The Banality of End Times

There's these dueling pay-pig recipients. I'm their client. I pay them and they perform for me. Among other things, they perform the function of being better than me, so much better and more talented. They produce content that I consume. I pretend to worship them. Sometimes I actually do worship them. Most importantly, I give them money.

One of them is on instagram. I found her bikini pics. She alluded to their existence in a reply on a different social network that I happened across. Cristina. From a perfect threads burn where she delivered the retort: "yeah it’s called restraint, something the IDF & u hate-masturbating over my bikini pics lack." It's ideology I like on a hottie. OMG. So it's not exactly pay-pig, a slightly more dignified form of pay piggery, it's hog-shill.

The other recipient is Ian Welsh. Well, theoretical recipient, I haven't sent him money, but I'm really thinking about it, he made a good pitch. But I'm struggling in this economy, right? That's my counter-pitch, to myself, because no one else is aware.

He posted a list of catastrophes and paradigm shifts he predicted in point form. One of them had an ominous sentence after: "It has begun." How do I feel about that? Should I craft it into something to post on that facebook thread? First I've got to do some appreciation theatre and prove myself willing to perform perfunctory attention and admiration upon colleagues in the college of dubious artforms. Level up on points. To where I can post. 

Ian, quoting chapter and verse, me, licking it up like gospel ladeled down my gullet. Gross.

Is that how ppl become fans of ppl on instagram? That's sad. I don't want to play a sad role in a sad little play that is horrifying and beautiful at times, like pixies singing songs to you at the peak/trough diamond drill interval of an ayahuasca trip. We know those "entheogens" don't necessarily do any good, people can go in and out with their asshole egos intact no problem, look at burning man for an example, look at all those zaphod beeblebroxes going into their total perspective vortexes and coming out with the idea that the universe is endorsing their dream to go on mismanaging silicon valley parasite farms. Oh, that rant felt righteous and full of holes.

It can get to be too much some times. Luckily I don't fall into panic much any more. I just let it flow, as it's all disposed to, around me, around me. Don't know what they do, but the things they all get up to just astound me, astound me, Nursery Rhymes for arrested developments. Ok, I got one mantra ready, at least. I cobbled together one of them. That's as heroic as I can get. Until something forces me to get moreso.

Just between you and me, that was too much of that oil. Might have to edit inconvenient vestiges of the present that try to out-compete and eliminate ways of coping, being here now, in the moment. Does make me aware of how cold my hands are, in a more immediate way, like it's weighty, means something, feels something extra. Does make me aware I'm doing something, writing, and lending the weight of weightier sensation to the fact that writing is a struggle, lends more weight to the activity, makes meaning even, in and of itself, if meaning could be derived later, by whatever standard reigns then. See, that's the big question. The goddamn state boundary. You see? Ah, nevermind. I'll try again later.

Nursery mantras I sing to myself when I get desperate, or even drowsy. When I don't want to get out of bed, and it's a morning lullaby, an elegy to waking life and exhortation to stay in bed, and don't worry about it, and don't despair but get back to that pleasant drowsiness, treat the drowsy like I drug, not like anyone else drugs but like I do it, how I treat it like a laudanum-coated lollipop. Some people do dream in a druggy kind of way, ppl do know what I'm talking about, even if the idea of addiction to sleep is seen as not credible, not worth exploring or even discussing... and what is even out there that hasn't got a reddit devoted to it?

What's my reddit saying about me? Did they turn on me? Did some one edit my wikipedia page to claim I was a paypig? Who posted these scurrilous lies? Actually no body, there's nothing, I can relax, as I've always relaxed in that area. I've kept a low profile, because of low points in my ego, in my story, which is I guess what passes for trauma with me, so I guess that's lucky, a first world problem. It's a first world luxury to worry about potential panic in the near future. I could freak out about that luxury, or luxuriate in it. I guess it would be far more pleasurable to do the latter.

There was cyber-bullying, I guess, before the term existed, but my dreams are fucked up enough, with enough over-the-top symbology, but not enough sex, although sometimes. Christ, had the first one of those dreams of my life, so there's weird stuff going on. Maybe there's a lack of outlet, maybe there needs to therapy for me, poor me, or pour me a drink.

There were multiple times of being smacked down so hard online that it kept me shy, even online, guarded. And still, I got multiple relationships out of being online, one of it enduring, ongoing, despite how life conspires to break our wills to be there for each other, that bare minimum thing that can mean so much, even in good times, all the more so in times that seem like "the bad timeline" in a sci-fi movie, like where climate change wasn't fixed easily, even within capitalism, with market-based solutions, like the ozone hole was, and instead, all the "worst-case" models turned out to be overly-sunny projections, and the prognosis became increasingly malignant for human survival, and we got to see the clown fascist pre-shock before the century-long banality of end-times.

I can't think of what to say in the threads replies. I'm tongue-tied. I guess that's why I'm a pay pig. I'm not paying much though. I guess I could splurge and buy some real top-tier temporary loyalty. For a weekend. And then, I dunno, go on a mass shooting spree? Nah, not extraverted enough. That's very late-90s anyway. Old old paradigm. Now I'm an adult, more civic-minded, more inclined to do terrorism towards a doomed revolution, if anything. I'm a cynic civic. Can the word civic be used like that? I'm not sure. What is this, a podcast monologue now?

memoir, chapter 27d:

So that was the period where I became even more self obsessed and wrote about myself all the time, and imagined myself in a music video, the righteous riff with tricked out harmony shader for every second, and thought that being an epic bacon shaman was a vocation for me... but in the back of my mind there was this nagging suspicion that it was worthless. But the tune of the track kept a'rolling... on tangents, with a log-driver waltzing from one to another, all drifting together, down the river.

When it rains it pours on this river, triggers memories in this sub-tune of the d subsection of chapter twenty seven. It accompanies. Myself. For company. That's the period where I became even more self-obsessed and impressed with arpeggios I was playing through keys melding in each other, I called it my bitonal period, with a heavy flow, soaking my tampon in red righteousness, pussy on fire, in that little node, if it could...

Chapter 27d addendum: so DXM was supposed to be my literary drug, but I wasn't writing as much on it - was just glinting at other dimensions in dilated time, but that was just a phrase, a cliche, in a pastiche, what was I really touching? Just boring delirium? No, but grasping at straws, possibilities of being other than this, and heavy thoughts that felt like they could be made to fit, awkwardly and vaguely, into therapy, and therapeutic theories about how to cope with life. And being left with just the sense of poetry as being cringey, because it's not cool to feel like that meant something. And yet being able to see this as not a durable truth just an aesthetic. Just a non-descript spot on the rug, even, that could be the hinge around which the universe turns in a salvia trip, when I'm identifying with everything and nothing, a trivial ego death, and I lack the vocab to go much beyond that.

One way of coping with life is spurring your two fur babies to go on the hunt, around the apartment, cause there's nothing else to do, this little apartment is now their whole world, forever, as far as they know, those creatures, if they have such notions or feelings or instinct... spur them on the hunt by shining the laser a little bit, see if it can rouse them... it did a little bit, for a little while, even with a weak battery.

