red-shift shamanicide

one day they'll find you, the rainbow cartel: the lovers... the dreamers... abusers... of self, shamanicized... to... abusers of others

turned around, calculated possibilities of abusing others, let's euphemize "using others", turn an inconvenient bag lady to a useful trashcan like the "better town" in Globex Corporation's video brochure, see it flap timidly under the cold wind thrashing a lonely snowscape, subtly beckoning negative space

surveyed possibilities of "using" others by turning on sociopathy like a tap, turning off strategically, to make a warm bed of insecurity, for us to cuddle up in each other, drop the confidence game, face confusing canopies of spreading-parting nebulae... and comment together at night in her designer's mood-lit interior, and trade humiliations, and pull up a positive sum, curl up a comfort so provisional, like a chanukkah candelabra

the rainbow cartel have smudged brains that care for no other until it's convenient - maybe one of them will find you convenient, take no for no answer - could find the bliss in that power trip, animal spirit you could bottle and sell to a man one indignity away from a mass shooting - but it's not open to full spectrum paranoia of a stable of others to use and abuse, the worst thing she could do to me, given carte-blanche, use me too then---leukocyte comets streak under my-eye-balls in a burn of cynic bliss, later-cuddle-playlist when i want to talk about it with you, only you, forget abstractions, rub shoulder, decide to believe, even at the risk of being seen to buying in to what i want to hear, because it's so open to interpredatory ratios... later, calendrical, bury denials inside implausible inverted pyramids laid bare, it's fucked up, that's okay, it's beautiful when torrents drown tornadoes

watching nintendo treehouse - why make it fragmentary? - longing - why fragments of longing - snipper clippers - is a game - just leave a lot of fragments on the frozen table of fun, removed, seen through a screen, googled, accessible sans tactile

can't do it fucked up, can't do it sober - can't do it fecund, can't do it sterile - throw me in the meat-grinder, cleanse me of zen - forget about the afterlife - forget there was a word for life

games, nintendo games, new nintendo systems - watching nintendo games on youtube, self-imposed exile, cause the social life makes myself take poisons

now i want to find her name, sam from nintendo treehouse from youtube e3 video streams, but i won't go that far, i'll only go so far as to strip-mine audio for asmr material, leave the video on the table, but the audio will meld with the loved visual assocation, the kind that's just on the edge of sexual, but mostly in the land of good vibes and pleasant sub-sleep drowsy where something happens with the meridian, whatever that is, pseudo-scientific discipline for curious lack of curiosity in the vast pool of analytical phenoms i'd've figured would've studied everything

my relationship to words ain't so sacred anymore, but i'll put some pronouns in there, to fragment less, and i can still feel there's a sutra in and around those words, above and below my spine

haveth childers everywhere

still got that vital force
still putting it to no use
lot of effort for nothing productive

if it is a sterile vitality, i should not succumb to depression and self-hating because of old artificial morality and superstitious nonsense - the irony is, i would, after all this time, coming from feeling so rational, no-nonsense, penetrating clarity of thinking, to seeing why nonsensical things exist, to contracting stockholm syndrome from a cruel and irrational world - it's not all cruelty, sometimes irrationality is the only salvation, but it's a sometimes salvation, gets to seem insufficient, makes me feel the malnutrician i can normally ignore

i'm still creating an apocalypse for myself every week or so - pushing back any kind of redemption, again and again, kicking it far into the future - some day i might kick it so far it falls off the edge of the earth - relapse, but no recovery, none left in me

still, no, i won't do it - won't bring a child into it to save my own soul

still i can just lean on the one time i had reason to buy plan b

universal love song to the one

Making plans to make plans. For the one.

You all can relate, can't you?

