a bowl of rice a day
tomorrow is a latter day
b plus for penmanship
a manly art, the captaining of the pen
a glowing collection of random
blinking things
a can of whoop-ass
and catharsis
the seasaw is next
tell me somethin i don't know playa
8/07/11
8/05/11
lemon twists
why can't i be one of those people that just flitters from here to there every few months, like it's natural, like that's just how they roll, man, like a rolling stone... i know a lot of those people, or i knew them for a time - and i never questioned it, i just felt grateful they were around with me for a while - maybe i'll catch them later, at least on facebook
why do i feel so guilty about even thinking about going anywhere, like i ought to be here, like it's the Right Thing to Do, like i'd be so foolish and ungrateful if i packed up and tried some place new? oh, i guess there's a lot of good reasons for that feeling, but really, are there enough?
it's this weather, perhaps, it's not that it's that bad, it's that it's this bad in august - and it's like the sun is a godayum novelty - a little trinket dangled above the crib every now and then - and i never even got the chance to get bored with it - yeah, there's too much mood here - oh, i'm sure i'd find a way to bring massive nimbus moods with me anywhere
it's the age old churning of the substrate, to consign it to near-meaningless visual metaphor - but i like the sound of it - like the sound of geese honking and melding with the highway traffic - i'm going to eat another candy even though the teeth on my left side are protesting, but i'm going to use the teeth on my right side - they'll be good for a while longer
why do i feel so guilty about even thinking about going anywhere, like i ought to be here, like it's the Right Thing to Do, like i'd be so foolish and ungrateful if i packed up and tried some place new? oh, i guess there's a lot of good reasons for that feeling, but really, are there enough?
it's this weather, perhaps, it's not that it's that bad, it's that it's this bad in august - and it's like the sun is a godayum novelty - a little trinket dangled above the crib every now and then - and i never even got the chance to get bored with it - yeah, there's too much mood here - oh, i'm sure i'd find a way to bring massive nimbus moods with me anywhere
it's the age old churning of the substrate, to consign it to near-meaningless visual metaphor - but i like the sound of it - like the sound of geese honking and melding with the highway traffic - i'm going to eat another candy even though the teeth on my left side are protesting, but i'm going to use the teeth on my right side - they'll be good for a while longer
spike
yes, i think i'll go to a meeting - if i don't get sucked into the couch first - and lay my head down, and let the alien waves, now too-familiar, wash over me - demoralized - i think i made a bad choice - i don't fit here, with this job - the social dimension is what's strangling me - when i can work with people at all, it's individually, not as a group - i miss the savoury room, it's cut and dried there
oh no, don't make snap decisions, don't get off track because of an emotional spike... but this isn't just a spike, i've known this for a while - i've felt nauseated and embarrassed getting paid for nothing - so find something to do then - well after everything's been cleaned up and organized, or i've found what's left after all the happy dappy volunteers have rushed to fight over the chores... there's this awkward lack of purpose - i've been saying this for a while, and it feels truer than ever: the introvert is not being nurtured - all these attempts at extroversion are wrong-headed, so strained, so needlessly entangled, so compromised
and the center meeting goes on, and on, repeating itself, solving nothing - so, as i see it, we're faced with this problem - wait, didn't we just bring up twenty solutions, potential directions? oh, but i know how much you love hearing yourself talk, and cycle back around to the start of your grievance list again, prattle on...
what is it i do here? i dread telling people - i don't talk about it - well now i'm fucking talking, okay? every time i opened my mouth at the meeting, i felt like a jackass immediately afterward - i was trying to compensate for not talking hardly at all otherwise - a meeting gives me the impetus to speak my mind, a sanctioned sharing - but my words bounced off - i thought i had some useful suggestions but i just felt disrespected, like an idiot for talking, should have shut up - why am i here? fucking music? musical commitments are a drag - it's my play, not my work - i miss the savoury room - i don't want to be renting out my head
i should write a letter to the admins or something - maybe i can get out of this morasse
it's just been a frustrating meeting, that's all - okay? or maybe it's more than just that, maybe i'm realizing things - like, sure, this center is great and all that, but it's not part of my mandate, i'm not enthusiastic, i'm not here for these people, i'm here for myself, so i could just as well be there for myself, back home - do i really want to help bring in more high school people? i can barely stand the people that are already here - oh, i appreciate their personalities, there's no ill will, it's just that i can barely stand them - i don't dislike them, i just can't like them too much either, they don't like me, we don't get along - i'm peripheral - just as i appreciate the personality of the admins i have to deal with, they're witty and good-hearted, but interacting with them is like getting an unanesthetized root canal - speaking of which, i could probably use some dental work too, that's another thing i'm noticing today
a two hour meeting about contriving demand - fuck man, i just want to say, if it's not there, it's not there, why kill yourself trying creating it? i don't believe in advertising, it's not my thing, what do you want me to say? i'm not saying your PR sucks, i actually admire it, the posters are tastefully done, nice layout, good, on-point message - but if you see people as potential consumers, be prepared to be massively disappointed, unless you're barnum and bailey - sorry, i've been through that whole process, i'm not interested, at this stage in my life, in becoming an ad man - and yeah, it's my fault, i picked the wrong job - cause it is a whole lot of nothing
why kill yourself trying to create demand? oh, because you can't sound defeatist - never give up! we must ride this gravy train into the ground - the last days, the decaying republic, no more soup for you - or maybe it'll all get better with a new space - ebbs and flows and square dances and slack jaws... why is giving up such a bad thing? it doesn't mean i gave up on life - less is more - maybe it's an economical streamlining, or a minimalist thinned-out mix... i'll have to admit to feeling like a defeatist today, about certain things, anyway - but this is enough whining - let's all forget our troubles with a big bowl of strawberry ice-cream . It is your birthday. After all.