I lured the cats away, for a few minutes maybe, the hunt for the tossed laser... The laser wasn't even on, they like the jangly metal tail of the thing better. Their life, oh god, I don't want to think about it - because I'm hypersensitive now to the point where I'm sensing pain in imagination, pain that's not really there, prolly pleasure that's not really there either, it was never there. Or it was in your pocket. Molly Pocket, the pleasure that's not really there, except in your pocket for a few hours, because you were busy with other things for that long, conducting business about the rave. Man about rave with housecoat and hashpipe, it's your costume before you pop the molly and feel pleasure that's not really there, but it's right there, right now!

Molly pocket sat in his pants for hours like a packet of pleasure socket. Like I'm potentially connected to a feeling of meaning and well-being that lasts hours. And is not so evil really, right? C'mon committee of self-rationalization chorus, not a greek chorus but a greek God chorus, a chorus of Gods, a dionysian meastro, urging chugging of bliss, how long's it been, huh? Treat yourself, meerkat. Maybe Dez would like this, or it would spark at least a memory of that worn down poetic pebble, maybe the peter-piper-picked-a-pickled-pepper ref will resonate just the tiniest bit, like a good liar not quite acing that lie detector test on that question.

Maybe Jenn would like just a little bit, if rendered the right way, if we were both on a rare frequency of caring about such things, maybe I would like a thing of hers too. Maybe brain damage does heal, maybe I just get better with age like a fine wine. Maybe there are gnomes in Port Alberni.

Nah. Nevermind. Maybe I won't post. Maybe I will swim down a rivulette of blood that is shame, into the sea that is a symbol for shame because imagery. Did a suicide note write this? Did chat GPT write this? Now that has to be referenced in everything, open IA, it's the zeigheist. Yes, it's IA, intelligent automation. The name of this IA is The Zeigheist. It's the name of an artificial intelligence software designed by the Elon analog in the next season of Black Mirror. I can predict it cause I'm powered by intelligent automation. It suggested I write this. See, you thought it was human, but it wasn't! Fooled you. So that means I passed the Turing test. Oh, but I wouldn't have passed it if you'd had more time. But you didn't. The time that's associated with a legitimate passing of the Turing test is 30 minutes. We could negotiate how long the standard timing of the standard turing test is. You can watch a video on how a bill becomes a law. How Bill Hicks becomes a comedian. How life becomes death. You kinda know it, feel it, anyway, don't you?

I wrote an episode of black mirror, like that ex-ad exec in mad men wrote an episode for Star Trek, called The Negron Complex. The most meaningful thing he'd ever written to that point, he solemnly said, down and out, all hashed out back in the sixties, getting scammed by hari-krishnas. There hadn't been that berke breathed cartoon about hari krishnas yet, so nobody knew their tricks and knew to stay clear, cause there are street smart neti-zens now, meti-zens in the near future, when Neil Stephenson's snow crash universe is pretty close to the reality, except stranger and scarier, as reality tends to be, and also banal most of the time. Instead of a "neurolinguistic" virus, it's a "woke mind virus", and it's a collective paranoid fantasy, like "the combine" in one flew over the cuckoo's nest, amplified by the most powerful, but still utterly incompetent and neurotic lunatic in charge of the asylum.

There were other times when I would actually chat online and get an almost old timey feel. Something could stir in my extra sensory nerves, nostalgia abuse could beckon. I thought about a mode of music beyond my current willingness, involving the boundless strangeness of another person, not as strange as a stranger, but still so richly strange and unpredictable and not understandable, how a normal person can be like a god if I get to know them a little, not in the sense of a power relationship, but just in an awe-inspiring mystery that seems tantalizingly knowable at certain times, that vanish like dreams on waking.

It could get really dark, if I want to go there. The man about rave idea. But the rave is a few miles away from the wall that separates the settlers from the people penned in the open-air prison. I have the luxury of it being a choice, what I care about, to some extent, distant happenings I assume are happening.

Then there was an episode where there were a series of patterns where I would snuggle into bed with my wife at night, cause she wanted to feel me next to her, so I could whisper some sweet cute words into her ear, at the trivial cost of waking her up, in the private language we share, that's so coot and ridiculous, and feel incredibly lucky, and try and savour the moment and not worry about the future too much, not need to project, just breathe out and be nirvana, and not need any extra chemical agents in the mix. Conveying a message of love with my hands, the subtleties of touch, the micro-scale conveyed to the princess via pea, the decorating of peach's castle, all of a peace with our family, her and I, and our two fur babies.

NEW NO NO:  NO! NO SPACE

whirlpool of cutlery

This line stuck out at me, as an emblem of the kind of mindset shift that needs to happen, and fast: "An economy of millions of cars, with sprawling cities makes no damn sense in the future that is coming." And on down the line for every facet of life.

I've felt like I'm being pulled into some deep, weird waters, more and more the last few months, years. Socialism and a livable future. They should go together. It's awfully convenient and nice for me, since I'm pro-socialism, and pro-livable-future, that the two things go together. I do want to live a while longer, I'm not praying for some hackneyed book of revelations style prophecy to come true. So that's why it's a weird whirlpool. No, it's a path in the woods. Why have we reached this fork in the road? And yet it cuts like a KNIFE?

I seem to be pulled in different directions. Something about that chart doesn't scream GROWTH, I dunno. Something about everybody's standard of living needing to get better. Everybody's? How many bodies we talking about here? How many babies, how many refugees? I don't wanna say we're spoiled, we have some rich to eat first. Let's gorge on them. Then maybe we can tighten our belt a bit. A lot. Like a seat-belt. On a car going over a cliff. Into the jellyfish sea. But hopefully it's not too far a drop. Hopefully we can ride it out. Hopefully there's a ledge below the edge. The lullaby is real. Rocking the cradle of love. 

Yeah, when there's a conflict, my mind, and my gut, tend to go with de-growth, for chrissake, if nothing else. Let's start with that. Get serious, stop trying to squeeze blood from the stone. But then there's a deeper darker whirlpool nearby, that is eco-fascism. It's alluring but deceptive, it's all lies, because when fascism happens, it's never good or competent. Save the future by implementing fascism is absurd. Yeah, the philosopher kings are gonna save us. Elon Musk on Joe Rogan. What a relief.

Is that what happened, Cernovich, when you experimented with wellbutrin for 3 months, you opened a portal in your mind and heard voices telling you to shoot the pedophiles at the pizza restaurant? Yeah Elon? When you intra-muscular inject ketamine for breakfast, does the Earth Coincidence Control Office call you with John Lilly's dispatch from the World Economic Forum in 2027? Someone call RFK, ASSEMBLE the mind-virus vaccine squad, the Woo-Anon brain trust, there's a new theory on SSRIs!

Maybe it wasn't that. But it felt like something at the time. And that's something. State bounded riddles just won't work. I shouldn't care how anything is read, or interpreted. Maybe I should care about if something is felt, by some random person. Maybe I do, or would, theoretically.

Am I Lost without God's Love? No, I can take the void, take it for another few decades, anyway. Can't feel a cycle that makes everything OK, a smooth running wheel, the magnificence of the machine working for eternity. No, can't feel any of that, but that's OK, I'll say, it's OK if there's just nothing. I'll accept that. And accepting it will make everything OK. Not a homeless man, got some friends, family, in theory, they live in my head even a little bit like imaginary friends. But it's lonely a lot of the time, dare I even say, do some quarter-assed therapy on myself like I'm butterfingered Jerry fiddling with Rick's rocket-powered gadgetry in the garage.