thrill

i'm anticipating the future, like i've done in every moment of nameless dread, acid trip, insomnia, bad dream, decaying orbit, coma preview - there'll have to come a moment when a critical mass of people become aware of an epochal shift, inverting all values, like the anthropocene transition, or whatever - next, panic - the panic will be the fireball, that's all - the blastwave, cloud, and fallout being the much longer, larger experience we'll grimly get used to, after panic kills the prone-to-panic percentage

maybe i shouldn't believe what i read, maybe i'm being manipulated - self-curated, consuming fear - just a niche type of fear, certain people consume different fears and angers, that i laugh at - this is my fear, that feels real enough because i don't want it - but i must look askance at that rationalization, because i had such contempt for the man who claimed he was convinced of a literal christian hell because god showed him a vision of his friend burning for eternity, and he didn't want to see it - like that's the horrific inescapable logic, but with a lil mystical massage, comes around to divine love, and ok, i'll just throw up my hands, say i'll never understand, and acid wears off, but the stained glass, stained wood remains, time's arrow drains me, drags through another week of forgetting about death for a while, a fantasy of a real man's life for a second, a sidepath from a whitman-esque transcendescalator to horizontal humidity, worked up for a great and personal cause, for a person, so totally not transcendent, so earthy, making me appreciate leaves and flowers, gardens, tea ceremonies, haiku

if you want a real thrill, stay on the internet, the place where all information is at your fingertips but no one knows what's true and false cause of all the dis and mis, any idea's indulged - be so hyper informed - tweet about tweets and blog about blogs, as long as it doesn't affect the real world, bounce around and around, cloistered within the-globe girding network - outside the dome, a world of people who've gone back to reading books and research papers, and listening to national radio news where you're forced to hear a meticulously scheduled program of differing opinions and fact-checked analysis

the idea of die-off can be so comforting, especially in a comfortable residence, imagining having time to survey the death strategy from first world, fencing up, building walls, building air conditioners, to sit inside and think coolly about how much killing on my behalf i could stand before jumping off the ride, leaving the surviving to the assholes with guns and bunkers

because i can also comfort myself by suicidal ideation, and focusing inward on my own personal apocalypse, cause i'm going to die - so, why worry about death on a mass scale? lacking any mystical connection to a continuum that would preserve myself, how could i trust in any continuity for the species? i'd free the handmaids if i could - for a better world that would make someone else's worse, oh well, hell, in one way or another, we've always been brutal killers for the sanctity of life - the unexamined bias of life-lust, raping life, violating death, a positive legacy of economic growth

i say all this as i'm estranged more from nature every day - have no plans to get back, sounds like a nice idea, that nature, i had appreciation for it once, but currently not at all - it's like if the red pill made me never want to get high on any happy narcotic ever again, would i take it? i don't know, but i could be persuaded to get back to nature, when thinking about the unbearable lightness of summer leaves, and giving in to taking, because there's nature in that, the best kind

- - - -

-----

worth it

But I'm gonna go home and say it was so totally worth it. Right? And hum. And then sing and play. Maybe pretend, maybe make real.

Can't believe she said such a sweet thing
look at me, i'm humming again.
Can't believe she said such a sweet thing
look at me, i'm singing again.
Can't believe she'd be such a sweet thing
look at me, i'm writing again.

Can't believe - maybe I should believe, choose to, yes. Especially when given something I needed, to bridge a splurge. The drawbridged lifted, I got sunk but not drowned, not dead - waking up, eventually, shaking off excess, hanging on to life. So dead for so long it finally pushed me to lament the deadness, the dry wood, so primed. A little love, even if  just a promise is not excessive, not gratuitous but necessary goddamnit, give me bread and roses.

I felt I was getting so much done, just lying down and moving steadily forward, dripping under society, slipping with my fingers caressing the handrails, travelling grand-style in primordial gravity to the basement, it's always a basement, it gets built, first a cement slab, then walls with brilliant-white fresh paint, then rooms and staircases glide to meet me, sometimes it's a stretch, reaching for these important people in their rooms, rebuilding the cosmos with incestuous family, telepathically feeling for my partner, soul sister, fuckbuddy, love's landing. It's good to feel this form of soul again, even if attained by dubious means, deeply questionable morality if one insists on going deep, like a rope stretched above an abyss.

I'll always have that chip on my shoulder, I say - unless I can shrug off the immobilizing insecurity. Integrate recovery with brute force of words, struggling to say what I can't, normally. Leveraging contrivance to break out of insular analysis, the blood organ, the blood, heart-rate, desire. I'll abandon the personal digital assistant, she's not quite Her yet, in fact, I've got a voice I could never imagine, she whispers, makes herself at home in my dreams.

Rockies declining supine to the right of me. A paradox. Planes. Coasting on feelings that got me this far. You found heaven on earth, gonna burn for your sins, reaction, turnaround. Confidence man, not half the battle, maybe ninety percent. Roving like a predator, trying it on for size, glib, superficial charm. I see what I want and take it. I see who I want. Quick, efficient filter. Target poor, but there's one that lights up. Maybe I can get away with calling sweetie.