oh no, don't make snap decisions, don't get off track because of an emotional spike... but this isn't just a spike, i've known this for a while - i've felt nauseated and embarrassed getting paid for nothing - so find something to do then - well after everything's been cleaned up and organized, or i've found what's left after all the happy dappy volunteers have rushed to fight over the chores... there's this awkward lack of purpose - i've been saying this for a while, and it feels truer than ever: the introvert is not being nurtured - all these attempts at extroversion are wrong-headed, so strained, so needlessly entangled, so compromised
and the center meeting goes on, and on, repeating itself, solving nothing - so, as i see it, we're faced with this problem - wait, didn't we just bring up twenty solutions, potential directions? oh, but i know how much you love hearing yourself talk, and cycle back around to the start of your grievance list again, prattle on...
what is it i do here? i dread telling people - i don't talk about it - well now i'm fucking talking, okay? every time i opened my mouth at the meeting, i felt like a jackass immediately afterward - i was trying to compensate for not talking hardly at all otherwise - a meeting gives me the impetus to speak my mind, a sanctioned sharing - but my words bounced off - i thought i had some useful suggestions but i just felt disrespected, like an idiot for talking, should have shut up - why am i here? fucking music? musical commitments are a drag - it's my play, not my work - i miss the savoury room - i don't want to be renting out my head
i should write a letter to the admins or something - maybe i can get out of this morasse
it's just been a frustrating meeting, that's all - okay? or maybe it's more than just that, maybe i'm realizing things - like, sure, this center is great and all that, but it's not part of my mandate, i'm not enthusiastic, i'm not here for these people, i'm here for myself, so i could just as well be there for myself, back home - do i really want to help bring in more high school people? i can barely stand the people that are already here - oh, i appreciate their personalities, there's no ill will, it's just that i can barely stand them - i don't dislike them, i just can't like them too much either, they don't like me, we don't get along - i'm peripheral - just as i appreciate the personality of the admins i have to deal with, they're witty and good-hearted, but interacting with them is like getting an unanesthetized root canal - speaking of which, i could probably use some dental work too, that's another thing i'm noticing today
a two hour meeting about contriving demand - fuck man, i just want to say, if it's not there, it's not there, why kill yourself trying creating it? i don't believe in advertising, it's not my thing, what do you want me to say? i'm not saying your PR sucks, i actually admire it, the posters are tastefully done, nice layout, good, on-point message - but if you see people as potential consumers, be prepared to be massively disappointed, unless you're barnum and bailey - sorry, i've been through that whole process, i'm not interested, at this stage in my life, in becoming an ad man - and yeah, it's my fault, i picked the wrong job - cause it is a whole lot of nothing
why kill yourself trying to create demand? oh, because you can't sound defeatist - never give up! we must ride this gravy train into the ground - the last days, the decaying republic, no more soup for you - or maybe it'll all get better with a new space - ebbs and flows and square dances and slack jaws... why is giving up such a bad thing? it doesn't mean i gave up on life - less is more - maybe it's an economical streamlining, or a minimalist thinned-out mix... i'll have to admit to feeling like a defeatist today, about certain things, anyway - but this is enough whining - let's all forget our troubles with a big bowl of strawberry ice-cream . It is your birthday. After all.
8/04/11
fold tab A into slot B
ugh, how can i get rid of that bright white serrated sidebar demarcation? couldn't find any setting in blogger - does look nice with briar's artwork on top though
oh i see, it's bound to the text color - damn
oh wait, if i use a different template... well well - now i should actually write something for this pretty little blog - damn this drop-off - what am i, a fucking musician now? nah, screw music
oh i see, it's bound to the text color - damn
oh wait, if i use a different template... well well - now i should actually write something for this pretty little blog - damn this drop-off - what am i, a fucking musician now? nah, screw music
7/26/11
7/22/11
7/19/11
testing the limits of procrastination
nothing's gonna happen
or if it does, you won't notice
must reject philosophy
can't think anymore
facebook could be a portal
closest thing to that on my bookmark bar
nothing worth getting sucked into though
still haven't written about the plywood house
still haven't written about the collector
the shelf is crammed full of projects
can't pick up anything
gotta experience something else
sniff out oil money
save the whales, save the world
flip a coin
memories, compilation album
even that, i can't be bothered with
there's many ways to say it
no one told me when to run
this is it... this is it? okay
this is it too - see? i can "this is it", just like you
this is what i do
it's stanza-esque here in this river - gasoline rainbows, i wonder what they taste like - a gum eraser kneaded into an ear flap - an imaginary cochlea - ah - she's going to sing
sucrets sticker on the savoury room wall - i owe the patron god of medicine a rooster - in my own words - this is enriching, in some shining crazy diamond way i can't see, like a fox
the oblivion of being, that sounds about right - it doesn't need a referral - it doesn't need a script - but it is a script - this is a script - i'm so deep in character, i forgot i was playing a role - i still don't even really believe that that's what's happening, but it is
at least i want it to be - how long can this go on? nirvana still smoking, blowing smoke out, up, around - an equilibrium of not quite enough rope to hang
or if it does, you won't notice
must reject philosophy
can't think anymore
facebook could be a portal
closest thing to that on my bookmark bar
nothing worth getting sucked into though
still haven't written about the plywood house
still haven't written about the collector
the shelf is crammed full of projects