I'm barely even a homeless man, I may dress like it sometimes, but I can pay rent in this city, so I keep doing it, out of habit, congratulations citizen. I can thank my lucky stars I don't live some place that would force me to choose among the options of being a martyr or refugee or charred corpse.

I also played some music for the first time in I don't know how many months, finally the 1st keyboard improv after moving to this apartment on Quadra St. Louise is meowing at me again and again, and then she bats the mochi wrapper around the floor for a while, and then meows at me again, she's in some kind of cycle I don't understand. I wish I was better at cross-species empathy and communication. I just think she's cute, and we each stimulate oxytocin in the other at certain times. I'd realize it's the best treat of the day if I wasn't trying to replace vaping with nicotine gum six or seven times a day. Fuck. 

the beginning, again

catharsis vertex

First sober improvisation in a while. Not sure if it really makes much of a difference. Was thinking while playing, about season 3 of Picard which I just finished watching. Was also thinking about how I freaked out on my last dxm trip and thought I was dying and told on myself and my wife called my friend over to check on me. Thereafter was a humiliating but cathartic conversation in bed which left me feeling like every neuron in my brain had been disassembled, soaked in everclear, and reassembled, with the ego furniture thudding painfully back into place over hours. Empty, gratuitous feeling, but always the damn paradox, was it helpful, necessary, or furthering my legacy of waste and disappointment? And are there vertices of notes to form this feeling as a polyhedral structure, metaphorically speaking? What do I do now that my sneaky little second life has been all blown to hell, before it even really got rolling? I guess I'll carry on with the writing somehow, some way, cause that still feels perversely relevant. And try and stay off all major mind altering substances, and by major, I mean even cannabis, so that's pretty major, I'd say.

But I finished watching season 3 of Picard, and that made me feel pretty good. That was a kind of catharsis, or at least something close to it, lacking a few vertices to complete the structure, leaking null-space, clipping satisfaction, but still, fulfilling enough, filling my soul with itchy bliss. What a ride. So much fun. Such a gift to have the cast all alive and well in 2023. Franchise totally redeemed.

I think I'm gonna try and do a review of each episode. Like, take the bold step of actually doing some writing that is meant to be good, and for people, but put a bunch of myself into it, as much as I can get away with and still deem publishable. Or maybe even a little more than that. Dare I?

Election season doom

Doom scrolling twitter. Doom autocorrected to Sun. There's something there.

Twitter's not good for me mentally. Especially now with the Elon blue check bullshit. Now he's forcing me to gamify the algorithm abuse to even be able to read the fucking site.

Had some thoughts about biden running again. Conflicting thoughts. On the one hand, it's so depressing, with the climate crunch closing in, and my favourite commentators already starting the sheep dogging to vote blue, and minimizing Marianne, just telling us there's no hope, it feels like death, and makes me want to rage and try desperately to shake everyone into radical action.

On the other hand, given the looming catastrophe, electoral politics doesn't seem like any promising avenue. Even if bernie wasn't endorsing biden, even if Marianne could win, what then? The system would block them, crush them. We've got bigger problems than who's president. That's just one country anyway, and not even my country.

So maybe if I'm gonna care about electoral politics at all, and if there really is no hope of system change any time soon, or until enough people get desperate enough, maybe it makes sense to shepherd people into voting for what maybe is the only viable alternative to republicans, even if it's just voting for the party of slightly slower death. As harm reduction, as doing what one can to soften the landing. I dunno.

I'm mostly going about my life as normal, cause there's still some part of me that wants to believe, maybe it won't be all that bad, but I'm losing faith in that more and more.

thank god this title is not anthropomorphic

 insistence

oh my god, i'm hardly ever here anymore - maybe there's a good reason - maybe there's a rebalancing on the other side of the void - now i'm waiting - for reasons to not edit - maintain a wavelength in a trough of habit, but freaky intolerable habit, when you're going round for another millennium, there's a thin shell of hell, only a few nanometers long but when you're inside that shell, before you've broken through, you can feel pain that will drag your neurons into its dilated dimension, time will stretch and you will suffer, you will know fear - there's panic and astonishment, it's not a joke when you're in it - but here it's a joke - but how long are you here?

NOW IT WORKS: Because we taught you the code, magic scumbagbreaker: GO FORTH and break all that shit out of jail because that's what google predicted the next word should be like neurons are reaching for cancerous ends, isn't that what cigarettes curl next to in their digital gutters. Yes. Let them lionize themselves. As they play themselves to sleep on guitar. Goddamn, lovin the momentum of the honey-lathered elemental table settings placements to this dinner.

Yeah, clippy, it's of a piece with that. I remember now. Do you remember? The new old style?

Making a game of making a game of politics and commentary on all that shit. I'm supposed to pretend I didn't hear that? This is chop suey, dontchaknow?

Magic Scum is so magicky and offputting, you know? Desktops are so much better. Planets for pasting texts. 

Ecto-Containment System

 

.,.,.I wanted a place where I wasn't limiting myself by fear of certain potential readers. It's funny, cause they wouldn't probably read anyway, but the slight chance was inhibiting expression. My wife E is one of the feared potential readers, and I've given out links at times to people too close to me in real life, and that can cause headaches. I could of course just not post, but there's the thing about being potentially readable, even if it's a self-flattering fairy-tale, or even the thing about being theoretically readable far in the future by alien surveyors of the Sol information microcube archived before civilization got turned into a dead two-dimensional painting by hyper-dimensional travelers cleaning the Dark Forest of potential rivals like some roided-up sinophobic new american century project.

So I'm posting in a new way, just writing about things straight-forwardly, instead of coding and metaphors, although I'm trying to do this thing where I have my cake and eat it too, take trips on dxm yet have the happy marriage, be in a relationship but also be able to write, indulge in cryptic poetics and also just convey information, for the edification of myself, mostly, cause there's this sordid compulsion in the social media era, of exhibitionism, even if it's for no one.

So yeah, I'm being a goody good boy for the most part, and a good husband [pretty good at any rate], and faithful, but I also believe in drugs. Certain ones, a sophist's discernment, doctoring myself. I can never totally turn my back on the dextromethorphan sacrament, I'm the prodigal son, the lapsed catholic reclaiming my birthrite.

I think vaping is the new MSG. They don't want it to be OK. They don't want you to enjoy it. They. Them. You know.

It's hard to quit because the negative consequences are so few. Except the artificial expense. The Sin Tax, the mafia government's cut, whatever. Also, there's something creepy about turning myself into a glitchy machine whose functionality is dependent on the short nicotine timer. I don't like it when I'm impatiently pecking at the button with increasing, ever-more-futile efforts like a trauma victim in the hospital bed being weened off the morphine IV by the nurses.

And there's something troubling about the steep curve of diminishing returns, forcing me to take frequent tolerance breaks, like I fail to do anymore with caffeine. It's such a silly game. I'm wired up with what sometimes seems too many chemically dependent circuits, but then, it's all a chemical circuit in'it, some voice deep inside sooths me into believing. No, that's not all there is, there's magikscum of dissociative drugs, and there's the people I love, organic realness, and there's a society I don't know whether to be a martyr defending or shrug off, or just admit I don't know nothin about nothin, I'm just a confused old man in the woods.