See, she sees, something in my eye, not a spark, but dead light. Because my eyes are dead, it's the life underneath the sockets, in the artifice the synapses are capturing, but windows to the soul do capture for women with intuitive gifts. It rehabilitates all the things I said and apologized for. It's the confidence game, but it's not a game like chess, to me anyway, which separates me from the players, I'm looking for an end game, someone to conquer to death, in sickness and health, just a life partner, is that so much to ask?

I know you're the head surgeon at this hospital, I'm not even going to mention how many lives I saved. Now I'm sitting behind a desk, counting kickbacks, popping tictacs, volume of vicodin flowing through proper channels making doctor house blush, but the reality is, us professionals are way more professional than cable dramas would have us believe, they underplay our resourcefulness, because their writers lack the imagination to make professional and brilliant kleptocracy credible. You're gonna miss me when I'm gone. The aw shucks front. The humble demeanor. When I'm such an entertainer, you can't but keep me on retainer.

Speaking of the devil, the bit of a bastard, he needs rehabilitation, public relations, or how about, just the disruption of continuum by plugging into the other one, totally crushing, entwining with such intelligence, sometimes shocking confidence, more fun than I could fantasize in colours off the spectrum, fidgeting with the poses, the only woman, with the visual condition of one extra color receptor. My arms are so so so so skinny. But you know what, I can compensate - don't even need to buy twelve-plus guns in December.

Even if it's the last gasp, even if there isn't quite enough rocket fuel to win over gravity and ditch the atmosphere, even if - it's worth it, let's just make it worth it, there needn't be radio silence and metaphors needn't obscure - it wasn't a fling, it's in my id city subways. I choose to believe in access. Recollection, playful recall, seriously playful accessible currency, worth it, in context yet to be created.

sucking extra body cavity

Sucking Salamanca Soul into a body cavity, gave everything away, sold it to this soul gushing into me at moments of wizardry - hardly have the sarcastic spear i need to deconstruct that blunt a second ago

yeah, away from one screen resembling a society with people i'm beholden to in complex ways - and another screen resembling modern internet holes, a network of holes, and then souls fill me randomly, a random soul, oh, fuck, such an unholy word to use, fill me now with salamanca soul, and i'll play that for you, be a channel, haha, oh fuck, i really need to rend that fleshy boiling tumor with a sarcastic spear right now, oh god, an error occurred, please try again, dismiss.

So dismiss it. Android is upgrading. Apps are optimizing. I'm uncompromisingly trying to manually update the firmware, as per the agreement I made with myself, to will this device to bend to me, everything I deem necessary, demand. An error occurred. Please try again, dismiss.

So I did what was necessary, what I was called upon to do, which is not doing anything, but going with a certain flow that fits a rare vase that is called upon, to be dusted off, in the year of our simulation, 33145, to be played through, back and forth, on a betrayal tour, with no music to be said to be heard, nothing on the horizon, plenty in the backwash of recent history, spikes of sarcasm now treaded too heavily with lead-based blotches of various residue, painted, coated, weighed down, squiggle in the wagon ruts with mercury, impregnate with silicon, it's an attempt to make something more than it is, like vicarious visions, a gratuitous grace, like the pointless interjection that like, gets likened to the varnish that poisons and beautifies, the turpentine that got me through that season, the anti-freeze, that's just under the limit, to enlighten but not destroy, when spears melted cause they had to.

And I wanted to help myself into an extra space of even more body cavity nest - wear the shoes like old times, the extra gravity of shoes that make light of things, like i can just walk over whatever, anything, forever, for even as ever as the next time this comes around, cause it's an eternal circuit let's say, and make faith like willing a device with tap routines.

synthetic

as appreciative as i ever get: the virtual reality zen state, appreciating the sensory panorama thru the rods and cones - seeing that my view of the distance, pulpit rock across the lake, was always more and more two dimensional as the distance increases, it's not a degradation of vision, just the noticing of what the specs were, all along, and then,,, thinking of everything seen and heard as a rendering, of some people or ais, labouring to produce a simulation through a polygon mesh so fine it reaches the digital equivalent of the planck constant... and feeling so grateful for this perfect rendering, so realistic it rivals reality.

