what child is this?

-

beryllium

that is my code name for briar, on some occasions

my love of chemistry and my love for a woman meld in that moniker

so i guess i'll talk about that, since it's on my mind - the thing i lost

women - you can't live with them and you can't live without them

i guess you can, but it's harder - it may, in fact, be harder to live without than with

certainly the heart grows fonder, in absentia - to an excruciating degree

i wouldn't have thought i'd be carrying a torch six months after the ambiguous turned concrete break up, but i found the torch materialize in my hand from thin air... 

imagine different time streams... choices at the quantum level, pre-destiny, or fissures in fate...

throwing caution to the wind and having a child - or maybe just a marriage, like an adult, like my sister, always three steps ahead of me in this life thing, and yet two years younger... we share genes, but we've diverged in our life paths and created different time streams

a marriage, with no kids, but a commitment, a ring from three months "salary" (haha, some fraction of what i pull in washing dishes for minimum wage)... i complained bitterly about my job at times, but it's true, i've been lucky to be employed in even menial positions - nothing is really menial when you get right down to it - it's not good for me to be unemployed, which is why i seek volunteer work - it's not good for me to be single, which is why i'm kind of grieving a bit over the loss of that woman - only now, is it hitting me hard - i'm not gonna be a hurtbag about it i don't think, i haven't gone to that extreme, i've barely complained about it at all, not like i did at the bitter end of the five year thing with the other girl - she was a girl to me, but also a woman, a deep and disturbed one, who i think has made some better healthier time streams for herself

not sure if this has bearing or not, but actually i am sure: my friend luc presciently and rhetorically asked: how thick does the steak need to be? actually it wasn't rhetorical and eternally pertinent

the joy of sculpture, lego manipulation becomes a castle of tumours - not eyepowder though, that wretched alluring thread... finchy saved it, for posterity - we're gonna need records

sound shapes, like bobby terrence experimented with

Cadmium

the forgotten element

irony is dead, long live irony

i don't quite remember how to write, or what it was for, but my heart still beats - medulla keeps meddling - i don't remember what it was for, cause everything seems to be past tense now - i've been in a downward spiral of diminishing returns trying to recapture old feelings - they're the only feelings i know

there's a scary asshole self who is negative, like mephistopheles, who carves a lumpen proletariat into a renaissance man - it's interesting to note that i know this man, that can farm words from the driest desert, who always has something to say - the mileage i get from liquor combusts memory efficiently, in equal measure

please

pleasure

i don't quite remember what writing is, or what it was for, but it pleases me, or did in the past - it's pleasing to plant seeds by just typing and feel that something is taking root even after i'm done typing, and simply lying in bed, drifting off to sleep - the words remain like a lineage - at least in my hippocampal torus network, so solo... so many lonely people - suffering alone

i wonder if i could foment a personal apocalypse or two with words... i used to have that hubris, now i just wonder - but maybe i'll be driven to try it, is it still possible to drive this hurtin' unit? make a play for the something or other, fuck some shit up? pain pain and gain? i ain't talkin' bout no revolution, i'm talking about love, but what a bizarre word that is today, i'm so defeatist, i don't deserve anything, do i?  that's what got me into this most recent mess in the first place, was aiming higher, aiming for love, like as if i would have any business operating on that stata

please

honeycough ' " ?

it's a package of noodles, but not just any noodles, they're kraft with the alfredo cheese mix and they've got a crinkle shape, and they're not emblematic of anything, and awww... they're even a source of iron! that's so cute, that they take the time to let you know, the people who make those noodles - just fyi, you wouldn't think so, but this stuff has a bit of iron it it, you know? there's a little kick of iron to it, what you do what that information is your own business, but hey, just fyi, it's in there, just so you know, just putting it out there