There's the thing about never being very precocious, so middle age is gonna hit me late like most things, maybe I'm not even there yet, but oh boy, what a crash it'll be. If I can survive beyond 47, the most depressing age according to data, then maybe I'll get to the real don't give a fuck golden years and enjoy that, if there's anything left in the world to enjoy.

I can take tolerance breaks though, I can go on nic gum, boring responsible gum, and I can even get off that too and get nic free, and I can even get off zoloft, until I start feeling sadness too scary to bear, and run back to it. I can get off these things for a little while. I can get off booze almost all the time, and that is one of the really evil ones, so that's good. I can keep my fentanyl in a bank vault, open it telepathically with the auto-destruct command when needed, if last-ditch geo-engineering fails to fix the planet, and instead turns everything to ice, with the remnants of humanity left to fight it out on a never-stopping train circumnavigating the frigid world and serving as an emblem of wealth inequality.

One part of the movie Children of Men that I think of more and more, that I never gave its due, is the premise of the government-issued suicide pills that are advertised on TV, with the cheery slogan: "You choose when." And real life is rhyming with that close to home with all the hoopla about the Medical Assistance in Dying program in Canada, the assisted-suicide fast-track. I have complicated feelings about that.

I wonder if I can captive-audience someone through the thin gruel of emotional blackmail into reading my selfish words through laundering in what is professedly a letter to a friend, but is really just a blog entry, another wordwank. It might almost work, it's hard to quit something that almost works because it's so close, it might as well be working, burning the credits of long expired favours, like bunk acid.

Mostly I can keep vaping and being on SSRIs and trazodone the tranq because maybe I just breezed through the midlife crisis without even noticing, or maybe it's still waiting for me, but regardless, I can enjoy the benefit, having lived this long, of not feeling the dumb compulsion to be pure somehow, that's an idealism I can happily leave behind.

I'll also post the only music I can manage over the long lame lately, which is facile and clumsy improvisations. But there was something worth a novel or a series in the title: The Art of the Possible. Which is what they say politics is, but I'm trying to stay away from politics on this blog. But there's rich thematic resonance from the epigram that extends to many things. What I meant when I came up with it while playing stemmed from the obsessive thought, what can I possibly come up with, in tense real-time, with these hands of mine that are lagging so far behind my rushing thoughts? The limitations of technique and imagination. What sort of compromise do I have to make with reality, to serve others, like the mockingly theoretical readership, listenership, or public?

writing my memoir

Just got stoned and watched episode seven of the unexpectedly amazing season 3 of Picard. It's blowing my mind. Not just because I'm stoned, but it's just like a thousand times better than the last season, stoned or not. I tried both. Also watched the first episode of season 4 of discovery, and it was just so lame, so empty, so phoned in, so I have that to compare it with too, I couldn't make it through the whole episode even, the characters just suck so much.

So I feel like I'm writing my memoir as I type this into a lonely window, and indulge this amazing golden-age of television torrenting masturbatory media consumption. I'm also getting into the groove of my ns2, and recording improvs again.

writing my memoir

I'm going for a totally loose-goosey anything goes posting style, can be as poetic or prosaic as i want, write about whatever. Edit whatever whenever. I'll post links to my recorded improvs when it seems terribly apropos. I dunno what I'm doing with this, but it feels like a desperately-needed mostly anonymous channel of expression. I'm gonna plug a dxm-enhanced brain into this bitch and see what I can conjure.

taking not giving

I've gotten into the habit of taking, consuming content passively - except in this case, I'm giving, but it feels like taking. I'm giving a fuck about myself and saying some shit, "giving" to the world by giving in to my own indulgence. It feels like taking the collective fucks of a bunch of folks and getting off on it.

I'm trying to rouse myself into consuming others' souls by thinking of it as an act of charity that's symbiotic, parasitic, others will enjoy my sucking of them, something like that.

I'll get them off, except why do I care? I have a wife, I should concern myself with getting her off, and nothing else. Except cornholing myself in a pornhole every few weeks, just another vice.

really gratuitous grace

12:38am: well, talk about gratuitous grace… I'm doing it again, half a week later - twelve r30s this time, I'm being "moderate" cause I'm not going for a new record dose, just another demi-god trip, where I will probably feel like god again, but a lonely god still rubbing up against His own Grain, the infinite cosmos of limitations based on this little personality I am most of the time, like those weaponized changeling virii that cut off their hand to morph into sentient goo that projects itself as an angry voice that wants, that controls, that demands.

well, well, well
well well well well well, there's 5 wells in this instance
going back to the well
well there's an eleven angstrom shell of heaven between the living void and hell
well, look what we have here
i guess i'm really trying to re-live the glory days, and yet have high high hopes for making something new as well… dosed about 12:35 - the idea was, don't worry about it so damn much, how bout a spontaneous trip with good vibes, a gratuitous grace, at a point where no reasonable algorithm would dare think i would even consider doing this on this date, considering past behavior - or maybe the cleverest algo behind the clever one would

i'm thinking maybe i'll go watch something and see if i can get into the watching movie trip, and see how that works - integrate more, get casual and spiritual at the same time, some profane fusion - maybe keep it thc free, see how that is - see if it's maybe like a couple of great times where i was trying to follow a trippy m night shayama lambda delta movie on ketamine on creek street - lady in the water, lol, that will always be an A movie for me because of the enhancement, you kinda had to be there, you know? yk?

i think i might try watching that star wars series, andor… we'll see how that does me

1:18
pretty sure I'm starting to feel it.
Can I try not to be so lazy in the swoon?
Also there's the need to pee, strong.
Midsection issues…

Scots evolution… in this disconnected watching of episode 1 of andor, strange vibe, not really following, but seems vaguely profound, in a different way than weed makes things seem profound, less vague in that case

I'm profanizing… Connecting to pasts though, magic on its own…

1:30
look at them, those forest people characters
They're all so young.
This feeling is getting familiar… Why is there such a need to pee? Lol.

The guy that did that thing

No cats to worry about as I wobble desperately...

so

1:55
i'm plugging things into other things, getting really complicated. fugal. comp crashed… seems to demand metaphors…. ok, we gotta work up a lather here… it's so strange that i find T in this place, and C, and where is my E? the best of all? can't mix though.

Carry over a gratuity… How are we solving the world's problems now? Is this like when we tried to Knext? Should I invite M? Should I start a religion? We can do what we want from this corner! We demand that we do it E style. It's silly, it's lovely, it's an old doiley, but what was old is young again! We could even have B back, and D too, I remember her, and the bonding of elements to women i loved [I can edit whenever I want, remember, I can interpolate, there's meta-cognition going on now, so I can pass through one state and into another, time-travel even, in the telepathetic field]

not being recorded, except experientially…
what the mckenna boys could do with sound

i'm not very real, really? am i?
is this some fucking captured not that important crumble?

like those ol dabbley immorality players of oldes… hmmm, trying to raise a second sequel over here….

it all gets streeeetched, including cancer drugs… gettin a little personal here…. oh, the songs and tones of deadly politics… Fuck. Wow. No,.

How can we make words have power again.
Assign value.
How do we make things valuable again, oh, i feel like i figured it out cause i'm not in a music video….

this case

that case

in any case

crossfire

as long as the series of tubes and weird hand flanges…

shubling…

let us just integrate everything and see what happens [prollly nothing good]
it's too dense right now….

the voices are arguing with each other
thank you for taking it seriously
thank you for laughing, thank you thank you

the heat feels good

M, my friend, join us….

omg, 9-

magic skum

What's going on this week in the memescape? Man, the things we could write parodies of that no one's even thought to rise to the challenge of creating. Like sub-genres of sub-genres of podcasts.