can't pick up anything
gotta experience something else
sniff out oil money
save the whales, save the world
flip a coin
memories, compilation album
even that, i can't be bothered with
there's many ways to say it
no one told me when to run
this is it... this is it? okay
this is it too - see? i can "this is it", just like you
this is what i do
it's stanza-esque here in this river - gasoline rainbows, i wonder what they taste like - a gum eraser kneaded into an ear flap - an imaginary cochlea - ah - she's going to sing
sucrets sticker on the savoury room wall - i owe the patron god of medicine a rooster - in my own words - this is enriching, in some shining crazy diamond way i can't see, like a fox
the oblivion of being, that sounds about right - it doesn't need a referral - it doesn't need a script - but it is a script - this is a script - i'm so deep in character, i forgot i was playing a role - i still don't even really believe that that's what's happening, but it is
at least i want it to be - how long can this go on? nirvana still smoking, blowing smoke out, up, around - an equilibrium of not quite enough rope to hang
7/12/11
grape maintenance
maintaining sinking equilibrium
no rocking the boat, only a slow slide down
it doesn't roll off the tongue
but it sticks in the first person's craw
gender neutral pronoun comma
maybe the grapes are sour
actually it wouldn't surprise me
although i can remember sweet feelings
another last ounce of strength
empty can rattle
holes in sarcasm
no rocking the boat, only a slow slide down
it doesn't roll off the tongue
but it sticks in the first person's craw
gender neutral pronoun comma
maybe the grapes are sour
actually it wouldn't surprise me
although i can remember sweet feelings
another last ounce of strength
empty can rattle
holes in sarcasm
6/29/11
austerity for lucidity?
austerity measures
oh yeah, what else?
case in point
pointless poetry
i haven't been this dry in some time
incidentally, in the thick of quitting caffeine and zoloft
there's too many variables, i can't tell what is affecting what
and every attempt at describing that is
this scraping the bottom of the mediocrity barrel
getting to hear about better men, themselves better than the ones
who are better than me
no, i don't think something to fight for in itself is worth newsreel nightmare suffering
but i don't think this is worth much either
of course suicide correlates to this and that
and of course i know
that newsreel nightmare suffering would shake the malaise out of me
and shock me into savouring my daily ration of goat's eyeball
my best part of the day, so i could endure a fake scare real scare
every twenty seconds and sleep on barbed wire to survive, cause i rolled a six
and they rolled a ten, and it all came to a pulitzer-prize winning graphic novel
based on me and my son, our claims to fame and value as people intertwined with a work of art
cause art matters, like it's purpose, or i thought it did, seemed to, or was that a dream?
the best part of waking up - no, can't incorporate folgier's jingle into this mexican jumping bean cutup of crappy laptop keyboard
had some hope that there was a state of purity that would correlate with happy
that i was paving over with the SSRI, that was waiting for me, if i'd just clean out my system
so i'm cleaning, but of course, i'm re-using filthy rags in a misguided attempt to recycle, and everything i clean
just gets smeared with new grime
maybe clean's the wrong concept, well sure, why wouldn't it be wrong?
maybe all i can say is, i'm getting closer to baseline
but all i feel is a void, a hazey nothing, no clarity either, no lucidity
not that my mind was working much better in an overmedicated whirl of concentric cycles
but maybe a little better, at least for functioning as a decadent wastrel, that was not an aspiration, but it was inspiring while sufficiently wired - a coffee-cream combo sort of thing
and what can i say about family? i should say something - something nice to start off with, some buttered bread for a compliment sandwich - cause there's so many things i could say - but i don't want to say anything
oh yeah, what else?
case in point
pointless poetry
i haven't been this dry in some time
incidentally, in the thick of quitting caffeine and zoloft
there's too many variables, i can't tell what is affecting what
and every attempt at describing that is
this scraping the bottom of the mediocrity barrel
getting to hear about better men, themselves better than the ones
who are better than me
no, i don't think something to fight for in itself is worth newsreel nightmare suffering
but i don't think this is worth much either
of course suicide correlates to this and that
and of course i know
that newsreel nightmare suffering would shake the malaise out of me
and shock me into savouring my daily ration of goat's eyeball
my best part of the day, so i could endure a fake scare real scare
every twenty seconds and sleep on barbed wire to survive, cause i rolled a six
and they rolled a ten, and it all came to a pulitzer-prize winning graphic novel
based on me and my son, our claims to fame and value as people intertwined with a work of art
cause art matters, like it's purpose, or i thought it did, seemed to, or was that a dream?
the best part of waking up - no, can't incorporate folgier's jingle into this mexican jumping bean cutup of crappy laptop keyboard
had some hope that there was a state of purity that would correlate with happy
that i was paving over with the SSRI, that was waiting for me, if i'd just clean out my system
so i'm cleaning, but of course, i'm re-using filthy rags in a misguided attempt to recycle, and everything i clean
just gets smeared with new grime
maybe clean's the wrong concept, well sure, why wouldn't it be wrong?
maybe all i can say is, i'm getting closer to baseline
but all i feel is a void, a hazey nothing, no clarity either, no lucidity
not that my mind was working much better in an overmedicated whirl of concentric cycles
but maybe a little better, at least for functioning as a decadent wastrel, that was not an aspiration, but it was inspiring while sufficiently wired - a coffee-cream combo sort of thing
and what can i say about family? i should say something - something nice to start off with, some buttered bread for a compliment sandwich - cause there's so many things i could say - but i don't want to say anything
6/25/11
6/24/11
6/20/11
essence-less
don't think i can get more succinct than the title - so why not quit now? burrow a den?