oh, honeycough, you were always so good to me, you made my throat numb even when it didn't need numbing for the conventional reasons but you aren't biased against my reasons when they circumvent convention, and the numbing of the throat was a not-unwanted side effect of a much broader spectrum of effects - it was touching to notice the lack of sensitivity in my throat when i would induce a cough for a lark, between inside vistas brought on through stimulation of imagination via sense-deprived dissociation - yes, i certainly wouldn't have been inclined to cough with that many mg/kg alright! - anesthesia remains underrated - not that it's not highly rated by many people for many reasons, but even so, it's not thought of fondly enough, it could stand yet more fondness of thought - and i don't think i got done chatting with the devil, there were some loose ends, and there's still living to be done in getting to them, to, if not tie them up, at least play with their ends a bit more, like a twenty year old cat that's got some spring still in her when she gets 'nipped up and sees some loose string dangling there, but the string needs a flip to get dangling, there needs to be a helping hand, some kinetic energy

honeycough, you were good to my body and even better to my mind, i always felt a bond with you, your graphics, your adorable name, the people who manufactured and sold you, their trusting naivete, or maybe there were some knowing winks i didn't know about - i can't make this any harder than it needs to be, mister, cause it's the best of all possible worlds, and what a sad fact that is, although some rare times it feels just fine, that this is the best we can do, because that is a beautiful reflection of this music i'm moving through now

My Account for Individuals

What can I do on My Account?

oh, my account... they set up an account for me, how lovely, i know it was a page of a page of a page created from web code, automated scripts, but the result is personal - it's a story that will make you believe in god - cause there's nothing to be done with this but to ascribe some meaning that we prefer, as opposed to an impersonal randomness

Cooler temperatures outside. Best to keep a hat and mitts handy




knuckle tile

bait space
trying to cultivate vaccuphilia
-
people tell stories at meetings, oh god, how they tell stories
and i could tell stories too, but i'm stymied, cause
where to begin? the second i've got an idea of where to delve into it
the guy next to me goes on a bragging jag about how he used to be
such a baaaaaaad mutha fucka, but infuriatingly, in the guise of
how i was so sick, so sickly sick, but thank god, i've recovered
and my life's so much better, but he mostly just wants you to know
how baaaaaad he was, and you wouldn't have wanted to mess with him back then
cause back then he was gettin into all sorts of brawls, and who knows
what mighta happened to you, if you'd messed with him back then,
cause he was so sick, but lucky him, he found a god
so he gets to have his plague cake and eat it too

skid row give'n'take

faxx-ache

good god, 'twas the best bad beer in this whole bad ol' lil' world

so then, i remember when, cause those remember when stories
make me think of the most fucked up shit from my daze, and
the most fucked up shit makes me crave the most, cause that was
always the attraction, the more twisted the better, the tawdriest was the best
and the needles were perfection, and then the other guy steals my thunder
and i don't know where to begin, cause what i hate in the others the most
is what i'm so deeply ashamed of in myself, maybe cause they get away
with being the reformed dope-fiend raconteurs
whereas i'm left merely craving white powder goodies i haven't tasted in years
you'd think years away would bring some serenity, but even more than booze
for me, the real drugs, the ones that radically rearrange the dopamine
and kappa-opioid receptors, are the ones that have really stuck
in my memory

SOUR coffee, notes, country, constitution, sour taste, foul-weather friend, i'll call to complain, but i won't ever kill the carefully cultivated vibe by copping to any good feeling, ever - or, well, i'll mention it once in a while, i do try to mention it, it's one of those chores i grunt through when enough downtime has passed, i guess i'd better say something positive at this point, maybe if i do, it'll create jobs, cause god knows, people keep creating people, so we gotta create jobs for them, otherwise, they'll kill each other in armed conflict over dwindling supplies of kraft dinner

i did hear a good thing, that resonated with me at the meeting today, it really did, it resonated, even though i have to italicize the word to emphasize how it turns my stomach how trite it is, and how it's used in trite ways by trite people to express trite things, like the lil bite of trite i felt today, about how we used to pray in desperate ways to the porcelain god, is something that you lose in recovery, and need to be reminded of now and then to keep you grounded - and i remember that, and now that the desperation is gone, and the sides of the toilet bowl are dry, there's just a vast flat crater whose cliffs i can't see, and would that it were tranquil like the lunar sea, or numberwang abstraction, a more realistic hope, that, but it's a parade of irritation following me home - here's a positive note though, it doesn't follow into my dreams, my dreams are still a sacred space of happy horror vacuii