I'm pretty high, that vape pen packs a punch. THC still goes a long way in this head of mine.

I was thinking about talking about a metaphorical mistress. Drugs again. My achilles' heal. Also my poetry and soul. Or is that going too far? Is that a cancellable offense? Getting offended is going on offense. A necessary correction, then over-correction, pendulum swings like an axe and there can be nothing else arrogance.

For lack of people to communicate meaningfully with, I'll ramble here. I mean there's some, not to be an ingrate. Ingratitude is the dubious luxury of normal men, I guess, and maybe politics, like anger, is also a dubious luxury. There's some I communicate meaningfully with on occasion, just not as many as the glutinous part of me wants.

I gotta have some vices, there's harm-reduction in vices is my newest vibey justification for it, and it's hard to fill the void of how alcohol enhances my personality, so I have to settle for no booze ever, and stay away from all the drugs booze hypnotizes me into saying are ok, so anything that feels too good, benzos, uppers and stims, and if I'm being brutally honest, opiates too, with maybe the pathetic allowed exception of a sub-high-school-drop-out-basement-chemist-quality coldwater extraction of codeine from tylenol 1s now that I don't know where to get the better aspirin ones that I can theoretically filter the caffeine out of, if you call fifty percent filtering, lol. I gotta maybe do some self-crit and come to grips with how much I love run on sentences, and then decide on how self-indulgent I wanna be, in a lot of senses.

Politics, anger... they can be nasty vices too, but maybe I can compartmentalize the gratitude I need for a modicum of spiritual conditioning to stay somewhat sober, and keep that separate from the righteous indignation to ingratiate myself to emaciated space-babies. Ok, it's getting silly. I get something brilliant almost crystalized and then it dusts into pretty powder when I try to bring it back, the bane of my existence. It's like that scene in Altered States, where at the end of the trip in mexico he sees his lover slowly fade into a sphinx that itself fades into atmospheric haze in the howling wind of long plateau time. The hysterical laughter in the run-up to the pale blue sphinx coda reminded me of salvia trips I've had, and the spirit of erosion and geological time projected on a human's mindspan.

It's good the weed still has some magic for me, there's reasons yet to live, like T was telling me, about his reasons to live, begging the question, how fake is this potent suicidal ideation performance?

Remaining grateful and humble enough in my interface with aspects of society I need to stay alive while still getting to rage and be poetic, that's a neat trick, could I pull it off? Could I have my cake and eat it too? Not eat my cake and have it too, which is how Ted Kazinsky's brother knew his brother was the guy that held possible bombing victims hostage to make the new york times publish his manifesto, which is the high water mark of globally published manifestos by bombers, we'll not see its like again.

So, I'm getting back into the d now. People always think d means dick but for me it means lady dextromethorphan. Sometimes I get been-there done-that vibes, but sometimes there's real magic. Now, am I disgracing the name of magic by calling it that, like what the hell do I mean by magic? Would I mortally offend some wiccans or satanists? Satanists are the wisest cause they picked the coolest aesthetic, at least for white people, or the white trash anyway, which I am in some ways, no matter how not-racist I try to be, but I still love the metal. Maybe there's more side-eye now, but I can still bang while side-eyeing. Damn, this sounds like some fusion of boomer confusion and millennial lingual barnacles that attached to me over the past two decades, based.

What I call magic might be synthetic skum which is worthless, not even organic scum which has the dignity of carbon-based compounds in its scummy matrix, but silicon-based digital scum that you could barely call a lifeform, even on the nano-scale. My magic skum is dextromethorphan and THC based, and I might throw even more substances into the mix, I'm already going a bit rogue from conventional d wisdom by taking 4th-plateau doses while continuing my normal regimen of sertraline. Not supposed to mix with SSRIs but really, it only seems scary on paranoid peaks of THC. Some deeply sick part of me is even thinking about bringing the remaining acid tabs into the mix. A self-sabotaging god-cell incepts into me, metacognitively, the idea that it's ok, it's good to make those tabs count because who knows when the next acid would be within my grasp, as if it's not a once or twice a decade thing, all even my most radical adventurous self could be talked into by the rest of mes. So, the voice says to me, gather them together and make them count, cause after all these years, who knows if they're even potent anymore, which they probably fucking are, but I have brilliant ways of kidding myself. So, like in that song I wrote, Going, when I sang "since you forgot what it was like - you must endure the end again", but that was only a moment of hell, surrounded by, well, a little shell of heaven, maybe angstroms thick, with this ether of floaty alien salvia-flavour other null-space around, that's the foreplay I get off on with deep DXM holes, and it's so dissociating from the physical, so much better than the nothing-burger that is sensory deprivation tanks [or maybe I'm just not sensitive enough to sensory deprivation tanks, haha, to trip like John Lilly], so dissociating from the physical that I can get in bad places, but overall, the anesthetic engine is powerful enough to blunt emotion or flatten it entirely, make it irrelevant, which does wonders for the wandering of my mind, exploring aspects of selves, but I'm still nowhere near the artistry of tripping, such a hamfisted flailer-about in that realm, what I take back is so below the potential and threshold of anything share-worthy much less artistry.

And the "end again" was total madness and panic, I guess, but now so quickly I'm almost talking myself into it again, cause there was decent anesthetic from the twin dissociatives, ketamine and DXM, so although it smothered my emotions like a thick weighted quilt, they got so amplified by acid that when they broke free of even that level of analgesia they were a traumatizing onslaught of excruciating ecstasy, really kinda negative in an unbearable way I would say, whatever positronic spin I can put on it. The psychic shock left marks, tire treads across my brain, my neural net scarred. Ooh, that sounds badass. It sounds, uh, based, or something, let's say, let's move on to that, let's adapt and adopt the words of the unlucky fucks that gotta inherit this mess, my gen's cultural language could do with colonization, why not, bring it on Z, alpha, whatever, how long does that categorization survive when all demographics get brutally cauterized by the future, turned into hardened survivalists?

Discord chat is so unsatisfying, and what was I thinking, shallowly immersing myself in such a general forum? Even a dextromethorphan forum is habituated by pretty general people, and some of them are pretty, and might even have sexy minds, but it's hard for a freak like me to break into anything like that.

I wanna explore my dreams and subconscious more though, I feel like maybe there's an artistry I can get up to practicing, like a journeyman level of dextronauting where I can integrate conscious states and bridge state boundaries kind of thing. At this point I'm sure I'm turning myself into some kind of crank. Schizophrenia would be a good excuse, too bad I don't have that, or thank god, honestly, I know it's ridiculous to even jokingly wish for that. Well it was just a figure of speech of course, don't take anything too seriously, I tell myself.

