Because!?
Fuck you! That's why.
Fuck You Cigarettes - MY BRAND, yeah, MY BRAND, yeah ALL CAPS bappety bappety bop bop
shuBAW
they're fuck you cigarettes... yeah yeah yeah yeah, fuck you cigarattes, yu yah yu yah yu yah yu
[fuck you cigarettes]
why?
fuck you that's why.... yah yi ya yo yah yi ya...
take any mind control where you can get it, see where it gets you
take on a scheme, a secret for control of the world, your world, at least your world
at least take on a dubious friend in a solipsist's hell, an imaginary friend? that'll do, that'll do nicely, in fact, that might more than do, that might be more than happy, like a dangerous mental condition
placebos for working out tension earlier catches up with me, waking fever dreams will do nicely, it'll all mesh comfortably, mash it up pra-pa-lEE! shy bow bow, fuck you cigarettes... yeah ya, this'n'that and never mind whatever's involved, detach from realities, make the warning on the pack as big as you want, cause fuck you, and yes. That'll do nicely.
Where has all the rage gone? Gone to a Rage song. The machine rages on. 2016 remix. Fuck you. I won't do what you tell me. Unless I'm in a safe space where realities can't touch me. Be proud of self-imposed mind control, where you can get it, so precious, a philosopher's stone. Get the balance right, punch up occasionally with thc and don't do coke unless offered, and mash it up properly, mash the tension to a pre-digested paste to massage the dendrites of perverted interpretations of extra layer sensory depth of feeling you don't know what to do with, altogether, especially... to minecraft renditions still not satisfactory, enterprise still too blocky, tetrafractcal valley tours but where is the gold block that makes it mean everything? the iridium vain, the main secret collect motherlode star item event - the lodestone runny currency, an i-coin slowly flanging into a bitcoin, the walmart stand, beautiful barely-legal ip infringement
horizon, let's call it - in any event...
things can change, thoughts, feelings, fuck you, cigarettes, cause, fuck you, that's why, cause - just cause, cause the internet, caused it all, caused this country going down the tubes, what tubes? the tubes, of this country, the country's going down it, and why is there more than one tube, does every state gotta have its own tube now? seems to me like, one country one tube would do the job pretty good, but tubes that big, you'd think someone woulda seen 'em, someone woulda said hey ey ey joey, hey, lookit those fuckin tubes! and where do they go?
the pacific, i guess, it all makes sense, fuck you cigarettes, we need a euphemism, we need a euphemism, WE NEED A EUPHEMISM, a resounding successful reunion of comfort and menace: a monster mashup type thing, swerving to avoid, gracefully, all these things, that you might have riffed on if you'd caught a groove in an old indulgence
take any mind control, like a mix of stabilizers, better than dread regimes from nowhere panic, flip out fables, little golden books
you've got a friend in fuck you cigs, and dreams where you get to do drugs, cause it's dreams, and a good battered psychology is good for a juicy dream, isn't it? dream material, stuff that dreams are made of, are gritty cable dramas, literally gritty cable dramas, in the case of a multi-series arc of the sopranos i wasn't aware had existed until that dream that merged with breaking bad at some point and involved a mob turf war on a Mediterranean labyrinth with wafer walls and old country decor, and other ways i could claw onto a caprice, shamelesly, then down and shamefully, and altogether in a knot of loss of love for self in that sentence.
Dirty miracles on Elysium. Bloody microchip miracles. Post-existenz coup de gras and portable.
