? I'm not asking for one, fuck that, I'll suck scavenged smoke from wet stubs. No one to ask. Just people repulsed by my bad energy and physique. Could use some kindness but this ain't the place for it. I'll throw this shit up on blogger anyway, I don't care how it sounds, just for the rawness, and to fill in voids, since I don't write much these days except when feeling shitty enough.
Is it really worth it? Or should I narrow my energy output down to more worthy collaborators, myself alone if need be? On the peripheral. In music, conversation, shows. Oh yay, a fucking ambulance joined the fire truck in blocking off the one car. My borrowed car. When we're all packed up and I just want to ducking ducking fuck fuck fuck fuck ing duckfuck this phone. Fuck inh. Fuck inh fuck ing leave.
I thought I had an exit strategy. Be stoic I guess. About bleeding money from "low cost" dental clinic toothmarks - and everything else. Like this. And oh, I almost forgot. What a goddamn fool I feel like. Playing my heart out in that clusterfuck context. Playing the fool. It gets worse and worse. Stranded here. Waiting for someone to show me some kindness. Ducking shrill visit.
It's hard being sober. OK, I passed a test, I guess. Doesn't really feel like it though. I satisfied my smarter second order desires and saved myself the disaster of a debauch by enduring this. So fine then. Oh. This is tiring. And cold. I need to get warm. Yes. Indeed. And wrap myself up in my phone. I'll re-watch Game of Thrones when I get home. Pathetic, the lengths I go to for escape in sobriety, binge-watching fantasy epics. And fuck music, I'm so off music and the interlocking scenes. Fuck these ducking shallow dumb unkind people... Not my band, they're OK. But fuck them anyway, cause they're not doing me any good.
Wish I could be happy and join the party. If I felt better about the show I could probably be sociable and have some clean fun. But I don't feel good about the show at all. Or about how the one song where I had solo parts I had to play deaf and guess at what I was doing cause the sound guy faded me down to oblivion. To accommodate the real instruments that aren't shrill.
Still blocked off by emergency vehicles here to accommodate multiple mushroom freakouts and firestarters. Noah says this puts a damper on things. He says the right things sometimes, like the VCR that's still blinking 12:00. And all I hear are the names of drugs in peripheral conversations. So disgusted, and it doesn't make me want the shit any less. Dr. Rockso, where are you when I need you? I still love your crazy comic coketastic style. Maybe I'll see you at that great rave in the sky. Maybe when I get dead I can get fucked up again like I used to love, the very idea of it, and the execution, and even the aftermath was afterglowy, when my brain had the capacity to bounce back from outrageous neurochemical abuse. Surely there'll be some silly reward for this toil at the poetic end of it, like how I might have imagined that heaven was an infinite pile of Chips Ahoy cookies when I was five.
There's something new under the sun, let's say, some thing in whose context I'll be so great a fool, such a full blown Quixote that it'll be blissful awareness of folly, a cosmic laugh I can join in with, like a fucking tantric orgasm.
10/14/14
whatever depth
My irony will trump your sincerity at any turn. Cause even when you think you've cleverly brought sincerity to a raw extreme that should shut down any snarky above-it-all posture, like mentioning that your mom just died or something, I will then lower my apathy in accordance, to whatever depth the occasion requires, and make it all meaningless. Death, what does that even mean? Nothing but an opportunity for a wisecrack. Gallows humour, it's all I have, it's where I draw my identity and purpose now, even if it isn't very funny. Funny, as if that's the goal. No, it's a reference springboard, so's I can bounce to the next bit of glitched digital detritus.
10/10/14
Career Workshop Sutra
It's the morning. I don't feel that guilt I get before sleep, that hopeless, cope-less inadequacy and confusion. Righteous anger returns, ratchets up the blood pressure, but my system can take it, so far, clots so far downstream. Anger's better than nocturnal dread, what I call "bond with Blank", what I feel when I'm too tired to do anything but lie in bed hoping sleep comes soon, because I don't want to be a conscious zombie under trazodone sedation, and I'm a thirty-three-year-old babe in the woods. EXGF association. It's eerie how that bond with blank more than anything else is the resonance of a relationship, how once upon a time, she articulated a feeling I thought was so personal no one would ever understand, and despite our chronic communication failure, she worded this feeling, out of the black, in such a way as I knew without a doubt she'd had the same subtle feeling I'd never even thought to verbalize. It's one of those cruel ironies, the thing that made me feel closer to her than anything is apparently just a product of emotionations locked inside the wetware, fall apart without me, body. I even mentioned the "bond" in a letter to her, thinking I was being really expressiony, almost romantic, maybe, but I never heard back. Well, whatyagonna do? Share the sacred nocturne with self in moments of weakness that will rhyme because memories are based on what you thought back on most often in annoyingly repetitive redundancy.
This guy is putting his resume up on the projector for public scrutiny. I gotta respect the humility. He deserves to be a working janitor more than I do. He even used that word, rather than "custodian" or "cleaner". But fuck me if I'm gonna share my pathetic resume or ridiculous career aspirations with anyone, let alone everyone. Gonna stay closed, oh yeah. Workshop participant critiques of workshop participant resumes is just as aggravating as I would have imagined. Absolutely everything that can annoy and depress me... will. Good thing he doesn’t feel my subjective neuroses. Good thing I'm neither exhibiting nor critiquing a resume, lest I get shot down in any way for any reason.
Still so hard dealing with these people. 289 flavours of awhwhkckwhard ness! A real nerd, who is not suddenly revealed to be sexy when the glasses are removed. He's still, sadly, a nerd. He's not happy to be one. Not proud. Neither is she. Yes, even her, even though she's of the sex that makes her a desirable human in the eye of this beholder, flaws rendered passable, even adorable in a weird sort of way, blotchy skin not such a big deal cause she's got that feminine form, a nice figure and a fine face, but even she is a real nerd, the sad kind, despite how clueless I am that she doesn't have it made, being desirable to me, can't she see? Perhaps I should go fuck myself with a VR avatar, post-modern information age nanotech superbot ouroboros coitus.