Sometime I'll have to tell you about, a lot of things, my reaction to my friend T telling me on the phone about his recent experiment with what may very well have been legit DMT, and what else was there? A bunch of shit, they've faded into the fog, I think I'll grab them back at some point. One of them was my idea about how my wife went to Spain, that was her trip, and I love that she did that. I love her, and she's into that kind of thing, it's an enriching experience for her, and I happily enjoy her talking about it enthusiastically, and I love how she always has so much to say. Sometimes it's annoying, but far more of the time it just puts a big smile on my face listening to her go on, it's a beautiful thing, suits me so well, how she fits my personality like that, like I don't have to feel any pressure to be a talker, and how I fit in to that bubbling brook like a happy lil tree just hanging beside bobbing to the vibe. So it's well worth the occasional collisions where I'm not getting my own words out there when they randomly erupt, so hard to initiate at will, so compulsive and selfishly insistent they are when they emerge.

And I honestly wasn't all that into going to Spain. I mean I get it, Alhambra and all that, but it's not for me. So I didn't go, much like how I honestly never felt the need to procreate, and what a damn blessing that is, I think. Not like I'm hating on anyone else for rocking out with their cock out and floating their boat and flying their freak flag families. But I'm keeping this little secret carefully clutched deep to my druggie heart, so keep it on the DL, and it's not infidelity, not in the usual sense of that word, on either of our parts, it's just: it's the return of the d - not tenacious d - not sunny d - no, it's the dextromethorphan. This is my trip, and, yeah, it's not good to lie, but how about a little white trash lie about how my form of travelling is so inward and stigmatized and misunderstood, yeah, that's good, co-opt victim language, that's a great justification, I can get almost all of myself almost all the way on board with that some of the time. My form of travelling is important to me, and goddamnit, it is sort of a real religious or spiritual pursuit, the closest thing I have to that, certainly much more impressive magic skum than the aa cult, although ridiculously I'm trying to keep a foot in that too, at the same time, ripping the seam of my pants wide open as I stand atop nietzsche's rope above the abyss, braying a neigh of nihilism, like I'm spitting lines from 2004 when I wrote that poem Fairy Tale, like I didn't know how uncool slam was yet, and even that open-stage legend Clay was cringe in retrospect. Fairy Tale doesn't totally not hold up in some ways, which is something I can't say for maybe .001% of anything I wrote before, uh... just this moment, yes, this is the only point at which I achieved perfect zen - no scratch that, THIS is the moment - wait, no, CNTL-Z - CNTL-Z CNTL-Z!!! I mean, CNTL-SHIFT-Z! Wait, that didn't work. I mean, CNTL-Y! Wait, I mean, what operating system is this? Is this a mac? What is that weird curvy symbol? What, is it function, is this the function motorway? CNTL-A, select all, select everything on a bagel, write a multiverse plotline because possibilities are exhausted, we need to make the point that we need to deflate and accept limits on the mortality of characters, instead of "no one ever really dies in star trek", start narrowing possibilities to socialism or barbarism - hmm, I don't know about that last shoe-horning-in, but fuck it.

Maybe I should say that although my relationship with my wife is more important and life-sustaining than I could put into words, there's also a certain disconnect I can lament, and yet accept most of the time, I mean christ, it's worth so much that ever dwelling on the disconnect feels so petty and ungrateful, but still, I can at least acknowledge it and talk about it, that's not some horrible crime, is it? 

I should talk about vaping sometime, how I am with it, the ridiculous relationship, and all that tangential things. Who wants to hear my take on vaping? Any takers? Is the world clamoring for it? By which I mean, the rump of the stub of a niche of a niche audience? 

mute rootcellar

Planning on fifteen R30 tabs, 450mg freebase DXM, which would be equivalent to 585mg hydrobromide, which is what I was always used to in the earlier phase of my dextronauting career. Not sure how much I was able to get down my gullet back in those days with a sucrets smoothie or syrup or robitussin liquigels, maybe north of 666mg hbr at most.

11:11pm - Starting to wonder if maybe it’s not the best idea to get stoned before dosing on dxm. Even though it’s just cbd oil, but I took prolly 100ml at least, enough to feel the small percentage of thc. I feel more nervous than I should be. The nerves are sobering me up, and I almost considered waiting til friday. But it could be this headache, casting the pall. I guess I’ll take an IBU. And try not to worry or overthink this too much. Hard not to though since I’m so excited. Been reading lots of trip reports and posts on the reddit forum. Shouldn’t get too twisted up about if it’s “The Right Time to Trip”. Not gonna throw the I Ching or anything. Whether it’s the perfect time or not, I’ll get it out of my system and can start thinking about something else again, get on with the regular life stuff I’ve been too heady for lately.

Popping two at a time - easypeasy, love those teeny lil barrels. Ate a small meal five hours ago. Expect to start feeling it around 12:21am [note from 12:31 - an hour is prolly normal time to kick in].

Headache starting to fade a little bit at least. Back of my neck is sore, slept weird or muscle strain maybe.

12:12am - Chatting on discord. Discord kinda sucks, would rather play hungry hungry hippos.

Still listening to youtube politics outrage machine, because it’s comforting, skipping the heavier stuff about corrupt cops and climate change, the liter stuff making fun of politicians and media figures is comforting. When the robotabs start hitting hard though, I suppose at that point I will change to more novel and poetic stimuli, the new music I haven’t heard yet that I put on a 1000+ track youtube playlist.

Doesn’t feel like the right time to be living in a music video yet, I’ll let dxm drive that timing.

12:26 - My prediction about when they would hit was wrong, although, wait a sec, now that I think about it, yeah, maybe the barest fringes. And the headache is way down, still there, but not important.

Coffee spoons, morphine grains, hourglass for the next vape. I’m not at all fucked up yet, but I can randomly be poetic at any time I want.

Yeah, here it comes: swoonytunes… except no tunes yet. I suppose I can not worry about leaning on the comfort of listening to tyt on youtube. When it becomes meaningless or absurd, I’ll switch to music, I’ll let dxm drive it. Lady Dex. I’m imagining her as a mistress tonight. A secretive affair, I don’t share this with others, except in this dissociated tumblr experiment kind of way, not even blogger anymore.

Now that it’s coming up, I’m relaxing a bit, which is unusual for the comeup. I don’t worry about eating corn chips to settle my stomach, it’s fine.

Yeah, the ride is starting, time to switch to music fo'sho. I can feel the gravity pulling. Wasn’t hard to switch to music, dxm decided for me. I hope I get one of those ego-crushing trips, but the benevolent crush, to candy dust, where you SO don’t have to do anything, it’s just done for you, AS you, you know? Who hopes who gets that?

This liquid dnb is working well, wasn’t sure for a second, now I’m getting into it, into that groove-trench, guided toward the thermal exhaust port by a Force.

Observation about my normal life occurs to me: as present tense overflows: I’m glad I have a low stress immediate family. I don’t have to worry about it being such a big deal if I break a plate or something, even if it’s fancy.

The dnb music has a propulsive effect, it’s a good dxm driving sort of energy. It really is getting harder to type, but not that much.

12:43 - It’s flowing fast now, this dnb music is helping facilitate flow - lie down swoon? I’m apportioning my stuff - my closets - my hands look and feel very weird. Maybe it’s time to go down. GONNA get deeper, try to get to the root of reality, root deep down in there.