I have only one god. I pray to the synthetic toxic, just non-toxic enough to keep me alive, to collect savings. Jew down the cosmos, til I'm living comfortably, off welfare. Living my shoes off. Praise the synthetic toxic. To kill all the germs, leave alive enough beneficial bacteria as science deems the bare minimum. And not even need the fallout shelter. Shuffle off more quickly if the end looks drawn out and ugly. Or groove on the ugly, get accustomed to it, see it as beautiful. The exit doesn't have to be spiritually pure, whatever that is. Just buzzing, just enough electric buzz to drive Charlie McGill insane, the rest of the way, make the psychosomatic into lethal neurosis.

Work hard enough to be in a neutral position of not having to complain, except on fridays, and not having to claim insurance on anything, paying into the system, paying too much in phone bills, but casually bandying about a thousand dollar cellphone, depreciating in value, $38.04 per month. The accounting will reflect the fluctuating market value of a frame of plastic, glass, aluminum, and tungsten. I could be less virtuoso, more whiny, not rageful.

I was doing so well at the game, until it crashed. But I didn't. I would re-start the lifetime views.

Detection of hypocrisy is chintzier than a flashing necklace from walmart. Just waiting for Jared Kushner to stab dad in law to death with an executive order pen. What can anyone say anymore? Google cannot invent a translator from right-wing cultist to Other. I'll embrace being a partisan, still turn away in disgust, and feel righteous besides.

Let's get serious. Figuratively assassinate the mad king. Cause I'm literally at the end of my rope. Auto-erotic asphyxiation didn't work. So might as well hang myself, and blame it on ativan.

Cojones

self will

Will to enslave the masses? Will to provide from each according to his ability?

Self will has not yet run riot, but it's getting unruly. Might see another bloody sunday, seriously, but don't take me literally.

work ethic

I have a strong work ethic. I wake up early in the morning and immediately proceed to mope in bed for hours about how little work I get done. I feel very guilty about it and also very proud of how guilty I feel and how accomplished I would be if my work ethic matched my actions.

Start

taking things to the grave. Get on what you've been putting off. After a while, you forget what was never ever ever gonna be told. It fertilizes the subconscious.

Keep. Keep it sub. The deal breakers never get dealt with. Which is a glorious thing, when glory enters into everything.

it's a feature, not a bug

I can make myself happy, whistle past the boneyard. As long as I keep it drafted. Keep the ASMR in one earhole. Publish in the diamond age.

Salierian Relationship to an Ideal of Discipline

alternate titles were.... if I can remember.... hmmm.... strain for memory, clench the memory muscles, somehow, perform a mechanical transfer of kinetic energy through willpower to some configuration of information in the brain... nope, not working, it never does - can i buy a vowel?

maybe, like,

major carousel - that's an awful one, but "salierian" probably wasn't the best either

at one point, near the middle, after i forgot the best one, it was something like, getting things done on a random walk - if i could only convey, the weird place of manic peace i felt, the near-panic in striving for satisfying an urge, acheiving that in some way while also fuming like a hugely inefficient mad-max scrap car... itchy twitches of strange tranquility - THAT'S IT. But I'll keep the title I came up with anyway, cause that was relevant too, especially during the last seven minutes.

Like an improv is some big artistic statement, a hastily dispatched doctoral thesis. Not hardly, but it's the only thing I can manage to do musically as I bank up material, volumes, for later grandiose projects. 

The exfoliation imperative. It's all about exfoliation parallel with prestidigitation. It's a seemingly pointless cleansing, lousy with weasel words. While the backlog of carbon monoxide is backed up, preserved, like a ba, for the land of the dead which is already here, ooglebooglebaka, magic words and technical terms.

Sentenced to Live

Selfish fucker, smoking my selfish cigarette.
Why? Fuck you, that's why.

Trying to make death palatable. My palate is perfect. The roof of my mouth is gravy-flavoured, the crispy residue on the bottom of a burning barrel of gravy. Maybe I could make it even more gravy-flavoured with the formula for Flaming Moe's. Happiness is just a Flaming Moe away. Where everybody knows your name.