Hiring practices... Discrimination based on religion is mentioned. Tangent opportunity! Our resident juvenihilist springs into action like he was waiting all workshop to introduce us to the wicked satire of the Pastafarians and their mock deity: the Flying Spaghetti Monster, atheism at a grade nine level. The "bit of a socialist" guy gets flak for them not seeing any volunteer positions on his resume. Ouch. Disgustingly cute: the participant trying to be facilitator. Some guy's misinforming the crowd about PDFs. I won't deign to correct. Is he an adobe shill? "Adohbee". Exaggerated vowels, what Americans think Canadians sound like, local folk happy to validate stereotypes.
This is the Kootenays, someone says for some reason. This is the "Keet-nees" cud-chewing dopey cali dialect, bent, canuckisized, fair-traded. "Trimming bud". Is a funny thing to mention while we're on the subject of jobs. At this job workshop. Ahaha, how hilarious, another bud-related bon-mot. And see if you can work in a reference to Shambhala. Seeeper Keet-nee enunciator takin' his sreeet time, seeeper sreeet, beakin' off about how he got burnt out and qruit that time, campin' out in chesty vowels, mashin' those words to mush, making it impossible to think of anything else, seeeeeeper confident in conveying what precisely he doesn't know, for your perusal. Pause for laughter. Nice. "You're so Kootenay dude", someone says. And a reference to Starbelly, could you at least say Starbelly Jam to make it a little less nicknamey? Everybody perks up at Starbelly. Perk perk perk. It's fun to think about, when you're at a work workshop, cause it's a music festival. Something to talk about. And rig-pigs, and Fort Mac.
Now I'm treated to people opining about movies. Smooth how he worked in the phrase "anti-septic" to describe 2001, so slick, like he tosses around such qualifiers as a matter of course, when pontificating on the nuances of sci-fi filmography. "It wasn't anti-septic to me", the other guy says.
The mere mention of Kalesnikov Lumber is like a dagger in my heart. No, that's too romantic a metaphor. More like a catheter in my dick. Oh, they do six hour interviews there? And they don't let you know that beforehand, so it's just, oh, by the way, there's more courses to this thing than a twelve star restaurant. Well then... And somebody mentions that he thinks they pay 20$ an hour. Don't know why, but I loathe this piece of information. Fuck, gotta leave, soon. This isn't gonna get any better. People're gonna keep piping up. I'm gonna keep hating it.
Oh look, the Keets keener keeps opining, on anything and everything. Fun facts about The Royal and liquor licenses. It's objectively funny to mention how they're legally prohibited from letting their patrons dance, but hearing this mentioned is like a catheter in my dick. Here we go on a tangent again. |________| Maybe I can bail before they make us marionette ourselves in mock interviews.
Grabbed a carrot stick from the snack table to crunch on, a loud protest to vent frustration passive-aggressively when they veer off topic into grandstanding horseshit. It's the carrot AND the stick. Oh lookey here, ol' Keet-nee Ale wants to LOOK his theoretical applicants in the EYE cause he thinks he's a poker master and can always tell everyone's tells... Cause no one could ever suppress feelings in person! Here's my tell, here's a pattern you can factor into your trenchant analysis: Every time I take a bite off this oversized carrot stick, I'm praying for lesions on your vocal cords and cancer in your throat. When I ease up on the chewing, you'll notice that the facilitator has resumed talking which is what I came here to listen to.
Funny how quick he was to say he has indeed been on the other side, as the interview-er. Immediate, nay, pre-mediate "I have" when she asked if anyone had been on said other side. "That's what I'd say, if I were an interviewer". Lieutenant Laptop to the rescue. Keet-nee Ale is talking at every opportunity now. He's creating opportunities, cultivated image like fecal decals. Enough of your yapping, Keets Keener. You ain't been deputized for sheeyit.
The guy from Kal Tire does indeed want to know why people want to peel tires. That's a hiring tactic. Note to self: at job interviews, take time to repeat questions to self in own words while thinking of an answer... I guess I am absorbing stuff. Some good info, but at what price? The price of enduring deep chesty voiced keener confidence chatter. Shut up about "flipping". Flipping you know what. I'm gonna fucking flip out. McDs has a burger university, does it? Didn't need to know that. These cliches need to retire to the sunshine state with steak 'n lobsters, bluey skyes, blood diamonds, and brewskies.
Also, I don't wanna know what you have the "ability to" do... but then, we have such use, such a rich full spectrum of use for idiots to fill... the empty... spaces... where we... used... to talk. Okay public audience, occupy the whole headspace. Trillian dollar cadence - GDP cadence - domestic cadence - fireside cadence pretense credential torrent Top 40. What can I offer that a billion red Chinese can't? Some artistic statement on telephone sanitation? Ted Talks are for six figure crackas... and why wouldn't they be? The Cyborg Imperium are the designers aren't they? Most of them are schlockmeisters as well. Some of them write software for reading resumes in bulk. It badly needs debugging. They call them crawlers. How lame. Can we get some walkers? And no, of course you can't read me, I'm encrypted. Stop trying, if there's anything you need to know, I'll tell you.
Bowing, scraping, supplicating to the labour market. Abandon all dignity, all y'all that enter here. Why is it an endurance test every time I do something like this, that's supposed to be good for me? Marveling at my rawness of nerves. Between the smokes and supplements, haven't I got the nicotine covered? Case in point: a new person's resume. They say "quite a diverse skill set". Clench. Don't wanna know. Don't wanna compare. Don't wanna think about your targeted resume for a heli-skiing company. Company. Don't want to hear ___ makes 700 dollars a day, and underwater welders can make four hundred thousand in a few months. Gol-lee, that sure is a lot of money, I agree. Honestly, I don't know what's wrong with me.
The mere mention of the show Family Guy in no particular context draws a laugh. That guy's trying to be funny again. Funny how I wanted the aspiring comedian to bomb... then when he does, I want to defend him, cause that was the one half-decent bit of wit he came up with, not that I would undertake to laugh and validate the attempt. Judging judging judging. I judge, you judge. I justify paranoia at the mental gymnasium. God help me if they do as I do.
I love to say I hate office politics.... as if it sets me apart. Who ever says they like office politics? Where are the self-identified drama queens? That's why I like the Tyrion character from Game of Thrones. He accepts the mantle, he loves the game. We need someone like that, so we can feel superior setting ourselves apart from the game everybody plays but cannot be thought to enjoy playing. Each and every one of us is special, and especially susceptible to ordinary applications of certain brands of sarcasm. Sarcasm's my brand, it's not profitable, cause I'm a non-profit, it gets me just shy of nowhere, but it's a fallback lounge, the perpetual green room pre-debebauch for post-doctoral retires. No one can take my notes away from me.