the hand i was dealt.... he asked me how i felt about it, a year and change ago now, and back then i answered, earnestly, that i would have to say, it was pretty good luck in the parental lottery, and geographically, i made a killing, and i was forced to admit this, objectively - and i really didn't feel a lot of resentment, i had plenty of other issues, cravings, hopelessness, iron chains of shame, tight loops of self-sabotage, but i didn't seem to have a lot to work with regarding the supposedly all important resentment issue, i actually felt bad for not having enough of it, like it would have made the step-work more intense and profound instead of a breeze

and now i'm as bitter as strychnine - or is it arsenic? As33? And fuck the chem cooks. nux vomica, poison nut, semen strychnos and quaker buttons - anger, so much anger these days, and bitterness, and envy and jealousy and discontent, and petty emotions, oh my god, i would just dyeee if anyone knew about them, so, what'll i do? i'll type them into the blogger window, cause that's safe as soy milk and scientology bashing

i meant every note, or what i meant to say was, i meant those tiles, meaning cleaning tiles, meaning in gleaming tiles - and while cleaning tiles, why do i get nervous and feel like i need to finish quick, or something? it's the fear of being seen actually getting satisfaction out of the menial labour of cleaning floors and getting manic with it, and having it laid bare that i don't do it out of some heroic self-abnegation or even work ethic exactly, except insofar as work ethic is tied up with an obsessive compulsive need to carry some task to a state of what i deem completion according to a set of arbitrary rules i've drafted and revised a hundred times in my head conforming to the evolving contours of my neurotic architecture - and the insanity of the impossible task of keeping grime at bay being an aesthetic unto itself

maybe there's some purpose in finally facing truths head on, especially the truths about those most sacred cows of the most serious and sombre procedure of arranging words and tones into pretty patterns, or ugly patterns that are pretty in their pointed rejection of what would be the "pretty" choice at every vertex like a film-negative - maybe there's a vital need to face up to the farce, rather than grazing the truth of its ridiculousness in a not-so-graceful shuffle - maybe that'll feel good in a strange vital way, while enduring pain i forgot existed, that i hadn't known since dark days of juvenile halls, and might take on new forms at the same or greater intensity... i do feel i'm still so full of lies, the worst of them artistic lies

lies like i'm ever writing just for myself, as you would if the word journal had any meaning - certainly not since blogger, or even before that - since boards - there's been a yearning to share, and yet, the stunt of sharing has proven to be so sick-making, if not contagious

maybe i can rewrite this to disguise some intent, heh, but i won't - good god, how disgusting... i'm so bitter and ungrateful, blessed and hateful, and i'm so sorry about the things i say, and even sorrier about the things i don't say, but maybe i need to accumulate some more sins, need more blatant material for the next confession - maybe i need some, heh, ORIGINAL sins, haha, get it? like it's a play on the biblical idea of original sin and also a brilliantly original piece of comedic wit that no one ever could have possibly thought up before me just now? and i have to write that with extra sarcastic inflection just to be absolutely certain that you know i meant that sarcastically, and was not seriously proposing that my comedic usage of original sin was somehow original

And Thank You, Blogger - most sincerely and non-sarcastically, the most earnest feeling I have among the many earnest feelings I have for inanimate objects and institutions, which are the only feelings of earnestness I have for anything, and the only objects worthy of earnestness, I feel - thank you blogger, for aligning my text to the left, like I asked - it's amazing how much stuff works, in the digital world, amid my myriad mouse clicks and impatient banging away at hotkeys - by all rights, blogger, you would have choked, the user errors would have compounded, but your code is so streamlined, that you pretty much grasped what i was trying to get done, and after a few format stutters, eventually got down to doing my bidding - i'll call that justified

you got me comin' back

song by hectorthecrow and Luc Forget
words by Luc Forget
(he's supposed to sing the lead and play the guitar parts too, but long distance collaboration can slow things down a bit...)