i'm recalling dashing cliffs, a rocky inlet, Maddox Cove - i walked a beaten path through dogberry shrubs with briar - i love it when she shudders, makes me want to hug her as tight as i can, it's adorable, not beyond my control - outside of it, yes, but receptive - i took a long pause to see if i could see the end of the cave, but i couldn't, just ocean rushing in, deeper and deeper, then passing out of view --- on a later day, i fantasized about living in a cave, my cave, like gollum - it wasn't romantic, but it was a fantasy - after a minute it hit me - how gloomy it would be when the novelty wore off: i wouldn't enjoy the stoicism of owning the wetness like a home - a cozy cave, how cagey of me
you're not guilty - don't worry
by association
bye association
it's not ink - spring reverb in fetal summer, a glacial mutant, blind, for that reason - the one that fell off the truck, that got snatched, that turned into an heirloom in a century and a half, collected dust behind the siding of a self-aware house for decades
there's masterpieces left, under display cases in the museum of hypothesis - tomorrow's mills and processing facilities - oh, where is process? process me, will you? i'll get used to the smell, it only takes six weeks - it may be largely sarcastic, but it's that sweet oil of sincerity that's the point! it's there, floating in little rainbow swirls in out of the way swampools under the canopy of cobalt foliage in the shadows of the city of ought sixteen
yes, essence-less, now we're getting it! we're getting to the root of it; synesthetic break-neck hit the deck calisthenics! no, not really, just wanted to say that
i'm recalling dashing cliffs, a rocky inlet, Maddox Cove - i walked a beaten path through dogberry shrubs with briar - i love it when she shudders, makes me want to hug her as tight as i can, it's adorable, not beyond my control - outside of it, yes, but receptive - i took a long pause to see if i could see the end of the cave, but i couldn't, just ocean rushing in, deeper and deeper, then passing out of view --- on a later day, i fantasized about living in a cave, my cave, like gollum - it wasn't romantic, but it was a fantasy - after a minute it hit me - how gloomy it would be when the novelty wore off: i wouldn't enjoy the stoicism of owning the wetness like a home - a cozy cave, how cagey of me
you're not guilty - don't worry
by association
bye association
it's not ink - spring reverb in fetal summer, a glacial mutant, blind, for that reason - the one that fell off the truck, that got snatched, that turned into an heirloom in a century and a half, collected dust behind the siding of a self-aware house for decades
there's masterpieces left, under display cases in the museum of hypothesis - tomorrow's mills and processing facilities - oh, where is process? process me, will you? i'll get used to the smell, it only takes six weeks - it may be largely sarcastic, but it's that sweet oil of sincerity that's the point! it's there, floating in little rainbow swirls in out of the way swampools under the canopy of cobalt foliage in the shadows of the city of ought sixteen
yes, essence-less, now we're getting it! we're getting to the root of it; synesthetic break-neck hit the deck calisthenics! no, not really, just wanted to say that
6/15/11
no god of dabblers
there's no god of dabblers
no have your cake and eat it too state of grace
nothing in the middle of the road but dead armadillos
fuck it always on the tip of my tongue
nothing on the tip of my tongue but taste buds and fuck it
fuck it, just words, in poor taste
rarely backed by action
fuck it might be said, but it won't be fucked
it'll act on impulse, despite the executive decision
to fuck, if not all of it, at least this particular fucking dead end
but there's never-ending stories in zeno paradox corners
and regressing floorboards, dust families in dust fables, crack ecologies
update: general error
avg says, like it would
general failure reading disks
general failure, captain obvious, major semantic antic adjunct to second leitmotif
now that's a gold leaf inlay i can get with, maybe melt down for some credits
for BMW showroom chrome
no have your cake and eat it too state of grace
nothing in the middle of the road but dead armadillos
fuck it always on the tip of my tongue
nothing on the tip of my tongue but taste buds and fuck it
fuck it, just words, in poor taste
rarely backed by action
fuck it might be said, but it won't be fucked
it'll act on impulse, despite the executive decision
to fuck, if not all of it, at least this particular fucking dead end
but there's never-ending stories in zeno paradox corners
and regressing floorboards, dust families in dust fables, crack ecologies
update: general error
avg says, like it would
general failure reading disks
general failure, captain obvious, major semantic antic adjunct to second leitmotif
now that's a gold leaf inlay i can get with, maybe melt down for some credits
for BMW showroom chrome
6/10/11
sounds good
You'd best believe we gonna be mixing it up with somebody... or some thing... Or, cut to the chase. Yes, fuzzy-head friend, I know, I'd do it too, I'd trade every hair left for a right word. The problem is the venue, gotta code your way to an escape, for what? This Bastille sideshow? Hell no, don't go, wallow, till the apocalypse finds you, assuming it'll ever make it to this crevasse - crease? Carcinogenic gas will suffice, six thousand sided dice, pass the time, your time, whoever cares to drop by. Wish you could make trades, a friendly shadow for these dime a dozen sallow faces in high-def.