Haha, they trot out the made-up statistic about how 93% of communication is non-verbal. Yes, if you're "measuring" non-informative delusional extrapolations. Uh oh, "How you're presenting yourself...", here we go. Fruck (just to be diff'rent [sic]). I know smirking is obnoxious - oh, my mirror is gleaming fluorescent screaming contempt back to me, but if you can't handle a smirk, don't ask for a smile. How 'bout a glare? I'm really trying not to sneer and cringe... I'm just failing a lot.
Man, this ain't a good start, 20 mins in, barely hanging on, clenched like a dental patient taking the slow drill, nerves raw as Portland pretense. It's nothing new though, just acute today. Can't deal with voices, colloquialisms, dialects, life... yes, life. I'm sure almost any of these fine people would have sage life lessons for me right now, like, to take it as it comes, live on its terms, etc. From the vantage of facile maturity.
What's worrying is that it gets worse and worse, it's such an untenable trend. Wish I could be okay with people being themselves. Is that a crumb of hope, the mere existence of that wish? The fact that I'm dissatisfied with taking what comfort I can in spite? I can't possibly be keeping my anger to myself, can I? Should I stay or would that do more harm than simply bailing, if I'm just vibing everyone out?
Whew... Calm down. Take a huff of air. Write a one word sentence and place a period. Regroup. Sweet smell of photocopier and love for how the acronym O.S. rolls off the tongue and makes me think of windows and linux and the comforting minutia of software environments and global hotkeys. Perhaps this is my element more than I even know. Let others ask the dumb questions I don't want to. Thanks others. I'll smile to myself when the one lady steals the others' thunder. I loafs it! Yis b'y.
Crisis precipitates change. I need someone to express their suffering, to shame me. But not so much so that I feel stymied and squirm in impotence and incompetence. Best thing would be someone betraying being a loser. I need someone to pull some brilliant balls-out loser maneuver, some petty thing, and also to be aware of it, to feel the full force of their own sad stupidity, to be a lovable pitiable loser. Then I can rise to the compassionate occasion, balance the equation with informed empathy. Yeah.
This guy is putting his resume up on the projector for public scrutiny. I gotta respect the humility. He deserves to be a working janitor more than I do. He even used that word, rather than "custodian" or "cleaner". But fuck me if I'm gonna share my pathetic resume or ridiculous career aspirations with anyone, let alone everyone. Gonna stay closed, oh yeah. Workshop participant critiques of workshop participant resumes is just as aggravating as I would have imagined. Absolutely everything that can annoy and depress me... will. Good thing he doesn’t feel my subjective neuroses. Good thing I'm neither exhibiting nor critiquing a resume, lest I get shot down in any way for any reason.
Still so hard dealing with these people. 289 flavours of awhwhkckwhard ness! A real nerd, who is not suddenly revealed to be sexy when the glasses are removed. He's still, sadly, a nerd. He's not happy to be one. Not proud. Neither is she. Yes, even her, even though she's of the sex that makes her a desirable human in the eye of this beholder, flaws rendered passable, even adorable in a weird sort of way, blotchy skin not such a big deal cause she's got that feminine form, a nice figure and a fine face, but even she is a real nerd, the sad kind, despite how clueless I am that she doesn't have it made, being desirable to me, can't she see? Perhaps I should go fuck myself with a VR avatar, post-modern information age nanotech superbot ouroboros coitus.
Hiring practices... Discrimination based on religion is mentioned. Tangent opportunity! Our resident juvenihilist springs into action like he was waiting all workshop to introduce us to the wicked satire of the Pastafarians and their mock deity: the Flying Spaghetti Monster, atheism at a grade nine level. The "bit of a socialist" guy gets flak for them not seeing any volunteer positions on his resume. Ouch. Disgustingly cute: the participant trying to be facilitator. Some guy's misinforming the crowd about PDFs. I won't deign to correct. Is he an adobe shill? "Adohbee". Exaggerated vowels, what Americans think Canadians sound like, local folk happy to validate stereotypes.
This is the Kootenays, someone says for some reason. This is the "Keet-nees" cud-chewing dopey cali dialect, bent, canuckisized, fair-traded. "Trimming bud". Is a funny thing to mention while we're on the subject of jobs. At this job workshop. Ahaha, how hilarious, another bud-related bon-mot. And see if you can work in a reference to Shambhala. Seeeper Keet-nee enunciator takin' his sreeet time, seeeper sreeet, beakin' off about how he got burnt out and qruit that time, campin' out in chesty vowels, mashin' those words to mush, making it impossible to think of anything else, seeeeeeper confident in conveying what precisely he doesn't know, for your perusal. Pause for laughter. Nice. "You're so Kootenay dude", someone says. And a reference to Starbelly, could you at least say Starbelly Jam to make it a little less nicknamey? Everybody perks up at Starbelly. Perk perk perk. It's fun to think about, when you're at a work workshop, cause it's a music festival. Something to talk about. And rig-pigs, and Fort Mac.
Now I'm treated to people opining about movies. Smooth how he worked in the phrase "anti-septic" to describe 2001, so slick, like he tosses around such qualifiers as a matter of course, when pontificating on the nuances of sci-fi filmography. "It wasn't anti-septic to me", the other guy says.
The mere mention of Kalesnikov Lumber is like a dagger in my heart. No, that's too romantic a metaphor. More like a catheter in my dick. Oh, they do six hour interviews there? And they don't let you know that beforehand, so it's just, oh, by the way, there's more courses to this thing than a twelve star restaurant. Well then... And somebody mentions that he thinks they pay 20$ an hour. Don't know why, but I loathe this piece of information. Fuck, gotta leave, soon. This isn't gonna get any better. People're gonna keep piping up. I'm gonna keep hating it.
Oh look, the Keets keener keeps opining, on anything and everything. Fun facts about The Royal and liquor licenses. It's objectively funny to mention how they're legally prohibited from letting their patrons dance, but hearing this mentioned is like a catheter in my dick. Here we go on a tangent again. |________| Maybe I can bail before they make us marionette ourselves in mock interviews.