Why? Fuck you, that's why. Cause. Just cause. It's a just cause. Where are all the good times? Who's gonna show this stranger around? Girls on guy will suit this guy just fine. He's drinking a hot mug of sleepy juice and thinking fondly of theoretical scenarios. I'm the cock professor, they're my students. It's unethical maybe, but fuckin HAWT, yeah!

Hacking rants about politicians I hate, informed to the shallow extent I can manage. Fuck you, that's why.

Better to write about Minecraft than play it

remember, minecraft is the means - not the ends

speaking of segways, i've got a great one: begins as an andy kaufman bit, unfolds uncomfortably in borat-style cringe tragedy, the currency we're transactioning in, ends like something out of black mirror

type in a rhythm cause it's all you can do, or you could plug in the board of keys but it'd be too disturbing in a neurotic's mother-hen miserable moment - feels like aliens cracking the colony tube shell, one-eighth earth's gravity, ocular stabilizers and smart space-life hacks of doing simple exercises so eye muscles don't weaken in near-zero g - til the one arklet lands on mars, and the other rides big for clean space with asteroids to mine but no deadly bolides from the pulverized moon that rained hard on the earth, turned the surface molten past a logarithmic curve of bolide fragmentation acceleration from inception of seventh decimal place chaos to bring about the white sky all the quicker, which burned up the atmosphere in addition to vulcanizing the earth's surface - good thing a literal couple hundred eggs escaped the one basket in an almost plausible space gambit

it even happened, that extinction, by an eternal return curse that jammed to nobody, not even fellow human jam reflected surfaces - and kicked up a lot of carbon from the ground and methane, so that even in iterations that weren't resulting in molten scenarios, you're still talking die-off rates of 90% or more, but who really cares? ancient history - it must be hard to read the tone - deal the tone - it all depends on figurations in the musics - it wanted to get overpowered, but some ego retained clenching

want to wash it all off, like captain fantastic in a philosopher king's short-lived utopia waterfall pool of the pacific southwest of me, til unignorable situations in the family bond to the world and society disrupt for good, or evil, or at least until more data can be gathered and categorized and digitized and put through the in-fashion algorithm for his subspecies - he was a "damn good driver" for a season, lasted longer than your typical bbc sitcom, innovative as it might've been

vangelish tinged a rusty main street utopia minus natural animals tin piano, analogue simulated with high definition digital recreation - it's also analogous to hitlerian onanism, it's his Achilles' heal, the blinding self-love, maybe if you run the simulation ten times, three of those times you can fight a war on two major fronts at once and even so come out on top, but those aren't good odds, but you never run out of amphetamines nor opiates in modern civilization's gray area of the law, the law of the treasonous government anyway, so jockey for position and end up in the last scandal, the one that actually ends it, even though you lean in, and push to see how far you can take it

see i got tons of mileage for barely making it one third of the way through the movie before i went on a necessary tangent and did something else, maybe a mindful place for myself, even if in the past tense, and theoretical future at once - there's always the possibility you could wake up decades later still smelling of your suicide's kerosine, in another world where there is a hilarious misunderstanding going on, the running joke, for the runtime of your typical unabridged

and some more typing, because it's okay, fake smooth til you make smooth, make it smooth like a smoothey and defeat jihad through the next scorched earth solution

i wish i could hide the clock - and remember not to look in mirrors - i've been warned in various ways, i've been attentive to the warnings, sympathizing with some as yet unexperienced except pulled from the future like a great attractor calamity or opportunity, but that only makes sense in a vision board

keep it pithy - create an account - save the night - night-time savings time's not got a lotta melatonin in it, but you get by because you got an artificial serotonin mediation bot a'buzzin round the synapses, lean onto it like a prosthetic leg, wriggle into the bloody biomesh interface, learn to love it, pay loyalty to the script that's running the show, or the parasitic symbiosis to a blessed pharma corporation, like the relationship between the adoring junkie and the almighty provider middleman, that's the best you can do is just adore from afar below, can never get up the supply chain to even the middle cause it's providence, you'd get high on your own supply and die, it wouldn't be like scarface, a dream about a melting pile of cocaine, only sugar really

the dreams where luc is back, cause he was always here except pretending he was dead for several years, i don't want to ask him why, but i do, i must.... he makes me smile, but it's also disturbing, there's a bit of the old decor, the boys are back in town, and it's beautiful, but also, something's not right, it's like, oh god, tears in heaven, that eric clapton song, fuck, can't i even think my own thoughts now?