It sounds good, but it's empty, by which I mean simply stymied. I mean that simply, it's a simple matter of meaning. A full complement of trazadone might pass through the sky, missing both dream-eaters and semioticians on speed - but I'll know there's a difference between those other ego-trips on the couch, and those scrap metal epics under the bedcovers - what that signifies, i will pose as an unanswerable question in the margins of a pop rock anthem
It sounds good, but it's empty, by which I mean simply stymied. I mean that simply, it's a simple matter of meaning. A full complement of trazadone might pass through the sky, missing both dream-eaters and semioticians on speed - but I'll know there's a difference between those other ego-trips on the couch, and those scrap metal epics under the bedcovers - what that signifies, i will pose as an unanswerable question in the margins of a pop rock anthem
5/25/11
5/23/11
5/22/11
placeholder
[oh, how there needs to be some placeholders - some, not one, but several placemats under plates piled with filler, garnished with cool arugula banter, distractingly flavorful, cause that's where the flag people are waving me in
so here, cause i can hide the frustratingly flat nature of this plateau with sculptures of ice and gum, squeeze my stress into a squishy blob, put things up around me, hide the horizons choked with electromagnetic noise, they flicker but never change substantively, there's still a feeling lying under everything, eternal sleep, not death, but not life
manyana caffyana hadn't done that balls-out balls-deep shuffle in a while, don't know when it'll be gotten to again, or if that's even possible today or tomorrow - castaneda's leading me on, or so i thought a minute ago - not enough whitley streiboids per capita here in the desert to avoid talking to myself, but that chatty castanet almost sounds like somebody, i'll go with that
i'll keep the severe photo up on my wall, and maybe it's not handsome, maybe not my best pose, but it tells more truth than the good photographer captured]
so here, cause i can hide the frustratingly flat nature of this plateau with sculptures of ice and gum, squeeze my stress into a squishy blob, put things up around me, hide the horizons choked with electromagnetic noise, they flicker but never change substantively, there's still a feeling lying under everything, eternal sleep, not death, but not life
manyana caffyana hadn't done that balls-out balls-deep shuffle in a while, don't know when it'll be gotten to again, or if that's even possible today or tomorrow - castaneda's leading me on, or so i thought a minute ago - not enough whitley streiboids per capita here in the desert to avoid talking to myself, but that chatty castanet almost sounds like somebody, i'll go with that
i'll keep the severe photo up on my wall, and maybe it's not handsome, maybe not my best pose, but it tells more truth than the good photographer captured]
5/15/11
insoluble
mustardayonnaise man, gotta break me out of jail
my term won't expire
what innocuous-looking street will lead to the next polite fight? falling short, fail, abort, retry, what will it be next time? another exhausting pondering? or an accusation just deserved enough to spur me on, to try to right another wrong, in an endlessly repeating fraction? i ought to care about this - i have to care about that - oh i know, sorry - i'm not apathetic about not caring - why not quadruple the negative while we're at it? it would be so wonderful if i cared, i'd be the person i agree i ought to be - you have no idea how hard i try, to care, i push shit uphill, both ways
i wish i could shrug it all off, and stop caring about what i don't care about - i wish i could stop trying to pretend - i haven't been my own man since, well, childhood - so is this me being an adult? then the game ain't worth the candle
oh, here's a drain wave again - a whirl down the spout
thought i had energy today
thought i didn't need coffee
almost fooled myself about there being a new page
5/08/11
the human spirit, etc.
i was meant for greed
coulda been a contender, so greedy
coulda been the champion, the greediest
people woulda needed me, and i coulda been so good
at being rich and nothing else
i remember the money games i came up with as a kid
that were like spontaneous training, that i never used later in life
i got my sister, and my friends, and my friends' sisters
to ride around on the deck of david's parents' house
on tricycles and bicycles and fischer price layers
of social stratas while i sat on the center table
collecting and apportioning coins and bills from the 1980s
according to an evolving system of rules
that felt natural in a brilliant synthetic subset of nature
that was my diamond-in-the-rough creation, work is play!
a moment in the sun, a glint, a hint of coulda-beens
if i don't do it, somebody else will
so let them
let them get credit, let them get laid
let them be the horny holy prophet
incidentally, it's in us all to express genius and power
i'll wave my warms in an inclusive manner as i hear the ring of spring reverb
we've all been deputized to do this or that, but changes could be made, internally
coulda been a contender, so greedy
coulda been the champion, the greediest
people woulda needed me, and i coulda been so good
at being rich and nothing else
i remember the money games i came up with as a kid
that were like spontaneous training, that i never used later in life
i got my sister, and my friends, and my friends' sisters
to ride around on the deck of david's parents' house
on tricycles and bicycles and fischer price layers
of social stratas while i sat on the center table
collecting and apportioning coins and bills from the 1980s
according to an evolving system of rules
that felt natural in a brilliant synthetic subset of nature
that was my diamond-in-the-rough creation, work is play!
a moment in the sun, a glint, a hint of coulda-beens
if i don't do it, somebody else will
so let them
let them get credit, let them get laid
let them be the horny holy prophet
incidentally, it's in us all to express genius and power
i'll wave my warms in an inclusive manner as i hear the ring of spring reverb
we've all been deputized to do this or that, but changes could be made, internally
4/26/11
What is my purpose?
What is my purpose in life? At least, at this stage in my life? I need to figure this out, because I feel so lost.
My purpose is... to package savoury. It's a job, jobs are good, they give people purpose. They give people income. I can get lots of hours, and steady pay. It's a recipe for insanity, but it's better than other jobs I've had. My co-workers are pleasant, in spite of, or because of their possibly-dangerous levels of blood-savoury content. We have savoury in our blood, literally, it's so dusty. My eyes are heavy, I just got off work.