Grabbed a carrot stick from the snack table to crunch on, a loud protest to vent frustration passive-aggressively when they veer off topic into grandstanding horseshit. It's the carrot AND the stick. Oh lookey here, ol' Keet-nee Ale wants to LOOK his theoretical applicants in the EYE cause he thinks he's a poker master and can always tell everyone's tells... Cause no one could ever suppress feelings in person! Here's my tell, here's a pattern you can factor into your trenchant analysis: Every time I take a bite off this oversized carrot stick, I'm praying for lesions on your vocal cords and cancer in your throat. When I ease up on the chewing, you'll notice that the facilitator has resumed talking which is what I came here to listen to.
Funny how quick he was to say he has indeed been on the other side, as the interview-er. Immediate, nay, pre-mediate "I have" when she asked if anyone had been on said other side. "That's what I'd say, if I were an interviewer". Lieutenant Laptop to the rescue. Keet-nee Ale is talking at every opportunity now. He's creating opportunities, cultivated image like fecal decals. Enough of your yapping, Keets Keener. You ain't been deputized for sheeyit.
The guy from Kal Tire does indeed want to know why people want to peel tires. That's a hiring tactic. Note to self: at job interviews, take time to repeat questions to self in own words while thinking of an answer... I guess I am absorbing stuff. Some good info, but at what price? The price of enduring deep chesty voiced keener confidence chatter. Shut up about "flipping". Flipping you know what. I'm gonna fucking flip out. McDs has a burger university, does it? Didn't need to know that. These cliches need to retire to the sunshine state with steak 'n lobsters, bluey skyes, blood diamonds, and brewskies.
Also, I don't wanna know what you have the "ability to" do... but then, we have such use, such a rich full spectrum of use for idiots to fill... the empty... spaces... where we... used... to talk. Okay public audience, occupy the whole headspace. Trillian dollar cadence - GDP cadence - domestic cadence - fireside cadence pretense credential torrent Top 40. What can I offer that a billion red Chinese can't? Some artistic statement on telephone sanitation? Ted Talks are for six figure crackas... and why wouldn't they be? The Cyborg Imperium are the designers aren't they? Most of them are schlockmeisters as well. Some of them write software for reading resumes in bulk. It badly needs debugging. They call them crawlers. How lame. Can we get some walkers? And no, of course you can't read me, I'm encrypted. Stop trying, if there's anything you need to know, I'll tell you.
Bowing, scraping, supplicating to the labour market. Abandon all dignity, all y'all that enter here. Why is it an endurance test every time I do something like this, that's supposed to be good for me? Marveling at my rawness of nerves. Between the smokes and supplements, haven't I got the nicotine covered? Case in point: a new person's resume. They say "quite a diverse skill set". Clench. Don't wanna know. Don't wanna compare. Don't wanna think about your targeted resume for a heli-skiing company. Company. Don't want to hear ___ makes 700 dollars a day, and underwater welders can make four hundred thousand in a few months. Gol-lee, that sure is a lot of money, I agree. Honestly, I don't know what's wrong with me.
The mere mention of the show Family Guy in no particular context draws a laugh. That guy's trying to be funny again. Funny how I wanted the aspiring comedian to bomb... then when he does, I want to defend him, cause that was the one half-decent bit of wit he came up with, not that I would undertake to laugh and validate the attempt. Judging judging judging. I judge, you judge. I justify paranoia at the mental gymnasium. God help me if they do as I do.
I love to say I hate office politics.... as if it sets me apart. Who ever says they like office politics? Where are the self-identified drama queens? That's why I like the Tyrion character from Game of Thrones. He accepts the mantle, he loves the game. We need someone like that, so we can feel superior setting ourselves apart from the game everybody plays but cannot be thought to enjoy playing. Each and every one of us is special, and especially susceptible to ordinary applications of certain brands of sarcasm. Sarcasm's my brand, it's not profitable, cause I'm a non-profit, it gets me just shy of nowhere, but it's a fallback lounge, the perpetual green room pre-debebauch for post-doctoral retires. No one can take my notes away from me.
Haha, they trot out the made-up statistic about how 93% of communication is non-verbal. Yes, if you're "measuring" non-informative delusional extrapolations. Uh oh, "How you're presenting yourself...", here we go. Fruck (just to be diff'rent [sic]). I know smirking is obnoxious - oh, my mirror is gleaming fluorescent screaming contempt back to me, but if you can't handle a smirk, don't ask for a smile. How 'bout a glare? I'm really trying not to sneer and cringe... I'm just failing a lot.
Man, this ain't a good start, 20 mins in, barely hanging on, clenched like a dental patient taking the slow drill, nerves raw as Portland pretense. It's nothing new though, just acute today. Can't deal with voices, colloquialisms, dialects, life... yes, life. I'm sure almost any of these fine people would have sage life lessons for me right now, like, to take it as it comes, live on its terms, etc. From the vantage of facile maturity.
What's worrying is that it gets worse and worse, it's such an untenable trend. Wish I could be okay with people being themselves. Is that a crumb of hope, the mere existence of that wish? The fact that I'm dissatisfied with taking what comfort I can in spite? I can't possibly be keeping my anger to myself, can I? Should I stay or would that do more harm than simply bailing, if I'm just vibing everyone out?
Whew... Calm down. Take a huff of air. Write a one word sentence and place a period. Regroup. Sweet smell of photocopier and love for how the acronym O.S. rolls off the tongue and makes me think of windows and linux and the comforting minutia of software environments and global hotkeys. Perhaps this is my element more than I even know. Let others ask the dumb questions I don't want to. Thanks others. I'll smile to myself when the one lady steals the others' thunder. I loafs it! Yis b'y.
Crisis precipitates change. I need someone to express their suffering, to shame me. But not so much so that I feel stymied and squirm in impotence and incompetence. Best thing would be someone betraying being a loser. I need someone to pull some brilliant balls-out loser maneuver, some petty thing, and also to be aware of it, to feel the full force of their own sad stupidity, to be a lovable pitiable loser. Then I can rise to the compassionate occasion, balance the equation with informed empathy. Yeah.