8/26/16
8/21/16
dwindle
a slow phase out grate off powder into
vaporous transition, to not notice
forget, eventually
remember, there used to be a sense of something to say, or was it wishing and fingertips? there was drive, but the knob broke, broke off from overuse, corroded pathways
rhombus bonus spoke to me of a time when a rolling network of color commentary bounced along side like a lively shadow in a riverside sideshow, hey folks, c'mon down
font got too small, tasks multiplied, threads became balls - at that point, snacks had to happen, a good distraction, then kindling made pages multiply, folders filled, flicked into subfolders, parent folders filled, clicked on in a riffling past inventory way, in a scheme, but never read, like those bookshelves, looking even stranger, quainter, every day, taller, space multiplied, microfilm digitized, text unreadable, taken care of, digested in a layer of rote processing below a conscious level with machine learning, consciousness isn't all it's cracked up to be anyway, not the end all and be all, merely an ends to the machine tool that's tooling this stepping stone for a bigger busier tentacle troll pickup line
forgot reasons to either moan with depression and self-pity or groan with ecstasy from ill-gotten gains from time-bounded chemical splurge schemes - when everything was thought of in those terms, could still be, one use for virtuosity, indexing disorders on a fractal that is surely in order, as near as we can figure out, trust it, go with that flow, prioritize according to a series of values the order dictates, make disorder work for you, impose bureaucracy on it, strangle to strengthen into rhythmic meter-long wiremesh segments, points, to get out of bed, because eventually, you want to
certain senses enhanced, other, lower forms shunted to margins by noise cancelling headphones - creating marginal sluces and diamond-crusted chutes, and line noise offchutes, and forks of lightning that is glittering static crackling
there was space at times - nostalgia got uglier, mirrors liquified slowly, on a slow drip
bonus rhombus
vaporous transition, to not notice
forget, eventually
remember, there used to be a sense of something to say, or was it wishing and fingertips? there was drive, but the knob broke, broke off from overuse, corroded pathways
rhombus bonus spoke to me of a time when a rolling network of color commentary bounced along side like a lively shadow in a riverside sideshow, hey folks, c'mon down
font got too small, tasks multiplied, threads became balls - at that point, snacks had to happen, a good distraction, then kindling made pages multiply, folders filled, flicked into subfolders, parent folders filled, clicked on in a riffling past inventory way, in a scheme, but never read, like those bookshelves, looking even stranger, quainter, every day, taller, space multiplied, microfilm digitized, text unreadable, taken care of, digested in a layer of rote processing below a conscious level with machine learning, consciousness isn't all it's cracked up to be anyway, not the end all and be all, merely an ends to the machine tool that's tooling this stepping stone for a bigger busier tentacle troll pickup line
forgot reasons to either moan with depression and self-pity or groan with ecstasy from ill-gotten gains from time-bounded chemical splurge schemes - when everything was thought of in those terms, could still be, one use for virtuosity, indexing disorders on a fractal that is surely in order, as near as we can figure out, trust it, go with that flow, prioritize according to a series of values the order dictates, make disorder work for you, impose bureaucracy on it, strangle to strengthen into rhythmic meter-long wiremesh segments, points, to get out of bed, because eventually, you want to
certain senses enhanced, other, lower forms shunted to margins by noise cancelling headphones - creating marginal sluces and diamond-crusted chutes, and line noise offchutes, and forks of lightning that is glittering static crackling
there was space at times - nostalgia got uglier, mirrors liquified slowly, on a slow drip
bonus rhombus
7/31/16
Strike while the iron is touched
Touched. He's touched. I was touched for a moment, that seemed to last forever.
Touched is a much better word than schizophrenic - a townie friend of mine said that, about our mutual friend. I have the urge to perform a metaprogramming hack on myself, like Eliot with Evilcorp, that character in Mr. Robot and henceforth copy and replace the word and henceforth my reality. Evilcorp. Can't even remember what the original "real" name of that possibly fictional corporation was. Would that I had such schizophrenic powers, but alas, I'm not touched, merely a clumsy hacker without a script, a magician sans technique. Good probably, I couldn't handle it. A seasoned touched person can attempt to medicate on brute force tranqs like lithium.
No, I'm not relapsing, just had a dream that lasted maybe two hours "real time" but it was one of those glimpse of infinity insanity and reality dreams that are eternal in some sense, that motivated me to write, in a real time season of no words, only externally imposed, internally complicit routines. One of those dreams I get on the very rare seed occasions that I fall asleep, finally, without taking my sleep medication. It gave me the urge to meditate, cogitate. Instead I followed a well worn script, got up, feeling awake in a way I haven't in years, smoked a cigarette, poisoned myself in weathered floor crafting recipies. Not selfish hedonism drug trip scripts, just slow death unhealthy living patterns I've slid into, forever postponing the futile proactive probiotic future crystal floor path recipe.
Made me think and feel about being "touched" though, ideas like I should reach out to friends of ours that are touched, who better to talk of these things with. Or who worse? Who better or worse than our touched friends, or the friend that worded it in a perfect folksy way, who's now in a real earthy life script of raising a new life he co-created.
Of course I can't really write about it. But here's a community college try.
Fading, like a dream, or a psychedelic revelation, which is really a whole nother thing. The rare dream thing sans sleeping pills, that's more in line with Ian Welsh's eerie mention of being young, hospitalized, in extreme physical and mental pain, but the mental was infinitely worse, and probably caused in part by medical steroids administered routinely on a living death-bed, partly alleviated by morphine and demerol. All things being equal, he wrote, mental pain is worse than physical, and nausea is worse than anything. Don't think he was even thinking of Satre or mescaline.