It's no dream job, and yes, I'm a cog, but Cogswell isn't all that bad in the live action version, though he does have a mustache like in the cartoon. Wait, wasn't that Mr. Spacely who had the mustache? Anyway, when he drops by, it's not a drag. A purpose, not the purpose, could be found in packaging savoury. Running out the clock. Running on auto-pilot to keep the hands busy because it isn't break time yet, but break time is coming, Timmie's time, candy junk smoke cards time, am radio game-show time. Purpose in making enough money to live, if not independently, at least more than I have been thus far.
My purpose is to stop backsliding into the indulgences of protracted adolescence and ugly ego-trips. I've done those juvenile delinquencies to death, but it's been so wrapped up in this image of The Artist as Rebel, or something, that I still worry about becoming a goody-goody. It's time to leave the carnival funhouse mirrors. But I still get to look back and laugh every so often. And even take it seriously too, like a libran on tramadol.
It would be purposeful to accept that the "party like a rock-star" days are over for me. There's just no point in continuing to try and recapture unrepeatable, context-bound past glories. Until I find a new way to party, or to be a rock-star, I can deal with my nostalgia for the lifestyle I grazed by using the notes, song scraps, memories, and experience I accumulated over those quasi rock-star nights and days, for creative endeavors. For fuck sake, that's what I've been meaning to do since I started aping the rock-stars in the first place. But the means became an end. Many ends.
My purpose is to stay ahead of my opponent, the part of myself that's always dragging us down (slow anesthetized suicide, anyone?) in our neck-and-neck race - just in time for turning thirty, which is the new twenty, thus, adulthood, or something. Thirty! Fuck, that still gives me the creeps, that that's happening this year. The stupid waves are at record amplitude. I'm going through the wash, but I don't feel clean. I feel nauseous and out of place - a bit like Bingo the Clowno, except he did have a place in the circus, upon accepting his role. I don't have that luxury. But I do have a salvation army bed to fall back on, if things get too hairy. I haven't yet burned the bridge to the Wiseman Center. I'll even eat the Newfoundland fish brew they serve there sometimes - if I have to, in order to be polite, and take nourishment, literally.
Purpose could be had in quitting caffeine and re-growing the capacity to feel actual energy again. It's like I'm on pharmaceutical-grade proletarian speed all day. I substituted the high-powered club-uppers for a shitty drug that got its hooks in me. It burns out my brain just the same - it's just less noticeable, that's all. But I'm clueing in. It might be nice to digest normally, and sleep and wake normally, and have more than a two hour time window to get anything done. While I'm at that, I could quit the trazadone, and learn to sleep naturally again, and allow my dreams to flow naturally again, and be something approaching recharged in the morning. Staying off the cigarettes goes without saying.
This lethargy problem is the bane of my existence. I never tire of saying that, anyway. It would be purpose enough to solve that problem. Whole chapters would follow from that, novels even, spin-off prequels, motion picture adaptations! Easier said than done. I don't know what the root of the lethargy problem is. Could be so many fucking things. That's why I'm always on about drugs, if not on drugs. Well that's reason number fifty-nine. Maybe it's parasites. Maybe it's what everybody feels when they get on the wrong side of their twenties but most people don't complain about it as much as I do. Maybe I can't solve the lethargy problem and I just gotta live with it. That suuuuuure wooooooould suck. But even if that's what has to pass, I could at least avoid using drugs as a quick and stupid way of feeling alive again. I could stabilize. It would take time, and more patience than I currently have - a lot more. But purpose would flower from just that state, the state of stabilization, manifold function like a marigold, unfurling. Crazier things have happened - not to me, but they've happened, I figure.
I could take purpose in keeping a clean head, if I could cultivate just a little more discipline. I'm not talking monastic shit, just more willpower than I've got now, the little that's been whittled to a sliver since addiction. With a clean head, I could work on my spirit - not with brute force, but a light touch - addition by subtraction, Japanese gardening. But I shouldn't drive myself crazy trying to live up to my fussy detail-obsessed standards concerning things that don't matter much really. They results in manic depressive cycles - no harmony or equilibrium.
Perhaps most importantly... I could continue weening myself off the zoloft, until I get to zero, and stay at that baseline, that I haven't known in so many years - and see what it's like. Reconnect with the full weight of my emotions. Something like that really happens after quitting anti-depressants, I hear.
Purpose could be had in going about my day-to-day life with sufficient satiating focus on the here and now - and not worrying about a goddamn career or a degree, or where the start of my path to martyrdom or artistic maverick is. I don't know what the hell to study or do with my life, what my vocation is, what I'm suited for, if anything - and what's the point in banging my head against a wall trying to solve that koan?
Purpose could be had in playing one or two more shows with "In The Flesh", polishing those cover tunes, then quitting the band to focus on my own stuff. There's also.... sigh.... the For The Love of Learning collaborative album project, tentatively titled "The Drop Ins", that I started last February, since abandoned. It's more than worthwhile, for so many reasons. I want to finish that. But in the purpose-driven future, I shouldn't take these draining logistical nightmares for art projects. Rather, I should be true to my own artistic drive, and follow my creative bliss. It's still in there somewhere, I feel, but my compass doesn't work too well here. There's so much noise. Ringing in my ears, campaign signs on the streets in clusters.
My purpose is in keyboard improvisation technique. To be a one man Keith Jarrett, that would do. I mean, the attempt is purposeful, obviously the goal is absurd. Improvisation is where my damn soul is, I'm just realizing that! Maybe if I was in Nellie-town with Malik and one of his many fine bass-playing colleagues, my purpose would be in doing the power trio thing we talked about, but here and now, it's improv, and not for an audience! It's my improvs, that's exactly what I should be throwing myself into, if I had to pick one thing - and maybe I fucking well should pick one thing, cause I'm spread thin and stagnant, at least to the behaviorists. My mind is smoldering, but the fuel to set it blazing is buried under some uncooperative brainlobe. Maybe in the next life chapter I could incorporate an audience. I want to get away from ego trips. Okay, and into solipsism, but that's not quite the same I don't think.