lyrics:
now you got me all wrapped up
and i can't even do anything about it
now you know me inside out, outside in, and i don't
wanna think about it, don't wanna talk about it

now you got me thinking it all over
you got me thinking about smoking cigarettes
oh my heart, and my brain, are at a smoky table
vodka and russian roulette

oh you got me coming back, i'm such a hack
but you just played it, you played it oh so cool
you saw me coming and you set, you set me up
you knew that i would play
you knew that i would play the fool

now you got me thinking it over
and i don't even smoke them cigarettes
oh my heart, and my brain
are at a smoky table
vodka and russian roulette

bluch

i mean boohoo, i mean dial nine one wah, i mean, somebody call a wahmbulance, i mean, i guess it's been a while since nodes of encouragement - the trough isn't feeding me - i guess i need to sleep - good thing that's so easy to do - i guess i will soon - cause the cheque isn't in the mail, there's nothing to anticipate - a diet sunkist encouraged me for three seconds when it was funny - humour i could never think of - the neverland hasbeen singularity where i was impossibly cool - it was just a pleasant itchiness, that's all it ever was - i can't stand when anyone makes too many associations with old times - i'm not fit to stand trial - serotonin sinkhole - still trying to sound poetic - words perky by definition, but some people know better - faint damnation, faintness, low blood pressure - 2% success rate - fifty attempts - lithium, magnesium, sodium, strontium - unable to adjust

but i accomplished something - i downloaded a 13.5 gigabyte torrent of spoken word wikipedia articles - does that give some context? according to his ability... materialism 2014, cause it's always one year ahead, digital- just another girlfriend? no, no such thing - rather, broken strands of razor wire in the hippocampus - the royal bank of canada - slow re-sensitization to emotional pain - reluctance to admit the necessity for a radical solution - or what seems radical when it's only forging some kind of real human relationship that is off the spectrum i've narrowly mandated for myself

marathon dragging of heels, novel wrist pain, half-broken bones out of nowhere - irrelevant as artist - jandek reference - reference, the last word spoken from the crashed coaster - i don't believe in your purity, less isn't more, you could have said more with less cliche

arabesque torture by a beautiful name - lite heaviness - second rate shakespeare - zombie stereo trend - ghetto blaster - i'll always be here for you though, mom and dad and some others, when your need outweighs my chronic slump, if that ever happens - goodnight me

down-regulation

few things are more obnoxious than a mass of people on their way somewhere - and being somewhere stationary in their long wake, so ugly and dusty in every sense, is such a gross place to be, intimate with human traffic, pedestrian, or worse, vehicular - if you have the shit luck of living in such a place, be glad at least you're not on the ground floor with the most dense settling of litter, particulate air, carbon monoxide, and noise pollution, but soundwaves penetrate walls, so i roll out of bed to force foam into my ears - he has a horn and he's on his way somewhere, it's his video game, he's player one, kid fuckin' A - why should he waste his thoughts on anyone else, it's a road, not a home - if he lived here, he'd be home right now, which is why he's pathologically driving - no one had to define skeet for me, the certain je ne sais quoi of this rat trap

jot - seeing the green and staying put anyway - jot - i love it when the kettle sounds human, and incense smoke seems happy to see me - jotting dreams of a software work-camp in labrador city - my own method of organizing files on the company servers to fill up the first day, since i don't know what i'm supposed to be doing, and fighting panic - then creating a personal profile, which could maybe pass for an official task for now anyway, let me squeak through this day - also wanna impress my desk neighbor because she's smart and cute and from the questions she asked me it seems like we're in the same bind, so there's a bond, except it'll quickly emerge i'm on some level that leaves me in the dust, i got here by accident, she's got basic competence at least

remembering this dream opens up a whole commercial plaza full of dream history in that sector, the work-angst dreams, finding myself desperately employed in some old job i barely remember how to do, or thrust into an absurd new one where i don't know what's up, but must seem like i do

it's all gotta be in the soup, it'll do, there's nothing you can do about it, and the tasters can stand it, and fuck twitter, i'm sick of hearing about it - and zing, not the good kind of zing, i wonder how long this synaptic regulatory syndrome will last - it's many kinds of awful, but more kinds of lame, which is the mercury lining of the dendritic tumour duvet - it's not the world, it's me, even if it feels like the world is crushing me from the outside, but i need to know what course it takes, to conquer that fear, so later on, i'll have the benefit of having been around that block so i'll know what to expect when the system collapses to the point where i can't reliably obtain SSRIs