10/04/14
dysradical
Trying to be perky. Like I am with people I can be bothered with. As "on" as I am with anyone but frustrated and low. Attempting to see a sliver of good in things. Or Cheshire God in things. You won, God, you won the game of hide and seek. I couldn't even find you, you're so sneaky.
Trying not to take things too personally. Don't take them more personally than you need to, beyond the hard reality you better get used to, that they are judging you, of course, uhdoy. So the game is to endure their searing gaze until you're bigger than them. Like when you find god behind the couch in the woods on the mountain. Like you can creatine your way out of the low rung blues, do the protein shake, a fake plan of action.
Fuck it instrymental, horse-corpse percussion, swiping now the co-opted form with the added bonus of sentence case. Idle in details.
Trying not to take things too personally. Don't take them more personally than you need to, beyond the hard reality you better get used to, that they are judging you, of course, uhdoy. So the game is to endure their searing gaze until you're bigger than them. Like when you find god behind the couch in the woods on the mountain. Like you can creatine your way out of the low rung blues, do the protein shake, a fake plan of action.
Fuck it instrymental, horse-corpse percussion, swiping now the co-opted form with the added bonus of sentence case. Idle in details.
10/02/14
9/28/14
9/22/14
church mouse
all precautions in operation, headphones, sound blanket, everything except what i can't control, the mechanical source of the sound that gets past the dampening, through the floor - and i'm in trouble for playing music again, fuck
finally get out of my slump and play a little keyboard and i'm in trouble for it, and my dumb enflamed emotions signal that it's a punch to the gut, tension headache starting already... feeling very fuck it, want to change consciousness immediately
more than anything, i'm angry - for being chastised, yelled at through the floor, forced to imagine myself as an annoying blundering idiot who i'd make into a big ugly strawman, and there's that extra bonus of knowing i was in the wrong to prompt an assholish overreaction almost anyone would emulate, so i'm not allowed to be angry, plus it's the dubious luxury of normal men, remember?
maybe i could start this new phase of going full-on monk eunuch, accelerate what's already happening anyway - to become a church mouse, worship a language out of earshot, in passing, and mostly just survive on crumbs, and not really worship anything, not grateful
or cut extrovert activities entirely and write the great solo solipsistic novel? for myself? unless i can't even type either - cause i'm already beaten into a little corner of a shell, paranoid, creeping, suppressed mightily - maybe this is why those others hate it here, what they were trying to impart to me, about the community crap, the crap community... ...... ...... .......... ... . ..... ... .. .!
where can i go to escape conflict? i don't know, nowhere i guess - what drugs can i take to escape conflict? only the ones i can't take - how can i talk about this? i can't, really, or even write, but i'm trying a little bit online, and malik's putting up with it, he actually responded like a good friend would
so let it be written, so let it get stuffed, let it be stuffy, fuck it, fuck all of it, strip the air of every kind of molecule but a synthetic few, thin down the fresh, thicken up emotions for a canned starch
maybe i'll just take what drugs i'm still vouch-safed to take - another round of trazodone, back to the regular dose and then some... man, i'm really angry and a bit lonely, and i'm starting to really crave a brain burning chemical high cause there's a big void tearing through me lately, or it's like my skin's gone - and like other things, like Silver Surfer, and other lackluster hiphop similes
finally get out of my slump and play a little keyboard and i'm in trouble for it, and my dumb enflamed emotions signal that it's a punch to the gut, tension headache starting already... feeling very fuck it, want to change consciousness immediately
more than anything, i'm angry - for being chastised, yelled at through the floor, forced to imagine myself as an annoying blundering idiot who i'd make into a big ugly strawman, and there's that extra bonus of knowing i was in the wrong to prompt an assholish overreaction almost anyone would emulate, so i'm not allowed to be angry, plus it's the dubious luxury of normal men, remember?
maybe i could start this new phase of going full-on monk eunuch, accelerate what's already happening anyway - to become a church mouse, worship a language out of earshot, in passing, and mostly just survive on crumbs, and not really worship anything, not grateful
well, my style's gonna get cramped quick... what else can't i do in my own damn apartment? so the paranoia was justified right from the first round of retaliatory pounding, nearly knocked my good old h4n from my computer tower - fucking hell, seven hells too, why not throw them in? what to do now? paralyzed, obsessed, and depressed... turn this already monastic space into the house of total prayerful reflection, subservient to the lord of hypocrites and anal undead?
or cut extrovert activities entirely and write the great solo solipsistic novel? for myself? unless i can't even type either - cause i'm already beaten into a little corner of a shell, paranoid, creeping, suppressed mightily - maybe this is why those others hate it here, what they were trying to impart to me, about the community crap, the crap community... ...... ...... .......... ... . ..... ... .. .!
where can i go to escape conflict? i don't know, nowhere i guess - what drugs can i take to escape conflict? only the ones i can't take - how can i talk about this? i can't, really, or even write, but i'm trying a little bit online, and malik's putting up with it, he actually responded like a good friend would
so let it be written, so let it get stuffed, let it be stuffy, fuck it, fuck all of it, strip the air of every kind of molecule but a synthetic few, thin down the fresh, thicken up emotions for a canned starch
maybe i'll just take what drugs i'm still vouch-safed to take - another round of trazodone, back to the regular dose and then some... man, i'm really angry and a bit lonely, and i'm starting to really crave a brain burning chemical high cause there's a big void tearing through me lately, or it's like my skin's gone - and like other things, like Silver Surfer, and other lackluster hiphop similes
9/03/14
adrift
Feeling weird. Not knowing what to do. Improvising. Could it be that the world is ending? Or I'm interpreting on hyper drive? A drink would be nice right now. Or I could drive cabs for a living. Feel strange and alien and suburban and first world and hardcore. Interpreting blues fragments. Feel fragile and already starting to burn out. Maybe could veg out instead of burning out. Rejuvenate thru vegetation. I'm not in my right mind. Fragile typing fingers. And writing feels weird. And drinking feels weird. And not drinking feels weird. Could edit better in a solid state. And judge. And not feel overwhelmed by heavy machinery. A hard look into things and interpretations. Don't feel social. This is what I used to cure with booze. And especially other drugs, the ones that are chronically a part of dream wallpaper. Between sandworm negotiation dramas. Medicating medication and neuroses. And animal instincts misplaced. Need a virtual correspondence with an angel online. Would be perfect, magic cure-all... Self-regard. Recordings. That's what it's all for. Not glitchy-twitch euphoria. And when am I ever an artist anymore?