Just thinking, being touched by powerful mind altering substances and affliction. But getting good words out of it, in the end, in the current hegemonic language, even if words are so clumsy. But magic tech is getting ever more sophisticated, if that's the word. We're all touched by it. Increasingly running on code that could be transparent, but who ever clicks on the show source tab? Information overload, medicated dreams.
Love is a word that's so cheap, I'm falling in love with Abigail, not really, she's nothing but a few pixels, she's a sprite with a few animations, not even an avatar, a short tree, a few possibilities.
Touched is a much better word than schizophrenic - a townie friend of mine said that, about our mutual friend. I have the urge to perform a metaprogramming hack on myself, like Eliot with Evilcorp, that character in Mr. Robot and henceforth copy and replace the word and henceforth my reality. Evilcorp. Can't even remember what the original "real" name of that possibly fictional corporation was. Would that I had such schizophrenic powers, but alas, I'm not touched, merely a clumsy hacker without a script, a magician sans technique. Good probably, I couldn't handle it. A seasoned touched person can attempt to medicate on brute force tranqs like lithium.
No, I'm not relapsing, just had a dream that lasted maybe two hours "real time" but it was one of those glimpse of infinity insanity and reality dreams that are eternal in some sense, that motivated me to write, in a real time season of no words, only externally imposed, internally complicit routines. One of those dreams I get on the very rare seed occasions that I fall asleep, finally, without taking my sleep medication. It gave me the urge to meditate, cogitate. Instead I followed a well worn script, got up, feeling awake in a way I haven't in years, smoked a cigarette, poisoned myself in weathered floor crafting recipies. Not selfish hedonism drug trip scripts, just slow death unhealthy living patterns I've slid into, forever postponing the futile proactive probiotic future crystal floor path recipe.
Made me think and feel about being "touched" though, ideas like I should reach out to friends of ours that are touched, who better to talk of these things with. Or who worse? Who better or worse than our touched friends, or the friend that worded it in a perfect folksy way, who's now in a real earthy life script of raising a new life he co-created.
Of course I can't really write about it. But here's a community college try.
Fading, like a dream, or a psychedelic revelation, which is really a whole nother thing. The rare dream thing sans sleeping pills, that's more in line with Ian Welsh's eerie mention of being young, hospitalized, in extreme physical and mental pain, but the mental was infinitely worse, and probably caused in part by medical steroids administered routinely on a living death-bed, partly alleviated by morphine and demerol. All things being equal, he wrote, mental pain is worse than physical, and nausea is worse than anything. Don't think he was even thinking of Satre or mescaline.
Just thinking, being touched by powerful mind altering substances and affliction. But getting good words out of it, in the end, in the current hegemonic language, even if words are so clumsy. But magic tech is getting ever more sophisticated, if that's the word. We're all touched by it. Increasingly running on code that could be transparent, but who ever clicks on the show source tab? Information overload, medicated dreams.
Love is a word that's so cheap, I'm falling in love with Abigail, not really, she's nothing but a few pixels, she's a sprite with a few animations, not even an avatar, a short tree, a few possibilities.
5/02/16
recovery
somebody can hear someone playing Beethoven's moonlight sonata, and fucking up occasionally but pulling through, and hear that in entirely different ways. Maybe they hear it as a sad piece of music made even sadder by this demonstration of a performer who once had facility but is now tragically eroded. Or maybe they hear it as the fits and starts of a person recovering from a calamity, filling the hippocampus with laboured breath, slowly lighting those long dark neutral paths and persevering and finding his strength again.