My purpose is to gradually improve myself. Let's be realistic. Run with Briar, around town, around the lake, down the jogging paths - and see if it's really true that there's such a thing as going from this flimsy body I'm stuck in, to something noticeably fitter. Watch her when she starts a new painting session and learn the basics. Conquer my fear of the canvas and give in to my latent fascination with oils.
Purpose could be had in eating better - and allowing that to be a new paradigm. Cooking with Briar. It's amazing what I enjoy, that I would never think of myself. I could see there being a chemical spiritual interface there. I already have an inkling about how to eat a peach and not merely consume it. Zen may not be purposeful, but it could serve, for me. There are shadows of forests, but it's hard to make sense of it.
My purpose is to love my woman. Yes, I feel possessive these days. Not like I own her, but like there's a bond. I don't know if that's that the done thing, to blog about this sort of thing. But just because I was sentimental once, on a blog, about a relationship that failed, well, that doesn't mean I ought to censor myself forever after, does it? I'd refer you to The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind - you know, that sort of thing. Things rarely feel worth blogging about. Nonsense is usually the best subject matter, it takes a rare bit of sense to attract words from me, in sentence case, no less. I could become someone she could lean on, one day, when she would trust me and herself enough to fall like that, into my arms.
My purpose is to love my family. And let them know that in ways less run of the mill than my standard repertoire.
My purpose is to love my program family. Not take them for granted or forget how many times I've been welcomed back into the rooms. We could go on hikes again, that's the best way to break the ice with them, things were gooey last summer but they froze a bit this winter. Purpose could easily be in not letting anything drive me to drink again - but rather to reach out - even pick up the fifty pound cellphone.
My purpose is to love this land, as an adopted home, for now - especially over the coming spring and summer. Enjoy the days.
My purpose is to love my friends back west. Write them more often, pick up the phone occasionally with the faith that the dread I feel when dialing someone I haven't talked to in forever will, before long, fade to laughter and informative Kootenay trivia. Use Skype for god's sake. Maybe get a webcam.
This is my purpose now, and I need to write this to feel right, cause I'm lost and exhausted and a little messed up. But there could be purpose in a few things, hypothetically speaking.
My purpose is... to package savoury. It's a job, jobs are good, they give people purpose. They give people income. I can get lots of hours, and steady pay. It's a recipe for insanity, but it's better than other jobs I've had. My co-workers are pleasant, in spite of, or because of their possibly-dangerous levels of blood-savoury content. We have savoury in our blood, literally, it's so dusty. My eyes are heavy, I just got off work.
It's no dream job, and yes, I'm a cog, but Cogswell isn't all that bad in the live action version, though he does have a mustache like in the cartoon. Wait, wasn't that Mr. Spacely who had the mustache? Anyway, when he drops by, it's not a drag. A purpose, not the purpose, could be found in packaging savoury. Running out the clock. Running on auto-pilot to keep the hands busy because it isn't break time yet, but break time is coming, Timmie's time, candy junk smoke cards time, am radio game-show time. Purpose in making enough money to live, if not independently, at least more than I have been thus far.
My purpose is to stop backsliding into the indulgences of protracted adolescence and ugly ego-trips. I've done those juvenile delinquencies to death, but it's been so wrapped up in this image of The Artist as Rebel, or something, that I still worry about becoming a goody-goody. It's time to leave the carnival funhouse mirrors. But I still get to look back and laugh every so often. And even take it seriously too, like a libran on tramadol.
It would be purposeful to accept that the "party like a rock-star" days are over for me. There's just no point in continuing to try and recapture unrepeatable, context-bound past glories. Until I find a new way to party, or to be a rock-star, I can deal with my nostalgia for the lifestyle I grazed by using the notes, song scraps, memories, and experience I accumulated over those quasi rock-star nights and days, for creative endeavors. For fuck sake, that's what I've been meaning to do since I started aping the rock-stars in the first place. But the means became an end. Many ends.
My purpose is to stay ahead of my opponent, the part of myself that's always dragging us down (slow anesthetized suicide, anyone?) in our neck-and-neck race - just in time for turning thirty, which is the new twenty, thus, adulthood, or something. Thirty! Fuck, that still gives me the creeps, that that's happening this year. The stupid waves are at record amplitude. I'm going through the wash, but I don't feel clean. I feel nauseous and out of place - a bit like Bingo the Clowno, except he did have a place in the circus, upon accepting his role. I don't have that luxury. But I do have a salvation army bed to fall back on, if things get too hairy. I haven't yet burned the bridge to the Wiseman Center. I'll even eat the Newfoundland fish brew they serve there sometimes - if I have to, in order to be polite, and take nourishment, literally.
Purpose could be had in quitting caffeine and re-growing the capacity to feel actual energy again. It's like I'm on pharmaceutical-grade proletarian speed all day. I substituted the high-powered club-uppers for a shitty drug that got its hooks in me. It burns out my brain just the same - it's just less noticeable, that's all. But I'm clueing in. It might be nice to digest normally, and sleep and wake normally, and have more than a two hour time window to get anything done. While I'm at that, I could quit the trazadone, and learn to sleep naturally again, and allow my dreams to flow naturally again, and be something approaching recharged in the morning. Staying off the cigarettes goes without saying.