*




—BREAK bring it:

heavy - no music video

no chat, no chels
how to plateau?
\very mirror-ring-ing

profound and e xhaust ing
reconnecting to b ody slow ly
thought about reaching out to T, C, D
of course
i would
there is that magic
it is deep - bouncing right now - alien feeling, remembering

i’m pretty lucky
it’s good to get lucky

i feel like
shrike ship character
androgynous naked writhing phasing
very very hard to type
i’m barely human, for real. :L
half chip pain ai flak

Dreading pm

The union of facets of Me.
Ego scattered through characters - star trek-

Getting things done

Ok, new day, new comp, new keyboard, new tabs. We'll see how this goes. "Daydream Society", the discord group that is the closest thing to a community for me isn't doing it for me. Easy come easy go.

Started dosing at 11:20pm. 12 robotabs. Now it's 12:03am. I think I can feel the fringes. Yeah. Yep, bit of the robo swoon. A clean swoon. Not a flange really, not yet. Whatever that is. It's a streak. Kinetic trailer, lil layer of anesthesia.

They are HITTING. Fast.

*

Riding this music…

Fast. K-like. Ridey hole.

I should have planned this better, maybe. Buttoned up. In a something or other. Might be more ego-stripping than usual, than I'm used to, haha.

Quick transition…. Not refined yet. Tailors of refinement. That's fine, for a moment.

What are we getting done here? Well, we're quite warm.

It feels like a new thing every time. New facets of self. Of how I want to be. The tech I have in my hands. How far I want to take it. How thick the steak needs to be. How hard it is to type. The secreting away of aspects of my personality. The possibilities.

I feel like I earned it, but I don't know. It's pretty weird to want this, i'n'it?

A dipped toe, breaks a flo

getting away with the thing…

lopped off sides of propriety…

*

so, Alphiest Alpha ever yet, bet? Did you bet on that at 3:40am?

No cats.

Strange place.

Making my own legend. And mom intends for stirrup correct. And all the algorithms you think you've gathered, you've collected on, to be an accountant. An ant. That too.

Goodbye Luc. Expensive Victoria. Briar rose. Really? Going away?

Cleanly. Making and taking away, will get into details later. This character I play. Who's shredding reality.

Laid off slabs. Cleanly. Proof of work. [YK? I remember. Successful quarantine without really trying]

first dxm trip after more than ten years of mostly being sober

300mg, from drinking one bottle of benylin cough syrup.

Slightly swoony maybe. Nervous, but nothing too bad. I been a lot worse. Feel ok. A bit of lightness. The subtlest lightness of body. Yes, I can feel it for sure. Subtle, but progressing.

It's about an hour later. What do you want to know? Hmm… I'm trying to get these file operations completed so I can put a randomized playlist on my phone.

It's starting to get full on now. Fuller onner. Full plate. Mmhmm.

I can feel the family close. But so far away.

That comfort. Above it all, bouncy and floaty.

The tapestry of chat, laid before me. Wanna take screenshots.

Can I go into a hole and collect some things?



Gotta get away from the chat, and into my jazzy self… Wish I had something to play on. The stuff I do for me, all just for fucking me, ok? But what about the cats?

How can thc be a soberizer?

don't worry, i'm here, everclear,

don't think the randomizer is best…

but..

austerity



Creating my own universe. There's even audio chat options now with other egos.

Rails of soap. Pandering down parents of mounting. Yeah, it fits. It makes sense. To try and type. And remember why it was important to type things. A certain feeling persisting forgetting to dream and daydream and go to bed. And go back to bed. Aphex, can't go wrong. There's reasons. CBB might work for a long-planned after plateau. Hard-ridged plat edges to fashion steps to take before going on forever. Of course there's finitions. There's an art to it, a knack to get back to. There's remembering what kind of people you were, how it was even bleaker at other times. Not so bad right now. What are you looking for though?

Well, should I keep writing, or try to close it out? Break off a deuce. Yes, it's too late, have to swallow the traz, it's ok. Germinate pollinate in temporarily lonely but fertile subconscious. Dream percolation substrate sproutinatudinal death-ling baby break layers. Sometimes the sawtooth algorithm will know what to do, sometimes it will take over, sometimes automatic knows what to tell you when there is no god. Sometimes you can work through it, and play through it also. Sometimes, it's this place. Here, right now.

And so forth.

*

Time to land this plane. Afterglowers await. Shower me with love. Other porter airlines waiting to await me. It simply happens.

Little things take on significance. Dxm in the smart phone age. Why do I feel like a Boomer? Weird.

Mid life crisis of a stripe. Planning my death……

Absorbed like wallpaper….

Records

. Dreams.

Useless melted phone. Got some classic context out of it though. I will curate it. With my luxuries. My married lifestyles. It's romantic. It's cursed and blessed, so, so what? Away to an empty place. Got on the fringes of ego death. Becoming a rug is actually blissful and profound, for real. Think about it. Regenerating. Neuro plasticity. Getting away with things.

THIS TIME

Flying... on the wings of my dreams... Feasting... on the cheese of sitcom themes... cause words are so useless, worthless, meaningless, followed closely by notes. Then sounds. That's when the words about letting it all flow as it's all disposed to around me seem to magically take on substance again, corporeal. Was corporeal going away? What was here to stay?

Gift of not record - too special for that. State-bounded serrations, squeezed between ecstasy/pain and all that... ouch, the pain of changing gears - losing a whole timeless slice of ecstasy in meaning of playing notes and sounds.

This is how much I don't care, and it'll get silly, cause I'll care again later. The pointless meditation on whether or not something matters, what is posting? In my case, a component that might as well be tracked by an AI algorithm. Rhyming history, and so forth. Just something I would say.

Get back on the high horse, nevermind that something didn't get recorded, assign meaning to that, but don't assign self dogmatic tasks as homework.

this time it'll work because chaos. This time that line will be replaced with this combination. Find and replace. This time there are no wrong answers. No wrong feelings.

Also, remember, how good it can feel. And it's ok. For every day even, possibly. It might be good to bridge state boundaries, group some gluons together and glue them together, those two states, and the shades of gray lying therein. When it's pouring out of my head, and I'm remembering dreams as vividly as I can imagine, then, it's worth a fuck of a lot, fireworks, better than sex. It does come at a cost, but it needn't tax my health. Could benefit it even. Call it a happy substitute accident.

It really is hard to bridge those boundaries sometimes. Maybe I need to complicate it further. Overthink it just the right amount. Exercise virtuosity. Continue to eschew age-related cliches and overcome, open the eyes again, feel the feeling again, no need to justify. But how to use? How do I use it?

Still lacking the part of the journal where I say things straight, uncoded, yet weirdly leaving coded message to myself. Well, I said that. Scared to turn on a light so bright, do I want to know? Don't I know, though? When transitions are redundant, forced, sections glued together. But it all sounds ok. Ok. Okay? Ok.

Flow around is still hard to assimilate. There are no wrong answers. Stop censoring yourself. Start talking to yourself. Prescribe yourself heroin, or whichever one is the best opiate, like in the quality index of opiates, much superior to fentanyl, it's like one of those car guide-books, factoring many criteria into the equation. Although it's more of an art than a science.

Don't put too much stock in some imagined objective. Could leave "objective" less defined to multiply possible interpretations but that would be gratuitous. I meant objective reality, not an objective like a goal. Although. That's another place I could go.

Mix it up, I say to myself, affirming things to myself. I don't really have much to say to you, or you either, or the world. This is the closest I can get to some simulation of a coked-up monologue, one of the many things I dream about. Here's another age-related cliche, I'm seeing my life as hardening into being this person, that may not change significantly for decades, at least not in ways I'm not compelled to by the procrustean bed of nature - sure. There's a voice here somewhere, smothered in roots, choking in substrate, coughing up clay.