4/17/16
recognizing loving and love pumps
Feeling empty, the only thing that nudges me to write anymore, so, voila, something like this, when empty's overflowing and i'm heaving nothing into a porcelain blog, tickling lil' lines in the dust on the surface of the semicircle, poking a node, stroking vectors, transcriptions of a casual chat with satan's collection agent from the pact we made back in the day, me and satan, in the company of an agent as witness and middleman - satan's agent's still trying to collect, sent an angel to bribe me into looking back for love, i played it pretty aloof, shook my hair like a pretty boy, with almost enough cell-death, biological distinguishment to pretend to be adult far advanced in decrepitude
wit drained - plumbing was a good thing once upon a time, the visions of plumbing, infinite variation on flowing visions through conduits, on themes that were important in ways i couldn't explain, maybe nothing could, not even math - and plumbing was a good thing because there was an analog spectrum between non-horniness and orgasm, a nice wide spectrum to work up to almost unbearable physical gratification before release - then there came a bottleneck, maybe medication, maybe leach of psychological nutrients, rigid neurochemical management, serotonin austerity regime - or maybe giving up, love lust and everything in between being not worth another try, yet again, too disappointing - maybe i should write one of those songs from the male perspective about wanting someone to do all the work for me, to come to me, to make me come
plumbing proved problematic, had to prime the pump to blood pressure redline, velocity straining tendons, to get to a point where it should start to build like a good solid chunk of empty man's bliss, and once finally there, for all that effort, almost instant flip to spasmodic and sterile ejac like a hairtrigger switch - very little satisfaction, no afterglow to speak of - yes, there are mediocre orgasms, and i've had some great ones with porn
but searching these days is a lot of "not my porno", took so long to find the right one - then i did, something i should have appreciated, nothing i would have even conceived in more innocent days, not dirty, just expertly hot for my subtype, enough sophistication to deserve a critique, a clip really accomplishing something with the art of porno, making the girl seem smart and in on production and able to articulate the strategy, of maximizing horny-making effect, beyond anybody's convention of sexy but deeper, pushing buttons and telling you about it
i can run toward empty, past the slash, and then write like this again, hear this voice, if i want, if i can stop nursing the burn spot on my finger, dunno how i got it, got too stoned i guess, to even notice pain, any real tactile pain, drowned out by thousands of imagined pains in a sensory connection state bounded, when i can really MEAN a note when i play it, but it doesn't matter later, the meaning is completely lost, feeling residue baked into Fourier transformation trails.
Better than con trail theories. They're a con. Confidently-told stories that people would love to believe, because paranoia is optimism for certain kinds, when out of control, inhuman is too threatening, too pessimistic, because you're alone and afraid in a world you never made. Hey, I'm there too, most of the time. Can get a flash of feeling I'm out of it, but it's been decades since DMT flashes. They were bright, but terribly state bounded, there's a mere smear of words condensed from an energy that apparently killed me if i'm to be believed by what i wrote as it wore off... now i can only write it off as digiscrawls of a feeling I meant to mean something, but it's like a stoned piano improv that may as well be the "even worse" hell of that Event Horizon movie, or the tesseract from a novel that seemed a lot more mind-blowing when I read it at age ten than it did four years ago. I'm in the world I never made, and afraid in it, and alone in it, but friends come to mean enough, not exponentially more and more, but in an ebb and flow, more random than pulse, but 0.003% predictable over a 30% spread, people I expect to hang out with but don't expect to be directed to a poet/philosopher/biologist with a take on everything is waiting for you, put down your loneliness, let go of the self and engage in the conversation of everything communicating with everything, a meeting - and not even being on acid! See, I'm friendly but rarely seem so, so I exclaim sometimes, to set up a prison phone conversation through plexiglass between an incarcerated bundle of loving fun and an insular misanthropic self-indulgent writer.
And then, later, following american politics, eating popcorn. Too long an interval between goof proofs of the incompleteness theorem. Am I gonna mention dimensions now or are there too many dimensions to mention? I think the latter, but look at me, doing the former. But there are real monsters, aren't there? And there's still enough coke in columbia to kill me, but not enough in Nelson to fuel me. My superpower is sobriety. Drugs are my kryptonite. But I let my subscription to kryptonite weekly lapse. Because I just connect by listening to someone describe what it's like to grow, process, and insufflate kryptonite crystals through an oculus rift device. On youtube. As a balm to graze edony, and lie down and try and sink into a hospice premonition, but only really squirm about in an unsatisfying medicated slide into subpar sleep.
damn, out of lighters too - this must be - when one gets kicked out of the loop of playing language
wit drained - plumbing was a good thing once upon a time, the visions of plumbing, infinite variation on flowing visions through conduits, on themes that were important in ways i couldn't explain, maybe nothing could, not even math - and plumbing was a good thing because there was an analog spectrum between non-horniness and orgasm, a nice wide spectrum to work up to almost unbearable physical gratification before release - then there came a bottleneck, maybe medication, maybe leach of psychological nutrients, rigid neurochemical management, serotonin austerity regime - or maybe giving up, love lust and everything in between being not worth another try, yet again, too disappointing - maybe i should write one of those songs from the male perspective about wanting someone to do all the work for me, to come to me, to make me come
plumbing proved problematic, had to prime the pump to blood pressure redline, velocity straining tendons, to get to a point where it should start to build like a good solid chunk of empty man's bliss, and once finally there, for all that effort, almost instant flip to spasmodic and sterile ejac like a hairtrigger switch - very little satisfaction, no afterglow to speak of - yes, there are mediocre orgasms, and i've had some great ones with porn
but searching these days is a lot of "not my porno", took so long to find the right one - then i did, something i should have appreciated, nothing i would have even conceived in more innocent days, not dirty, just expertly hot for my subtype, enough sophistication to deserve a critique, a clip really accomplishing something with the art of porno, making the girl seem smart and in on production and able to articulate the strategy, of maximizing horny-making effect, beyond anybody's convention of sexy but deeper, pushing buttons and telling you about it
i can run toward empty, past the slash, and then write like this again, hear this voice, if i want, if i can stop nursing the burn spot on my finger, dunno how i got it, got too stoned i guess, to even notice pain, any real tactile pain, drowned out by thousands of imagined pains in a sensory connection state bounded, when i can really MEAN a note when i play it, but it doesn't matter later, the meaning is completely lost, feeling residue baked into Fourier transformation trails.