The essence is, I was feeling righteous anger, self-pity, and like a martyr. Now I'm questioning everything, feeling guilt and self consciousness and body consciousness. Won't bother singing the tenacious D song that Gus is playing. Well, you never know what's coming down the conveyor belt. I don't feel remotely capable of going into something and scoring a fulfilling career, but when I get more straight and solid and determined, and a little put-upon-feeling, I'll remember that I want to succeed out of spite, and anger is powerful, if also the dubious luxury of normal men.
Feels strange being here. Could laugh and speculate and anthropologize. And dream of sparkly diamonds crushed in hands, in past glories never re-creatable. Sibling banter. For my benefit. But it's nostalgic. But flash forward on the timeline. A drink would be nice. I remember I used to get hedonistic and tripped out, and transcribe this finch brood casually like this. Miss the freedom to drink. I used to do this, but with a notebook. In some weird ways, very little has changed.
Civilized, with benefits. Charming. And me, so paranoid and bitter, and dissatisfied with life but it could be worse. I'm so slick with devices and interfaces, aren't I? Can't I profit from that ? But I'm just a user. Wish I had the passion and ability for making, anything.
Yeah.
Feels weird, writing, like this. I wonder if I'll ever be a writer again. Or a reviewer or an analyst, columnist, journalist. Yeah, from this scratch, sounds fucking likely. One thing I seem to do well is swipe words that rarely get corrected. But these bids for empires of selves. They never seem to satisfy. So, jonesying for external validation.
And to-do itineraries seem important or at least worth bothering with when I'm solid. Or is this as solid as anything else? I should be rejoicing I got all this fuck off free time. But I don't know what to do with it. The second I'm left to my own devices, I realize they're glitched to all hell. My devices are broken. They need a driver. But I don't like it when others drive me.
The essence is, I was feeling righteous anger, self-pity, and like a martyr. Now I'm questioning everything, feeling guilt and self consciousness and body consciousness. Won't bother singing the tenacious D song that Gus is playing. Well, you never know what's coming down the conveyor belt. I don't feel remotely capable of going into something and scoring a fulfilling career, but when I get more straight and solid and determined, and a little put-upon-feeling, I'll remember that I want to succeed out of spite, and anger is powerful, if also the dubious luxury of normal men.
Feels strange being here. Could laugh and speculate and anthropologize. And dream of sparkly diamonds crushed in hands, in past glories never re-creatable. Sibling banter. For my benefit. But it's nostalgic. But flash forward on the timeline. A drink would be nice. I remember I used to get hedonistic and tripped out, and transcribe this finch brood casually like this. Miss the freedom to drink. I used to do this, but with a notebook. In some weird ways, very little has changed.
Civilized, with benefits. Charming. And me, so paranoid and bitter, and dissatisfied with life but it could be worse. I'm so slick with devices and interfaces, aren't I? Can't I profit from that ? But I'm just a user. Wish I had the passion and ability for making, anything.
Yeah.
Feels weird, writing, like this. I wonder if I'll ever be a writer again. Or a reviewer or an analyst, columnist, journalist. Yeah, from this scratch, sounds fucking likely. One thing I seem to do well is swipe words that rarely get corrected. But these bids for empires of selves. They never seem to satisfy. So, jonesying for external validation.
And to-do itineraries seem important or at least worth bothering with when I'm solid. Or is this as solid as anything else? I should be rejoicing I got all this fuck off free time. But I don't know what to do with it. The second I'm left to my own devices, I realize they're glitched to all hell. My devices are broken. They need a driver. But I don't like it when others drive me.
8/03/14
7/27/14
pathetic economic niche
if these are life's terms, then fuck living life on life's terms - or, can i live on my own terms if i just stay sober? take me anywhere, is that what she said? christ - animals don't put themselves through this - maybe make my own terms? a little comfort, a little fuck you buffer to the edges of the world? would you wanna see me burn out that quick on clean clean fuel? would it be worth having me have a paycheque, to keep up appearances? like, there's an example of terms that are not my own, and don't need to be lived on anyway
7/18/14
god-proximate guacamole
I shouldn't be a foul-weather blogger. I should write more positive things, share positive moods, they do exist... if I feel like it, cause contrivance isn't my style. But it just so happens that I do feel like being positive, yes, I will allow for that eventuality. Even if that also makes me feel like a tool. A tool for Ned Flanders' God can't be such a bad tool to be. Not the sharpest tool in the drawer, better for spreading mortar.
There's a high I can feel from a good meeting that reminds me what it's all for. I can even sometimes get through the awkwardness of people crying around me, and spilling tears of rage and grief and shame and sickness, and sometimes joy. Can be cool with the awkwardness to some extent, and come out feeling high. And the reason it's such a good reminder is that it's a high based on something real, earned, and pure, the euphoria of seeing other wretches saved from the grave or misery by the healing spirit of a spiritual program, and the plain friendliness of other people that allows it all to happen. The road to heaven is paved with good intent and awkwardness.
Even euphoria based on doing a good job at something, or having mastered a skill - ego-based gratifications - they're healthy and infinitely better than material satisfaction or synthetic bliss, but still based on too many false premises - that my little life is so special, for playing something on a keyboard that's too complex to pin down.
But the euphoria that comes from a good meeting, sometimes it even feels like it's good enough, like I don't need to ultimately turn to the substance crutches again. Every once in a while, it's powerful enough, that it feels substantial, like what I'm supposed to be getting out of participating in this "next-right-thing" spiritual doohickey. The trick is, I think, that it's mostly beyond ego, it's more feeling a part of helping others, and being one of those helped, in a pure way, leaving room for gritty war stories to texture up the primary color candy coat that brings nausea. So, beyond ego, ergo, less transient.
So there, positivity, good I suppose, even though it smacks of charity, and doesn't satisfy me in the raw sense that a good miserable ramble does. Now I can get back to being sarcastic and bitter.