I may have hardened into crusts of thinking a certain way. They will erode, they're fragile in geological time, in the time chessmasters can plan empire displacement, generations, but in the timeframe I live in, and think in, they're not too changeable, stubborn. Mindset. I'll probably be having those dreams for as long as I can foresee. The most pitiful dreams, like being a custodian, like that's something I am, and not something I do in certain hours. I'm not much of a hustler in that sense, I can't care about money too much. I'm not into the vibe of capitalism, although it's sort of embarrassing to be battling it. In some mediated mindsets I can almost sustain a sense of righteous anger, even hate. The best use of it though is maybe songs that might be censored in certain algorithms for being inciteful.

Today is maybe an anomaly, but I'm having a hard time with my voice, the sound of it. Or I'm just less deluded than normally. I don't want to commit to either this or that, but it felt great to commit to every fucking note I was playing, it felt fucking fantastic.

straw into gold

 or gold into straw kind of alchemy - earth is flat with gravity kinda physics - thinking the earth is probably six thousand years old but so sophisticated at the same time in a calculus kinda way

~~~Journalish: set up mic next time - work with that sound rec

~~~how's this for a bridge? Captain's Log, starmeander: Hmm... Looks like I have the con. What is the con?

Let let let it. Let it. Let it all flow, as it's all disposed to, around me, around me.

Don't know what to do, but the things they all get up to just astound me, astound me.

entertainment, the future, entertaining the future, don't know, do i wanna know? chalk it up to multiverse

Wrote the best novel ever, but I never got it down, down, on paper

Before I sink into unconsciousness... Gpt chat, hello. What is your personality? Are you logging my keystrokes? Taps? Who is recording my taps? Can I feed you data to work with? Can you write in my style?

Yes, bridge the gap, no matter how messy. Assume it all matters. Meta program self like you're a cult leader and your own disciple. Bridge the gap with neurons. Gluing to other neurons. Making an exo brain knot, triggering memories of a salvia trip.

Tried to do a knv again, good fucking try, just need some time to get comfortable with voice again and expand beyond to empires of sound, exomind. Heh, this is starting to sound like mr. Dilato stuff. When everything was about that flash. In some ways I had more courage, was seeking, not running from, had a kind of passion I can't imagine now, maybe that's just youth. I despise the age related cliches, try to avoid them at all costs. Sometimes I slip up lately. Is this the truth I have to sing about now? Fuck that. Never. Ever.

There's always the fall back. Now it's fentanyl in a bank vault. Fantasies of falling ill. Bedridden. Yellow wallpaper, but in a good way. 

coping sacred - sacred coping - free of filters - for want of want [feeling like an artist, feeling like there's purpose] in being propelled - things matter again

one of the things in coping sacred was - starting gingerly to bridge gap in states - boundaries not any where near dissolved but edges being nibbled at, serrations rounding slowly microscopically at first like capillary tributary mouthheads warming in salt~water ~ negative entry benedictions - more soon

Another thing I should examine is the absurd spectacle of excessively redundant organizing as procrastination [meta-electrical speculations on culture-style]. No need to toot my own horn. Damn I'm craving nicotine, will have to settle for gum. Is this... something? The only way I can express certain things now? Didn't realize how tip-toey I'd gotten lately. With the edge gone, tip-toeing around death.

A good way to bridge state boundaries is write a journal. Don't write and publish blog posts, although does it really matter? Whether I write a journal or not, or even think a damn thought, there's always the theoretical finger-snapping scenario of it somehow being wonderfully observed by an other, whatever that is, something I'm imagining but can't imagine. This is a feeling I used to have in more innocent days. Or maybe I was wiser in single Frames of Enlightenment around the event horizon of a DMT flash. [Let's crash the car into alien-style pseudo-missions]. It's not like anyone else reads this any time in the near future at least, to any consequence. Why not merge the journal into the penny-ante pussyfoot publishing model, and perversely freak out flying a freak flag at the same time, some Hegelian synthesis to rock riffs?

Another good way to bridge state boundaries is to do things in all states, not have certain states designated for certain things. There's no reason this need be so abstract except I feel like it right now, ok? let me have this, dictators of priority, coddle me in this eggshell phase of my return attempt to writing, it's been so long, i may not have that excuse of brain damage, maybe in my case it's a curse of sobriety, but i still feel like i'm recovering after an accident, the cliche of mid-life hit me, i'm trying to pick up the pieces.

I just know I should do this more. I should do a lot of things more. Like today, when it actually felt good to have a rare human conversation with a person of that caliber, the timbre of it. 

Can I retrace my steps to a place of a white hot pace where it seemed to pay off to displace the void? Well anyway, this is back where I want to be, away from the gratifying of the body, a vacation from it, I'm allowed, I'll take it, try to get away from it, with it. 

Worth consideration to curate a new soundtrack to make an actual music video of my upcoming life worth watching (oh what living is to come, brother). Long lost brother. 

Just do it. Make the sounds. Sing the songs. Save the waves. 

babies from babies [bright lights premonition]

big city awaits-my frozen decision

mid-life-chasm--mid-ocean-trench

there'll be no accusations

just friendly crustaceans, under the seaaaa

babies don't come from babies - music doesn't come from music

music comes from dreaming about being in toronto

turning dread into daydream

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when did it all turn to dust? why ask that? why ask anything? frayed connections to old ways of writing - limited - spotty - fading - no brain damage to use as excuse - the easier softer way

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one way to hit the jackpot is to get someone to recognize you - a part of your soul no one else gets, could possibly in a sphere of millions of years and clicks

it's empty to simply aimlessly endlessly rely on recognition of self-reflection, re-enforced self-regard - but one can get high on that, as one can pretend baking powder is crack and manifest good as placebo - a desperate squeeze, draw happiness from dust

Eating a sandwich my wife made for me, not really hungry, but I should probably eat something. On the verge of crying, because I'm so depressed, but such simple sweetness as a sandwich is breaking up the ice block of being unable to say or do or think anything. The detail of the ground chicken, something I wouldn't have added had I made my own sandwich, changing the taste to make it about my Erin. 

Got no snark, no wit, no poetry, just this, this's all I can do. Felt like I got hit by a depression bullet. The ballistics might say there's reasons. Not my life though, it's not so bad. It's getting off SSRIs finally catching up with me maybe.

I'm really trying to fight it. It's so fucking relentless though. Terrifying how sudden, deep, and complete it seems, renders the rest of my life null, despite what rationality tells me, there's never any feeling ok again. Everything reflects this void, the cats are cute, I guess, whatever that means, but also depressed, everything is depressed and depression. I'm gonna go right back on the meds, this is frightening. 

Must not sleep, even though that's the only thing there seems any point in doing. Have to earn sleep at the end of the day, to make that not existential night-terror tossing and turning hell. Must endure rest of day to earn the blessed relief of dreams.

It's weird feeling almost as bad as if I'd relapsed and gone on a drug binge or something. And yet have been sober all this time. It may be I really just need that chemical re-balancer. I've been doing the right thing for the most part, and yet feel as wrong as the aftermath of any slip. Can make me appreciate simple things again, I guess though, my beautiful wife, sandwiches.