Better than con trail theories. They're a con. Confidently-told stories that people would love to believe, because paranoia is optimism for certain kinds, when out of control, inhuman is too threatening, too pessimistic, because you're alone and afraid in a world you never made. Hey, I'm there too, most of the time. Can get a flash of feeling I'm out of it, but it's been decades since DMT flashes. They were bright, but terribly state bounded, there's a mere smear of words condensed from an energy that apparently killed me if i'm to be believed by what i wrote as it wore off... now i can only write it off as digiscrawls of a feeling I meant to mean something, but it's like a stoned piano improv that may as well be the "even worse" hell of that Event Horizon movie, or the tesseract from a novel that seemed a lot more mind-blowing when I read it at age ten than it did four years ago. I'm in the world I never made, and afraid in it, and alone in it, but friends come to mean enough, not exponentially more and more, but in an ebb and flow, more random than pulse, but 0.003% predictable over a 30% spread, people I expect to hang out with but don't expect to be directed to a poet/philosopher/biologist with a take on everything is waiting for you, put down your loneliness, let go of the self and engage in the conversation of everything communicating with everything, a meeting - and not even being on acid! See, I'm friendly but rarely seem so, so I exclaim sometimes, to set up a prison phone conversation through plexiglass between an incarcerated bundle of loving fun and an insular misanthropic self-indulgent writer.
And then, later, following american politics, eating popcorn. Too long an interval between goof proofs of the incompleteness theorem. Am I gonna mention dimensions now or are there too many dimensions to mention? I think the latter, but look at me, doing the former. But there are real monsters, aren't there? And there's still enough coke in columbia to kill me, but not enough in Nelson to fuel me. My superpower is sobriety. Drugs are my kryptonite. But I let my subscription to kryptonite weekly lapse. Because I just connect by listening to someone describe what it's like to grow, process, and insufflate kryptonite crystals through an oculus rift device. On youtube. As a balm to graze edony, and lie down and try and sink into a hospice premonition, but only really squirm about in an unsatisfying medicated slide into subpar sleep.
damn, out of lighters too - this must be - when one gets kicked out of the loop of playing language
3/12/16
2/20/16
commissioned for an audio tour of Nelson
Actual composition instead of an hour-long improv indulgence, 'sbeen a while. I wanted to call it The Dandy Whoremonger, but settled on a neutral title:
Baker Street Rag
Baker Street Rag
2/02/16
god delivers
3 + 4 = 7 = The Logos = unity in us all, and/or narrowly defined humanness. But we can all agree on the first part, right? Arithmetic among other maths can be expressed in beautiful visuals for right hemispheres.
Failure to be impressed in an objectively impressive world. Failure to muster enthusiasm for review, of anything, pro or con. Failure to be a photographer. Bookmark backlog three thousand links deep for unwatched documentaries. Writing like this. To not have to use the word I as much, to further remove self by artifice, refer to it as an other, needlessly obfuscate prose.
Obsession with self being the shameful root of shyness - no pitiable pain, only intolerance to light outside the vanity blinder. Yearning for the paranormal but failing to find what weird I find compelling. Wanting to be like idols of the fringe, go stone crazy with magic tech but from a rational starting point. Then be so overpowered by the miraculous that the hard-chiseled abs of material reductivism are useless. And yet... nothing comes along to overcome what is not even middling core strength on my part, see, me? No rigor. Seems like I could be shattered so easily, won't you please shake my faith in nothing, mister, please?
So maybe God comes to the irrational as a burning bush, the only symbol that will take for that particular schizophrenic, and to the rational, as a genderless pronoun in an operational definition that will act as metaphorical arbiter over the morality of what he's gonna do anyway. If you're Thomas the Doubter, you get to put your finger through Jesus' hand holes, cause that's what passes for a scientific experiment in these times, pretty clever on the sliding scale that is a snail's straight razor descalator. If you're me, you get a vague sense, but maybe enough to guide a guy through a funpark minecart railtrip in the fog, that it's good to try and be decent and nice and think about others and consider the implications of external nerve endings. It's what passes for sunlight in these times.