it might make a great game or minecraft monument - luc, the friend, the dead friend, THE GAME! now available on XBOX, P7, and Minecraft Realms:
- what accounts for the missing time?
- what motivation could you ascribe to the friend who pretended to be dead?
- why are you trying to find his house in nelson, is it the victoria street house? [spoiler: it is]
- where is that damned house? oh, you were in it the whole time like you were slurring through half-awake episodes on a long-term tropane cruise but you can never remember later, your account will be reset, there's no trail of cookie crumbs, only useless microsecond flashbacks five quadrillion microseconds apart, no trace of the order, the ol' difference that makes diff'rent strokes, except on a server farm in utah in a massive cave structurally engineered to weather the weight of the crust above, in a thousand-year guaranteed self-generated geothermic energy stasis, a bit of cool subcrust and plenty of mantle maintaining a place where there's a doctor strangelove somewhere, but you just gotta learn to ignore that creep and keep looking for luc, cause he was just there, talking to me
- who is this person anymore, really, is he a thing in my subconscious? yes, information, moving forward, got the corners and some sides of the jigsaw puzzle done, it's not Swordquest-worthy not-since-the-middle-ages kind of epic beheading quest, but it's something, and worth focusing on, rather than ugly political realities, and worrying trends on just out of date extrapolation smartlines with kent brockman
- when is you? who are you, what are you, where are you, why are you, how are you, and when is you? strategic timebombs have set the stage for infinite prequels and sequels, anything could be anything, but will only be a one or a zero between a rock and a hard place, a hard look at the horrendous inner workings of the mind and a soft spot for joe - a cringe comedy with a sweet heart at its center, no cyborg-reinforced superheart powering a terminator exoskeleton, plugged into the flesh and healing a mess of shot-off epidermal rags, forming an adult male arm in about ten years, granted, it's not the latest tech, arnold's old - but not obsolete

i'm really pleased with how many movie references i've managed to work into this - it shows that i've actually made it through a few movies lately, and that makes me as imbecilically proud as back when i managed the feat of finishing books, and full length feature films were just an everyday part of my life, no big deal, like the stuff that's probably thousands of times softer than cotton

type type type - it makes loud taps but i'm trying to compensate with white noise and warmth and trazodone - the extended bed and comatorium peripherals - not a lot of click click click when i'm in this mode - the click click click - the woman i lived with much more critical to the very idea of click click clicking a mouse, whereas, the current paradigm i bemoan so much at least features a social life, small tho it be, with people who are not at all critical of clicking a mouse in the middle of the night - try to turn the green tint knob up on that projection of grass in the here and now, the knob, make the grass greener, even, an emerald sheen of extra glitter grass that's too green to be really good, too synthetic, we're in a new iteration of the tastleless eighties and didn't even know it, people didn't know what it came to mean to be in the eighties when they were in the eighties, and just like that, we don't know what precursor age we're in and won't begin to understand until we wriggle out of it, and that's gooey and gross, and i would rather skip it, and pay a visit to the early death cafe to speed up the process of slowly dying just a little bit, perform a maneuver that makes excellent use of delta v and the distance and velocity problem is solved, easily, almost poetically, in a way frowned on by the never satisfied professor of fighting grade inflation

luc, the dead friend in the high tower, where we towered above nelson and got high, and it was also like a trump tower except it was better than that cause it was ours, and we didn't answer to anybody, we could make rules that would govern this penthouse of a tower to be high, and get high so we could be high, and keep being that way - was a splinter of a real dream i could mockup for minecraft, put a plaque in it like a magestic spot in a national park overlooking mike and mine's cold lake - in the internet of things of the future, this monument to departed people will be quaint, and if i get cryogenically frozen and thawed out in the future, i will disavow any sentimental attachment to the project, and bask in immortality, dull as it may be in the after-flash doldrums, i got the rusty green colored vangelis acidified piano blues and the eighties synths are sounding just so like it's just what it's supposed to be, like it's a currently popular map in version 17.1.9 of San Junipero, in year 356k but who's counting? the earth would theoretically be habitable, still, if it's a simulation where the bolides don't fragment at an exponential rate, and therefore, the earth is still possibly inhabited, but there's no way to know, because we're in a simulation, it's not solipsistic cause we're all in it together, it's like a designer's dream, or a hack who makes hackwork shortcuts of elegant designs, to cut up a world we can live in indefinitely, but who knows what's happening on which earth? why? tap tap tap, type type type, click click click, it's all good, stop worrying, it's not like older nightmares that were so beautiful, that i must acknowledge, that i may have botched by being far worse than imperfect, no megalomania here