There's a high I can feel from a good meeting that reminds me what it's all for. I can even sometimes get through the awkwardness of people crying around me, and spilling tears of rage and grief and shame and sickness, and sometimes joy. Can be cool with the awkwardness to some extent, and come out feeling high. And the reason it's such a good reminder is that it's a high based on something real, earned, and pure, the euphoria of seeing other wretches saved from the grave or misery by the healing spirit of a spiritual program, and the plain friendliness of other people that allows it all to happen. The road to heaven is paved with good intent and awkwardness.
Even euphoria based on doing a good job at something, or having mastered a skill - ego-based gratifications - they're healthy and infinitely better than material satisfaction or synthetic bliss, but still based on too many false premises - that my little life is so special, for playing something on a keyboard that's too complex to pin down.
But the euphoria that comes from a good meeting, sometimes it even feels like it's good enough, like I don't need to ultimately turn to the substance crutches again. Every once in a while, it's powerful enough, that it feels substantial, like what I'm supposed to be getting out of participating in this "next-right-thing" spiritual doohickey. The trick is, I think, that it's mostly beyond ego, it's more feeling a part of helping others, and being one of those helped, in a pure way, leaving room for gritty war stories to texture up the primary color candy coat that brings nausea. So, beyond ego, ergo, less transient.
So there, positivity, good I suppose, even though it smacks of charity, and doesn't satisfy me in the raw sense that a good miserable ramble does. Now I can get back to being sarcastic and bitter.
7/14/14
7/11/14
Date Cake
I should be grateful, stop resampling sour grapes, it's tasteless picturing maggots. Starland vocal band tattoo associations, idea balls... baked into the cake, certain words sting me, sweet is so edgy, cuts me, honeycunt, fuck it, the fucking moon, over. Bitterness, because hunger, big belly, small mouth. Frustation in hyper-sexualized society, personal politics, power plays - practice chatting with checkout girls cause they got no choice.
Wouldn't the most telling change be to change what I express here, of all places? Or does this have to remain the sick room? Yeah, cause that's the maison d'etre. Maybe it says something that I'm - cut up - waiting to die. I didn't think how it sounded when I said morbid things and freaked out facebook kinfolk. Didn't think. Blink, hazy blank interval that won't clear. Blinking back to bed an hour ago when I meditated, cogitated, in love with loving the abstract. In bed - isn't interesting in my case, adds nothing to the context, no euphemism. Quite a lot of sleeping going on, as well as lying down and pseudo sleep, and rest, and restlessness, and recharging a full battery, and failing to affect a dead one.
Wouldn't the most telling change be to change what I express here, of all places? Or does this have to remain the sick room? Yeah, cause that's the maison d'etre. Maybe it says something that I'm - cut up - waiting to die. I didn't think how it sounded when I said morbid things and freaked out facebook kinfolk. Didn't think. Blink, hazy blank interval that won't clear. Blinking back to bed an hour ago when I meditated, cogitated, in love with loving the abstract. In bed - isn't interesting in my case, adds nothing to the context, no euphemism. Quite a lot of sleeping going on, as well as lying down and pseudo sleep, and rest, and restlessness, and recharging a full battery, and failing to affect a dead one.
I could get on the broad highway, and be more outwardly grateful, even in writing, share spirituality. But I wouldn't be here, writing, if I was into doing that. Global hotkeys, miserly spirit, swipe, fuck, cockgoblin, douchecanoe.
Promises, they said. Code words. Sometimes the symbols pile so high they fall and I suffocate under them, the only death a clinically demented hoarder deserves.
I want a reaction. Ought to pick a fight. Start some drama. Now that things have settled down, sickness regroups, attacks me from angles of quasi at the quackadero. All I really want to do is lie back down and listen to more math lectures, and understand a repeating fraction, and barely let on that it's mostly about a voice that makes me drowsy. Addiction to the drowse-inducing voice. The best I can hope is that it's a quirky vice, or at least a silly detail that I alone (in a sample size of ten thousand individuals) put into words, to give voice to a rarely-mentioned grain of reality. So the drowse addiction may be as common as the common assclown, but I staked a claim on a description and mined it for material, like the observational humour that hasn't been tapped yet, between Jerry Seinfeld and George Carlin and their thousands of imitators. That's gotta be 44% of the sum, roughly on par with petroleum reserves, or if we're not at peak awareness of human foibles, maybe closer to peak phosphorus. Peak apocalyptic gloom seems to be far away, perhaps perpetually in the future if we're lucky.
I want a reaction. Ought to pick a fight. Start some drama. Now that things have settled down, sickness regroups, attacks me from angles of quasi at the quackadero. All I really want to do is lie back down and listen to more math lectures, and understand a repeating fraction, and barely let on that it's mostly about a voice that makes me drowsy. Addiction to the drowse-inducing voice. The best I can hope is that it's a quirky vice, or at least a silly detail that I alone (in a sample size of ten thousand individuals) put into words, to give voice to a rarely-mentioned grain of reality. So the drowse addiction may be as common as the common assclown, but I staked a claim on a description and mined it for material, like the observational humour that hasn't been tapped yet, between Jerry Seinfeld and George Carlin and their thousands of imitators. That's gotta be 44% of the sum, roughly on par with petroleum reserves, or if we're not at peak awareness of human foibles, maybe closer to peak phosphorus. Peak apocalyptic gloom seems to be far away, perhaps perpetually in the future if we're lucky.
So, or and, or therefore, ie, fuck meaning, let it forever remain elusive, give me the wisdom to avoid it, even if I can't be granted the satisfaction of knowing I'm dodging it, so artfully. There may be enough iterations of wallflower patterns to string out what life I've got left.
21st Century Pythagorian Prototype mourning for a partner in rhyme, 1/17th of a multitrack wavefile. I don't want to know if it's the future of listening to music or not. Oh, no, stop, don't tell me. The information age is my poison. It's allowed this string, this mutation of viral code, in which I describe using digital audio mixing technology as metaphors for ugly aspects of life. Sometimes they can be pretty too, like a spectrum of frequencies, like a peacock's tail, but isn't that gaudy, really? Who does that display work on? Oh right, the superior people, with chiselled features and social skills. Who partied harder, the gays or the ravers? Or are they still at it, do people still do that, if I'm not around to see it as being frightfully new and frightfully cute?
There's no meadow to go to, to get all spiritual, nature does nothing for me anymore. I'm pickled synthetic, I'll say, just to indulge in comforting cynicism for a slur and feel there's no way out of it, this is my cushy vampire coffin.