The carney's hawking aromatherapy, suddenly I've got a good feeling about it but I can't smell anything, this dude I just met says kinesiology is the answer, that's gotta be worth a listen cause it's a coincidence that could power a 10 watt bulb on the improbability-fueled starship, since I was just listening to a podcast on electric eels and muscle stimulation, the restaurant manager counsels me for free to take initiative and carve out an economic niche as recipient of government money for an as-yet-un-diagnosed band of The Spectrum, my audio tour guide asks me, how can I really have any choice when I'm so lazy, like it's my lot in life, to laze, and graze on rays of light, the closer the deadline, the more active the screen romance, til I can't sit or keep lids open, and regress even flatter, hoping for unearned sleep. I'm tired, I say, not lazy, when everything's so crazy, but even crazier how normal that feels, weird, for sure, in a labelly way, fascinating, you'd think, a miracle in a certain logic lacking feeling... Wanting the miracle despite fear of the curse, that child fear, post-santa, pre-hormonal maturation, the dread that anything could happen, I could be cursed. Wanting the miracle even though it implies demons because it also implies angels, and I need them. For sobriety and use to society, and a dignified life on the side.
But always back to self obsession, whether pro or con, still uselessly self-absorbed, burning energy, experience, exercise, potential that could be spent contributing to collective good and getting out of sick self. I'm not a rugged individualist, nor libertarian chic, just decadent. If I could turn pleasure-seeking into a trump tower, I probably would, gild pride, cause people could live in it, live in my dreams and nightmares. Something to be said about wealth, and even more, popularity.
1/23/16
11/29/15
11/25/15
Come by what honestly?
Honestly? How many times can I feel the end of the world? And not even feel unbearable lightness of cyclic nature? Dreams will save me in the cycle, every once in a while, like the bankrupt wedge on the wheel of fortune, something more healing than anything inside the head, a reset of self awareness and identity.
There won't be any smile for many days, except a fake one, cause in times of real self-inflicted darkness, it gets to where pretending things are better is better than feeling the pain of feeling the pain, on that extra meta-feeling level. I got locked up, unable to express anything relevant, even through a debauch of words. Cause of what I did, again, how it makes everything pointless.
It's sick, really sick, especially how I say this, the will to change everything, but the sick mind applying the implements, ineffectively. Really, it's never been more pointless to say the things, of health and philosophy and artistry and disease telemetry.
I think I sicked myself out. I'd like to hang out in the hollow wallow until ruined city reverb sounds pleasantly familiar, familiarize until comfortable, the hard dynamics of familiarization, re-familiarize, grind on the stuck gear of frozen malfunction.
I'm straining, cause nothing goes, it's a no-go, non-starter. The opposite of freedom is what I need, possibility grants me malign tumours, makes waves of arbitrary frequency, like an Aphex Twin track where he used a spectrograph morpher to sculpt his decal visually in linear pitch vectors but you're trying to hear a melody.
I can't make anything good out of this, it takes a little more out of me each time, each time I fuck up. If there's a trajectory, I can't see it, or believe in except as a proof of the Riemann Hypothesis. I've squandered enough second chances, there's so much wasted grace there's no seeing over the detritus. Yes, I'll slog through, try and come out of it. I just can't see what I could do with this utterly disgraced person at this point, it's played out.
I know how I sound, I dunno, maybe I need to let even more, let things disintegrate even further, I mean, in the case of straining to tap out some consecutive words, as if that's something to move through and not the extended wing downward into darkness. Extant.
I guess the point would be to become a monk, and do something useful like copy books in longhand. Well, what's the modern equivalent, that's actually useful? Rip television series' from Netflix and upload them to torrent sites? Even then, I'd be redundant, there'd be crisper rips quicker than I could output.
I richly deserve what bloodless depression I feel now, but it doesn't do anyone any good to bounce around in that bubble. Maybe it does me some good to reflect in words, since it's the barest feeling of having a facility, though the mirror is filmy from bodily fluid misfires. But there's been no attempt, just a long-standing lament at lack of craft. Meanwhile, consuming terabytes of podcasts streams and series, feeling like I can riff on the brilliant comedy because I can predict what they're going to say 5% of the time, like I'm a peer, appreciating the craft like a practitioner.
Can kind of see it in my head, like I see anything in the mind's eye, which is so vague it's tragic, but a kind of tragic my crying muscle never finds purchase on, more of a dream tragic that can't be wept about, it's smothered by superterranean substance, and I would gladly take that, for eternity, instead of the void I'm still afraid of. But getting to a point, perhaps, where I'm sick of thinking about how do I face it, or what does it mean, and would rather just fucking NOT think about it, nevermind about the truth or whatever, fuck.