This lethargy problem is the bane of my existence. I never tire of saying that, anyway. It would be purpose enough to solve that problem. Whole chapters would follow from that, novels even, spin-off prequels, motion picture adaptations! Easier said than done. I don't know what the root of the lethargy problem is. Could be so many fucking things. That's why I'm always on about drugs, if not on drugs. Well that's reason number fifty-nine. Maybe it's parasites. Maybe it's what everybody feels when they get on the wrong side of their twenties but most people don't complain about it as much as I do. Maybe I can't solve the lethargy problem and I just gotta live with it. That suuuuuure wooooooould suck. But even if that's what has to pass, I could at least avoid using drugs as a quick and stupid way of feeling alive again. I could stabilize. It would take time, and more patience than I currently have - a lot more. But purpose would flower from just that state, the state of stabilization, manifold function like a marigold, unfurling. Crazier things have happened - not to me, but they've happened, I figure.
I could take purpose in keeping a clean head, if I could cultivate just a little more discipline. I'm not talking monastic shit, just more willpower than I've got now, the little that's been whittled to a sliver since addiction. With a clean head, I could work on my spirit - not with brute force, but a light touch - addition by subtraction, Japanese gardening. But I shouldn't drive myself crazy trying to live up to my fussy detail-obsessed standards concerning things that don't matter much really. They results in manic depressive cycles - no harmony or equilibrium.
Perhaps most importantly... I could continue weening myself off the zoloft, until I get to zero, and stay at that baseline, that I haven't known in so many years - and see what it's like. Reconnect with the full weight of my emotions. Something like that really happens after quitting anti-depressants, I hear.
Purpose could be had in going about my day-to-day life with sufficient satiating focus on the here and now - and not worrying about a goddamn career or a degree, or where the start of my path to martyrdom or artistic maverick is. I don't know what the hell to study or do with my life, what my vocation is, what I'm suited for, if anything - and what's the point in banging my head against a wall trying to solve that koan?
Purpose could be had in playing one or two more shows with "In The Flesh", polishing those cover tunes, then quitting the band to focus on my own stuff. There's also.... sigh.... the For The Love of Learning collaborative album project, tentatively titled "The Drop Ins", that I started last February, since abandoned. It's more than worthwhile, for so many reasons. I want to finish that. But in the purpose-driven future, I shouldn't take these draining logistical nightmares for art projects. Rather, I should be true to my own artistic drive, and follow my creative bliss. It's still in there somewhere, I feel, but my compass doesn't work too well here. There's so much noise. Ringing in my ears, campaign signs on the streets in clusters.
My purpose is in keyboard improvisation technique. To be a one man Keith Jarrett, that would do. I mean, the attempt is purposeful, obviously the goal is absurd. Improvisation is where my damn soul is, I'm just realizing that! Maybe if I was in Nellie-town with Malik and one of his many fine bass-playing colleagues, my purpose would be in doing the power trio thing we talked about, but here and now, it's improv, and not for an audience! It's my improvs, that's exactly what I should be throwing myself into, if I had to pick one thing - and maybe I fucking well should pick one thing, cause I'm spread thin and stagnant, at least to the behaviorists. My mind is smoldering, but the fuel to set it blazing is buried under some uncooperative brainlobe. Maybe in the next life chapter I could incorporate an audience. I want to get away from ego trips. Okay, and into solipsism, but that's not quite the same I don't think.
My purpose is to gradually improve myself. Let's be realistic. Run with Briar, around town, around the lake, down the jogging paths - and see if it's really true that there's such a thing as going from this flimsy body I'm stuck in, to something noticeably fitter. Watch her when she starts a new painting session and learn the basics. Conquer my fear of the canvas and give in to my latent fascination with oils.
Purpose could be had in eating better - and allowing that to be a new paradigm. Cooking with Briar. It's amazing what I enjoy, that I would never think of myself. I could see there being a chemical spiritual interface there. I already have an inkling about how to eat a peach and not merely consume it. Zen may not be purposeful, but it could serve, for me. There are shadows of forests, but it's hard to make sense of it.
My purpose is to love my woman. Yes, I feel possessive these days. Not like I own her, but like there's a bond. I don't know if that's that the done thing, to blog about this sort of thing. But just because I was sentimental once, on a blog, about a relationship that failed, well, that doesn't mean I ought to censor myself forever after, does it? I'd refer you to The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind - you know, that sort of thing. Things rarely feel worth blogging about. Nonsense is usually the best subject matter, it takes a rare bit of sense to attract words from me, in sentence case, no less. I could become someone she could lean on, one day, when she would trust me and herself enough to fall like that, into my arms.
My purpose is to love my family. And let them know that in ways less run of the mill than my standard repertoire.
My purpose is to love my program family. Not take them for granted or forget how many times I've been welcomed back into the rooms. We could go on hikes again, that's the best way to break the ice with them, things were gooey last summer but they froze a bit this winter. Purpose could easily be in not letting anything drive me to drink again - but rather to reach out - even pick up the fifty pound cellphone.
My purpose is to love this land, as an adopted home, for now - especially over the coming spring and summer. Enjoy the days.
My purpose is to love my friends back west. Write them more often, pick up the phone occasionally with the faith that the dread I feel when dialing someone I haven't talked to in forever will, before long, fade to laughter and informative Kootenay trivia. Use Skype for god's sake. Maybe get a webcam.
This is my purpose now, and I need to write this to feel right, cause I'm lost and exhausted and a little messed up. But there could be purpose in a few things, hypothetically speaking.
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