initial flash, then a long plateau of thinking you know who you are, but just when the endless planar nature of the terrain and therefore all existence seems intolerable, you remember, you can cure that with a reset button, a memory wiper, it's like the bright side is suicide, it's a good kinda suicide, we call it the godbox.

fickled

I was never good at romantic redundancies - excessively heart-shaped ukuleles, custom made and monographed, making one think about a last name.  My idea of a heart-felt gift was more about the recording possibilities, a high end humbucker guitar pickup, not gift wrapped, let alone monographed, for sale, baby shoes, never written.

Rage against the reflection

So this is what it takes to get me to write - anything - on my blog - or anywhere else - since forever. And look at this? Not even poetic fragments but coherent prose with a purpose. Anger. It's fueling me, keeping me awake, breaking the lethargy. But it's not something I can work with. It breaks ME, makes me go too far, pick fights I shouldn't be in.

Caught fire in two facebook threads today, found that I was the start of flame wars with "friends" of friends. Who are these trump-supporting wackos coming out of the woodwork, stepping onto my dad's terse message of reasonable disappointment with our southern neighbor's election? Then something flips, and I flip out. Start posting and posting and getting angrier and angrier and clicking on their links from anti-vax sites to take them apart, as if saying facts to a raving insane person is a constructive activity. Soon I'm ad-hominem-attacking the sources because oh god, of course those sites support trump because they're the kind of marks who would fall for his con, any con, any chemtrail - or at least appeal to the marks in the hopes that they'll click on the organic coconut oil ad next to the article about the jew-run media. Feeling that old feeling, of impotent rage. Sickening, finding myself in the position of defending an establishment I hate just as much as trumpers, but I have good reasons, not like them, I have rational responses, not like them. And I'll quickly descend to the ego-feeding echo-chamber to prop up what I want to feel right about, just like them, because my unseasoned psyche, knowing no way to stay calm in an escalating argument is screaming to me, HOW CAN THEY DEFEND THIS PIG? And I so want to say: I'm with you on the anti-PC... but that's not the fucking point! And I agree: He's not so bad... except he's fucking president! You'd think there'd be a higher standard than one held to a vulgar, tacky hotel magnate and reality TV star whose thing is that he fires people. Great TV guy, yeah, with real comedy chops even. And I would like to say I'm so with you when you're so right about the pathetic Clinton dynasty that has outworn its welcome, and then say that you're so wrong about how the guy who's different is gonna make good different change cause different change is good, cause just change, and he says crooked hilary's corrupt and it's true, so trump is different change, lock her up! lock her up! That's what that shit sounds like to me, but pushing back against such facile facebook banter is not an errand for this fool. And it's a moot point anyway, oh, so moot.

I want to feel right about my disgust for Trump, but I don't want to BE right. I want to be proven wrong, at least a part of me does, it's a part of me that's wedged up in the superego, it got stuck in good intentions that went by the wayside, I barely graze that old pair of undies, are they still elastic enough to fit this callous calcified person I've become? A good ol' part of me wants to believe that I've been led astray on the one hand with a kind of cynical pox-on-both-houses hopelessness, and on the other, with accepting wholesale the voices that sooth me, literally because they're what I use to chill after a hard day of work and make a pleasant numbing bed of autonomous sensory meridian response, and they speak to what's left of my faith in humanity and technology, that there's some way forward in this clusterfuck, and that it's not a rat race to the bottom if we decide it doesn't have to be. I split the difference between this one youtube channel and the other, the one is too neoliberal for the other, and the other is too crazy revolution for the one, so it's good enough for me to alternate between the two, and get pumped up with the molotov cocktail rants, then sober up with the "but seriously now..." realism wind-down that appeals to my sense of not being a fucking fruitcake, that's where I get most of my news, because it soothes, shapes and fondles my views.