There won't be any smile for many days, except a fake one, cause in times of real self-inflicted darkness, it gets to where pretending things are better is better than feeling the pain of feeling the pain, on that extra meta-feeling level. I got locked up, unable to express anything relevant, even through a debauch of words. Cause of what I did, again, how it makes everything pointless.
It's sick, really sick, especially how I say this, the will to change everything, but the sick mind applying the implements, ineffectively. Really, it's never been more pointless to say the things, of health and philosophy and artistry and disease telemetry.
I think I sicked myself out. I'd like to hang out in the hollow wallow until ruined city reverb sounds pleasantly familiar, familiarize until comfortable, the hard dynamics of familiarization, re-familiarize, grind on the stuck gear of frozen malfunction.
I'm straining, cause nothing goes, it's a no-go, non-starter. The opposite of freedom is what I need, possibility grants me malign tumours, makes waves of arbitrary frequency, like an Aphex Twin track where he used a spectrograph morpher to sculpt his decal visually in linear pitch vectors but you're trying to hear a melody.
I can't make anything good out of this, it takes a little more out of me each time, each time I fuck up. If there's a trajectory, I can't see it, or believe in except as a proof of the Riemann Hypothesis. I've squandered enough second chances, there's so much wasted grace there's no seeing over the detritus. Yes, I'll slog through, try and come out of it. I just can't see what I could do with this utterly disgraced person at this point, it's played out.
I know how I sound, I dunno, maybe I need to let even more, let things disintegrate even further, I mean, in the case of straining to tap out some consecutive words, as if that's something to move through and not the extended wing downward into darkness. Extant.
I guess the point would be to become a monk, and do something useful like copy books in longhand. Well, what's the modern equivalent, that's actually useful? Rip television series' from Netflix and upload them to torrent sites? Even then, I'd be redundant, there'd be crisper rips quicker than I could output.
I richly deserve what bloodless depression I feel now, but it doesn't do anyone any good to bounce around in that bubble. Maybe it does me some good to reflect in words, since it's the barest feeling of having a facility, though the mirror is filmy from bodily fluid misfires. But there's been no attempt, just a long-standing lament at lack of craft. Meanwhile, consuming terabytes of podcasts streams and series, feeling like I can riff on the brilliant comedy because I can predict what they're going to say 5% of the time, like I'm a peer, appreciating the craft like a practitioner.
Can kind of see it in my head, like I see anything in the mind's eye, which is so vague it's tragic, but a kind of tragic my crying muscle never finds purchase on, more of a dream tragic that can't be wept about, it's smothered by superterranean substance, and I would gladly take that, for eternity, instead of the void I'm still afraid of. But getting to a point, perhaps, where I'm sick of thinking about how do I face it, or what does it mean, and would rather just fucking NOT think about it, nevermind about the truth or whatever, fuck.
11/21/15
You've agreed that you've agreed to tee up to stuff your stuff. It used to take effort. To write. Then it became about typing, and rhyming ideas. Then it was groovy. Then, it wasn't over, until I smoked a stick of clover, and y'know how I might've finagled that.
This is post number 999. I'd better make this really really mundane, and not special, and have some real homeric one for the next one. Yeah, why not make an excuse, to celebrate? I will damnit, I will take that opportunity. I will write a semi-homeric post about that Other acid trip I meant to write about, the once in a decade trip that I dutifully took, after the seven year nuclear apocalypse wore off. I seem to recall it had something to do with the school I was cleaning, and creating reality telekinetically from first principles.
This is post number 999. I'd better make this really really mundane, and not special, and have some real homeric one for the next one. Yeah, why not make an excuse, to celebrate? I will damnit, I will take that opportunity. I will write a semi-homeric post about that Other acid trip I meant to write about, the once in a decade trip that I dutifully took, after the seven year nuclear apocalypse wore off. I seem to recall it had something to do with the school I was cleaning, and creating reality telekinetically from first principles.
9/28/15
unprecedented inspiration
led by... the always reliable dreams
you ever get those spectator dreams? of course you do.
It was a horror movie, but done in the most expedient way. In the way that lives depend on, when they get crushed under the stairs of the sewer sever lovers. When candy was currency. The 50 limit is waved in certain charity cases, in proximity to a wife that offed herself. I'm sorry, proxies. But we're all incredibly fucked up, and yet, incredibly, we'll soldier on. It's incredibly great that so few will read this, and it'll mean and matter so incredibly little, that's why it feels incredibly important to write this, and lay things incredibly excruciatingly bare, except obscured, by analogy. But barely so.