unwill cataplexed slowmo solar blitzkrieg quickee neuron mashup, Dr. Green Forest Road MD, and keep your fuckin mouth shut, turd-whistle, cause you don't know anything, and even if you did, there'd be no point in saying it. Shitheel. That's a thing. Ah. Zingsong. Shiver. Shudder. sleep of sorts

experiments in self-medication or lack thereof

it's getting a bit strange - another k dream last night - maybe i've so ached for the quality of cognitive colour-vision through the most recent months of this twelve-step life-sentence, that i kinda accidentally-on-purpose poked a loophole for trippin' baaawlz - cause all i did was remove a substance, the re-uptake inhibitor, and if it should so happen that its absence feels like the presence of a drug, that's not my fault, i'm just clearing away some chemical junk from the synapses - absence of sertraline is giving me feelings i would've written off as cliches and exaggerations about what supposedly happens to quitters - dare i say, there's deeper feelings? dunno if there's anything realer about them though, are you more correctly oriented to reality when a puppy chow commercial brings you near tears?

but it's eerie when something that's just an emotion also feels like deja-vu instead of anything normal - most of the month has been a simple bad case of dejected defeatist thinking and negative feedback loops, such thorough lameness that it couldn't be induced by anything other than me being unimpressed with everything in a way that's typical - but just lately, as i've dropped to zero mg, there's a broader spectrum of feeling - it's not all negative, just mostly negative - it's not that i feel anything positive, except maybe a hint that there's a sunny land attached to these new bleak vistas somewhere beyond the horizon - but i still worry that's wishful thinking - the thing is, it's so strange to feel anything close to crying, and crying is a little more satisfying than just tired, disappointed, frustrated listlessness

there's also a feeling of sickness, but like withdrawal sickness - which it is, isn't it? it's not that different from coming off a years-long meth binge, i've conditioned my brain to expect nothing but the state of synthetic serotonin regulation - now it's protesting loudly, and making me a little dizzy all the time, and a lot dizzy in spells a few seconds following the slightest movement or physical exertion - and there's a slight underlying nausea that feels somehow emotional as well - it's weird - some of it is inverse placebo / hypochondria, all of it psychosomatic in a literal sense!

seems that last jump from 25mg to 0 is an order of magnitude more difficult than the prior steps, as if just some amount of the medication in my system made a major difference, even if it was a third the normal amount

there's a few things keeping this from becoming a reckless stunt, first that it's starting to get vaguely spring-like in the outside world, so although it seems to me like the most unimpressive spring ever, coincidentally enough, and i can't remember ever being so blase about such a welcome change in weather, it's still making my surroundings a little less bleak, and not exacerbating the inner-gloom - second, the experience is giving me something to write about, it does feel like there's some purpose, beyond writing fodder, in wresting myself from the chemical regime, or at least trying to - naturally, people are reluctant to encourage me in this the way they've encouraged me in quitting other drugs - and i understand, because it's scary when you have no control over or vision into the mind that's meddling with itself, and thus, you worry about what might happen, what valleys of nervous malfunction might lie beyond the slope

really though, i'll just go back on the meds if it seems to be a bad course of action - but i need to be a little further on that course before i'm able to judge - and especially now, as i feel acute withdrawal, it hits home to me how zoloft is another substance that's controlled me, i'll grant in a far more benign way than others have, but not without its own malevolence - the violence with which its tentacles cling to my neurons is indicative of its control freak nature, and it makes me angry that i'm so beholden to it - i paid tribute every month at the pharmacy, dutifully swallowed pills each morning, so punctual, practically institutionalized myself - and it was my idea to get on this stuff, but i can barely remember the episode, it was so long ago, i think i just wanted to check it out, see if i could get a little better living through chemistry in the socially acceptable way - and now the ferocity of my brain's pushback makes me want to get this detox over with in a hurry, white-knuckle it and see what's on the other side - maybe nothing much, but being able to know one way or the other is a compulsion i have, insofar as i have any, which i don't - a function, a tick, a tock, smalltalk, getting smaller as it swells in perverse superfluous verbiage