But there's still the noble ol' part of me that wants to be able to accept that I was wrong, like I accepted I was an alcoholic and from that powerless starting point, with humility, make a better life for myself in recovery. Cause what if... I find out that, despite my skepticism, it turns out trump was serious about the good things he proposed, like less foreign intervention and more protection for workers, and totally kidding about the insane things, like keeping nukes on the table and climate change being a chinese hoax. I'd like to think, if that happened, I'd come around and say, even joyfully, wow, I gotta give him credit, he really is doing some good, and most of that ugly campaign rhetoric was only to get enough support from the scummy floor of the republican basement to win the nomination.

But I don't want to BE wrong in the long fever delirium of conflict. In those slurs an open and charitable mind is the furthest thing from my fingers, especially in the fevered hours and days later in a tight loop of typing, checking threads, trying to win the argument once and for all, hoping they didn't respond so I could have the last word but AH, FUCK, I'm deputized to rebut again, because I have to, because... ah, fuck it. That's why I deleted those threads, in the hopes of deleting all the fucks I have to give.

Fuck them threads. What's the point? It's not my country. It's not my fight. Let America sort itself out, let them deal with the 18% that ordered the pro-ignorance president. I offer my solidarity with the majority that rejected him. Solidarity with the young and non-citizens and prisoners for non-violent drug offenses and disenfranchised voters in gerrymandered districts and urban centers where the republicans closed poll stations to depress turnout. Solidarity for them. But my role isn't in that entertaining drama that distracts. I can affect change in the place where I live, exemplify alternatives to know-nothing foot-dragging fake-populist agendas, like other countries and states have done. Help the world get off the carbon crackpipe with or without the USA, with or without my own federal government, with or without "the leader of the free world", that obnoxious synonym Americans have for their president. I'm pretty free, maybe a little free-er than you folks in some ways. But here, I thought I lived in a sovereign nation. I didn't think he was president of me. But OK, if I must, I'll grudgingly admit that my country and many countries do largely follow America's lead in a lot of things, and a lot of us other countries are subject to pressure from said leader's agenda - so in a way, he's our leader too, if you insist on calling him that. I'd rather call HER that, but she did lose because she was a bad establishment-backed choice, and you have to respect democracy, and sometimes, you gotta chew on that turd sandwich, then swallow it with a shit-eating grin and hope you can get the people back on your side next time. And it's good to know that it's not exactly rigged.

I will vent, in any case, and not on facebook. Fuck arguing, and turning into the monster I'm attacking. I should be better than that. And I'm not fit for arguing, my emotions get out of hand immediately. And self awareness drags me down, keeps me from soaring on the delusion that I'm particularly informed or equipped for sorting out impossibly complex situations or cracking insoluble problems. I hit a wall, stumble back, disgusted with myself and the shambles of  the ideas I had, that I could indict the establishment but also, with such nuance, state how vexingly dumb it is to answer public sector corruption corrupted by private sector money... with private sector corrupters klepting the public's money.

Shit, maybe later I'll write something on nuclear arms and the prospect of this American president-elect having executive powers. No, I'm not being hysterical, I'm not shitting my pants, I don't know for sure if he said "if we have them, why can't we use them"? But A: It's fucking easy to imagine him saying that, and B: I'm more worried about a population that will elect a person who will proudly, ignorantly, arrogantly stand up in a televised interview and say that he won't take nukes off the table. FUCKING CHRIST.  Even if there was a first strike, what goddamn good does it do to kill hundreds of millions on the other side of the planet? Fallout toxifies the whole atmosphere, it's a round world, or is that also up for debate on the alt-right anti-science video streams the trump supporters get their news from? Of course there's logic in maintaining the capacity for mutually-assured destruction when the other side also has it, provided the idea is synchronized incremental disarmament, but the shit he's said on record shows a fundamental cluelessness about the basic strategic purpose of these tens of thousands of biosphere killing warheads still sitting around in stockpiles.

Oh well, I just wrote about that. There, there's that rant. Fuck, I'm unhinged. Something's really wrong when I write straight forward stuff like this, it really doesn't suit me.

Also, I know I never worked very hard on improving my writing, I'm a slacker when it comes to that, and I never evolved from comfortable indulgence in all the adjectiveful bugs that I found to be features, when they ranon to marathons of matinee timesmear jaunts. I need to get some thoughts out I guess, this is cheap therapy for me, and like most of what I do, for no one else really.