And you didn't understand, and I didn't either, but I made a something that meant something in that moment, it's just that moments are so cheap, such red syrupy currency, it's good that there's cake to offset that... oh my, what would we do without that? well, we'd be up, because we slept the whole weekend - well, it's been a while since we slept and
i don't know, sometimes it takes a break in the currency to actually actualize a communicato continuum and bridge the dream gap - it's been a real long bleak season of not posting anything and that disturbs me greatly, perhaps even more than pragmatic realistic good things like money rollin' and other gauche things that shan't be discussed in this blog...
there's been not enough alteration, and this is a bid for a little bitty moment that the pragmatics deem not wide enough, but i'll crick it a bit and i think i can manage to - even in daylight! yes - i miss that, and it counts for something, even if it demands a recount.
gotta wear out the shoes quick... night and day. I have no excuse. And yet. I might. I'm gonna finish though.
and what else... it's been ... i can do this... it's not so bad... especially after what's happened... in the past... and i might as well be up... stay up... i'm not much of a professional... good company... it was one of those one-offs where we riffed on friends... and i won't remember when i meant by that but it was a juicy comment...
And you didn't understand, and I didn't either, but I made a something that meant something in that moment, it's just that moments are so cheap, such red syrupy currency, it's good that there's cake to offset that... oh my, what would we do without that? well, we'd be up, because we slept the whole weekend - well, it's been a while since we slept and
i don't know, sometimes it takes a break in the currency to actually actualize a communicato continuum and bridge the dream gap - it's been a real long bleak season of not posting anything and that disturbs me greatly, perhaps even more than pragmatic realistic good things like money rollin' and other gauche things that shan't be discussed in this blog...
there's been not enough alteration, and this is a bid for a little bitty moment that the pragmatics deem not wide enough, but i'll crick it a bit and i think i can manage to - even in daylight! yes - i miss that, and it counts for something, even if it demands a recount.
gotta wear out the shoes quick... night and day. I have no excuse. And yet. I might. I'm gonna finish though.
and what else... it's been ... i can do this... it's not so bad... especially after what's happened... in the past... and i might as well be up... stay up... i'm not much of a professional... good company... it was one of those one-offs where we riffed on friends... and i won't remember when i meant by that but it was a juicy comment...
9/08/15
8/24/15
8/09/15
Needing something to do. It never gets easier. I mean, it ebbs and flows but trends nowhere. Drifts with the whims of follicles. Bad hair days short and long. Tortured here and there, convo peripherals at meeting, nature as god. Can't make anything out of fakery just now. Super this, super that. This is all I write now, stuff like this. And I shared. There was some sincerity in it, but also a big thing of dishonesty in that I neither exude nor feel gratitude. Could uncover such a thing with deep digging I won't bother with, except allude to like a myth in a share, that ghastly noun. Kills time that badly needs killing given it's still not time to go. Peripherals get sharper and sharper. Cake meetings. Not even a movie of the week. How fucking easy it is for everyone else. Imagine the mileage I could get out of ease like that.
So hard to say things. Takes so much effort. Easier to swipe them to self as a channel. There's gotta be something in my water. Something making me tired. Something making me see the clear emptiness of everything, program sayings. I'm praying for spiked water, something to blame. Feel disliked today, that paranoia's taking over. Of course I'm in the wrong company for that.
Close eyes to not see signals to interpret. Gesture ignorant but just perceptive enough to be offended in the case of some true positives. Signals.
I wish I could know in advance which meetings are gonna feel good and which aren't, so I could just go to the good feeling ones. The ones that feel bad are so often the cake ones where everyone's laughing annoyingly and my absence is palpable.
Yeah, I got that vibe. Ease. It's still so hard.
Well, what do you expect if I'm going to spiral into exclusion. These are my bootstraps, the only kind of initiative I can take.
So hard to say things. Takes so much effort. Easier to swipe them to self as a channel. There's gotta be something in my water. Something making me tired. Something making me see the clear emptiness of everything, program sayings. I'm praying for spiked water, something to blame. Feel disliked today, that paranoia's taking over. Of course I'm in the wrong company for that.
Close eyes to not see signals to interpret. Gesture ignorant but just perceptive enough to be offended in the case of some true positives. Signals.
I wish I could know in advance which meetings are gonna feel good and which aren't, so I could just go to the good feeling ones. The ones that feel bad are so often the cake ones where everyone's laughing annoyingly and my absence is palpable.
Yeah, I got that vibe. Ease. It's still so hard.
Well, what do you expect if I'm going to spiral into exclusion. These are my bootstraps, the only kind of initiative I can take.
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