frustration again, of writing crap, not being able to smooth out the awkward bunches in the sentences - lame landmass once again filling every horizon - good to know, i guess, if i want to feel outside the bounds of that desert, i could just tune into a sentimental dogfood commercial, or garden variety tv drama where i can't help caring about the characters even as i'm cursing the shittiness of the soundtrack, in trying to sound cool and current with a bunch of unnecessary and annoying trends - but what can you expect from me? i don't care for music much anymore, and good christ, how painful it is to pretend to care, or contrive something to say about somebody else's creation out of obligation

cloisters of the mill

i burst open the door of the living room, as i do, in a rapid jerk of getting something done, the simple act of entering a room and closing the door so the heat would stay inside and keep my electrical bills down - i get things done, when i get anything done, in a quick jolt of action, cause the energy is sure to drain at any moment, gotta act quick while i have any impulse at all - the act itself is something close to lame, and always mundane - i re-sorted things, discarded things, transferred other things from utility drawers to the one little drawer of mementos cause there was no lingering utilitarian use for them, barely any keepsake use either - was almost ready to discard this one pile, but next to some unjustifiable excess of nostalgia-tinged junk was a plastic baggie stuffed with little conical native-american "encens" sticks, what i use to call "chlorine cones", cause they had that hard edge to their scent that wasn't bb's cup of tea, but at one point, she'd decided to try a new incense brand, just for a lark, and it had ended up a reject, in one of my drawers - so i sparked it up, which was a novelty, but also an old habit long-passed - and when i burst back into the room from the kitchen while making toast, the gust from the interior door-swing spun the smoke trail that had been lazily pluming sideways into an upright column, sudden vigor, looking like a standing ovation, for me

and sure, cause smoke don't need sarcasm - i'll just let it billow, and tickle my lungs for a while, a mild difference - eyes a little sore, but for a novel reason, the air being a bit thicker, a bit cushier - things to bounce off

eff and def

anger - and why play at passive fragments for some kind of pathetic poetry fodder?

i'm, fucking, angry - at what i don't know - it's one of those nasty spokes in the cycle that's teetering like a drunk's pedaling, canter, third wheel thwacking me upside one of my heads that's in the wrong place again

i want to blame everything on medication, presence or absence, but i don't dare do that and shirk responsibility... but why not, what's it matter? maybe i'm starting to feel feelings that were covered up by pills now reduced to fractional dosages - that scary acronym SSRIs - more likely it's nothing to do with that though, it just is what it is, and i got wrapped up writing a review, but it was dawning on me that something i initially felt driven to write was taking A FUCKING HOUR per paragraph, and that's when i started getting frustrated, and thinking well then, do something else, but wanting instead some kind of vindication for seething through this shit

i dunno - dunno why i'm typing either, a phenotype, dunno why i'm posting, a prototype, dunno why anything, alphabet soup, it's a coincidence, a pornographic mashup as well, the green forest - the green forest - maybe it is lack of meds, there's a certain flavour to this frustration i don't remember ever getting when i had as much as 50mg of that stuff in my system, but it's hard to tell what the mg/kg portions might be at this stage, given response curves and half-lives and rogue metabolisms

maybe i'll not even try to resist succumbing, maybe i'll lie down in anger - even when there's no prospect of falling asleep, just lie angrily on the couch and stare stonily at the ceiling and feel discontent with life the universe and everything, but particularly my own life and myself and all the effort i've gone to, to arrange things in aesthetic orders that were on the wrong track, that were no damn good, and now i'm stuck in these patterns

fucking hate this shit, i do, i fucking hate it - i hate this person - oh wait, maybe i needn't be saying these things so explicitly, cause then, soon after, i might use it as evidence that i'm getting rapidly unhinged from just taking a few less pills, and blow it all out of proportion, and prematurely end the experiment which i started in the first place in hopes that i'd feel better eventually - i'd hoped that in the long run, detaching myself from the yoke of oppressive chemical regimes with their attendant side-chain effects would be a good thing, provided i could get through a period of instability and of maybe having to deal with some emotions off the spectrum i'd gotten acclimatized to - but of course, it wouldn't be that simple, would it? nah