21st Century Pythagorian Prototype mourning for a partner in rhyme, 1/17th of a multitrack wavefile. I don't want to know if it's the future of listening to music or not. Oh, no, stop, don't tell me. The information age is my poison. It's allowed this string, this mutation of viral code, in which I describe using digital audio mixing technology as metaphors for ugly aspects of life. Sometimes they can be pretty too, like a spectrum of frequencies, like a peacock's tail, but isn't that gaudy, really? Who does that display work on? Oh right, the superior people, with chiselled features and social skills. Who partied harder, the gays or the ravers? Or are they still at it, do people still do that, if I'm not around to see it as being frightfully new and frightfully cute?
There's no meadow to go to, to get all spiritual, nature does nothing for me anymore. I'm pickled synthetic, I'll say, just to indulge in comforting cynicism for a slur and feel there's no way out of it, this is my cushy vampire coffin.
7/05/14
Luc's voice in my sunrise
Dude. That house in the country ain't funny, 'twas a beautiful dream once upon a time, near-reality. The pump was practical. I was so proud, I brought a vial-ful of its first water to my father-in-law. He shared that with you, did he? Dude? What's so funny 'bout peace love and understanding? Bro, why don't you get a phi tattoo in my memory? If you can find a place on your body to etch that isn't too hairy, hahaha.
7/03/14
6/25/14
6/21/14
Pet
Petable, so petable, it rubs me the wrong way. And don't mix lit w recovery. Stitch together a batch of bitches, and litbitch, complain artfully. The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.
You can pet me, I won't bite. You know that. I'm only a pet. Never anything more. Why don't you caress me? I'm not picky. I can barely remember the feeling. But no, okay, pet, cause I'm petable, adorable, in the way I'd rather not be. Not that I mind, but. I want more, I guess. Not biding time, I'm wasting it. Clock's ticking in this life drama.
But nevermind.
You can pet me, I won't bite. You know that. I'm only a pet. Never anything more. Why don't you caress me? I'm not picky. I can barely remember the feeling. But no, okay, pet, cause I'm petable, adorable, in the way I'd rather not be. Not that I mind, but. I want more, I guess. Not biding time, I'm wasting it. Clock's ticking in this life drama.
But nevermind.
6/05/14
5/31/14
fucking ruined ruined fucking
don't know why a crumble of visions leads nowhere
unbiased unpacked pain clusters at the extra sensory fringes, caked with old blood'n'money, i dunno - missing swoon... better walk lightly paranoid territory insect enemies reptile whatever, i'm okay, why should i mind? cause, of two minds, too trapped in both of them... etcetera sentences, hey candle, is the candle worth the game? hey, game, you're too fuzzy, too noisy, oh horrible line noise, oh bitwrecked, oh fuck, i'm aligned with a shade of the plural thing of too much line in disappointment, not knowing or caring why anything, nah
fuckin diamon games, when i dint fackin care, definite very conscious of having lost something, fuck, like the void took a bite out of me in a big way to add to the negative ledger and null space, where a fuckin fracture of a thought of some body says, wait, what? certain pragmatic stylistic feature bugs to keep the thing going, to keep frowning and playing some game.
an exercise in style, a smear of cirrus content, for what format? for invasions of glasses of water or the appearance of pestilence, or a healthy if poisoned system of cell clusters - regarding ambassador of nature, which is silliness ridiculous pieces of oh my god, wait, well, what? not nevermind, just crazy thoughts of polluted subconscious and struggle to stay wedged or hedged or invested in a g h bripping bouncy mix of languages, why couldn't it foster and fester into some adventure worth having? because, the part about being lousy at that, i guess, i don't know, not taking dictation but writing cliche-ridden needlessly-hyphenated bouts of squeezebox geometry for a masterclass in funk-
ouch, aw, raw, fuck, fading out, failing, fainting, out of here, but not really, mind's not blotted enough with heavy solvents, could use a blotting out, a blotto, might self-medicate with heavy sleep meds to keep me covered, covered up in a pre-grave, a pseudo-coffin, a sleep i guess, and let it lie, let go while tightly gripping the illusion of control, like it's needed, possible, suppress, what? nothing but a line in a song, abstraction, a persistent illusion, on the edge of hallucination, paranoid response mechanical conditioned, canned, border
unbiased unpacked pain clusters at the extra sensory fringes, caked with old blood'n'money, i dunno - missing swoon... better walk lightly paranoid territory insect enemies reptile whatever, i'm okay, why should i mind? cause, of two minds, too trapped in both of them... etcetera sentences, hey candle, is the candle worth the game? hey, game, you're too fuzzy, too noisy, oh horrible line noise, oh bitwrecked, oh fuck, i'm aligned with a shade of the plural thing of too much line in disappointment, not knowing or caring why anything, nah
fuckin diamon games, when i dint fackin care, definite very conscious of having lost something, fuck, like the void took a bite out of me in a big way to add to the negative ledger and null space, where a fuckin fracture of a thought of some body says, wait, what? certain pragmatic stylistic feature bugs to keep the thing going, to keep frowning and playing some game.
an exercise in style, a smear of cirrus content, for what format? for invasions of glasses of water or the appearance of pestilence, or a healthy if poisoned system of cell clusters - regarding ambassador of nature, which is silliness ridiculous pieces of oh my god, wait, well, what? not nevermind, just crazy thoughts of polluted subconscious and struggle to stay wedged or hedged or invested in a g h bripping bouncy mix of languages, why couldn't it foster and fester into some adventure worth having? because, the part about being lousy at that, i guess, i don't know, not taking dictation but writing cliche-ridden needlessly-hyphenated bouts of squeezebox geometry for a masterclass in funk-
ouch, aw, raw, fuck, fading out, failing, fainting, out of here, but not really, mind's not blotted enough with heavy solvents, could use a blotting out, a blotto, might self-medicate with heavy sleep meds to keep me covered, covered up in a pre-grave, a pseudo-coffin, a sleep i guess, and let it lie, let go while tightly gripping the illusion of control, like it's needed, possible, suppress, what? nothing but a line in a song, abstraction, a persistent illusion, on the edge of hallucination, paranoid response mechanical conditioned, canned, border
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)