it's so hard to tell normal depression from abnormal depression, medicated malaise from healthy malaise - if it's physical, why can i be led to believe it's my thoughts, when it's my chemistry? how can it be so subtle that it can trick my thoughts into saying there's no biology behind this, that's wishful thinking?! cause maybe it is my thoughts, maybe it's psychological, maybe it's circumstantial - but i'd rather not have to change circumstance, cause circumstances are so stubborn, i've never made much progress changing my life, but i could change chemistry, that's easy, simple intake of this or that, it appeals to me in my laziness and/or tireness or whatever the fuck-ness, my poor me-ness, cause nobody can feel as shitty as i do, and if they do, and they did more anyway, then fuck them and their smug example-setting charade undergone just to point out how lame i am, which i already knew - fuck us both, to use a four letter word, the "eff" word, that may be an acronym about uncarnal knowledge, or might be a bastardized version of a german verb, but is a miserably worn-out word that ought to be buried next to the "def" plot

wow, it's creepy how i was in an okay mood, had some projects on the go, and then all of the sudden, DRAIN, there it goes, and i'm flipped into ruminating about why i hate everything, yours, mine... if it's a physical thing, like the can i kicked down the road as a missed dosage catching up with me, then it's soooo subtle, how it can disguise itself as the normal functional flow of one thought to another, and not be anything so underlying as shift in chemical equilibrium - like, i suppose, for the last, jesus, six years maybe (?!) i've maintained a steady state of sertraline, faithfully dosed in the morning, never more, never less, and why should i act surprised if suddenly, i've only got 1/3 of the serotonin re-absorption blocking molecules on the job? surely that would result in something that would affect outlook on things, messing with the serotonin, cause they say it regulates a myriad of things under the umbrella of what we call "mood", and if my mood was pretty mediocre to begin with, well, what's the big surprise then, when my brain is suddenly allowed to absorb the amount of serotonin it would have normally back into neurologically-neutral effluent, transmitting nothing nowhere? of course my way of thinking's going to be altered a bit, given to what extent my thoughts are shaped, framed, formed from overlaps of chemical states - and as unimpressed as i am with therapies that hinge on minor tweaks to levels of vitamins, minerals, hormones, that will, presumably, perk you up somewhere downstream, that always disappoint me, these synthetic serotonin-boosting molecules are designed for the exact purpose of changing the brain, so of fucking course i'm going to have my thoughts affected and my feelings shaken up when overturning a state of affairs held for years

it doesn't feel like a good kind of shaking up though, it's just depressing that as depressed as i was, i can be even more depressed if i don't take my anti-depressants - the question is though, is this just like a drawn out amphetamine crash? which would be an appalling thing to have to go through, but the point being that there's light at the end of the tunnel, and i could, if i could see the experiment through, and give it long enough to where i could goddamn well gauge anything, arrive at a more healthy place, of contentment that wasn't dependent on meds, which is more of a kind of keeping my brain in a straight-jacket kind of "contentment", not all that pleasant, and there's consequences to being in a straight jacket and stuff and you know... ....
... ... i feel like my writing process is screwed up, i can edit and clarify if i could climb the mountain of doing that, but the energy required is monumental and i refuse - my head aches and it's clumped up and cluttered with junk, i'm in a haze that's sharp in certain corners that jab into me, bloody me then disappear in swelling tumours before i can locate their edges to sheath - yeah, something like that...

don't wanna make too much of this though, it's probably noise, not signal, and i'm just being verbose because i have no life, haha ha ah   ha    yeah, well

alphazetalick

erotypalcuntours, whoopdeefuckinduplicate, smooouth superposition, stylized abstraction, lowercase teardrop, beta-kappa filtered - fine detail failure

mmm, ahh, mmm, yeah, aohmhaoomh! testify! the backup crew -aoxomoxoa, ummagumma- casket cackle, caint help m'self, the funeral was taking i'self so serious, lol ~plenty o' follicles presenting females with synthetic pheromones, looking to sacrifice everything for a good moment ~even though i was so skeptical of the baggie that looked nearly empty, i saw it was a strange form of the substance, looked like epsom salts in large-ish pellets, most of them transparent, and they turned out to be good kootenay crystals, tasted just like keta in my nose, imported to all the way over here in this eastern land-patch, and sold to me at a decent price! stashed, hacked, railed in frantic undercover bursts, windows of opportunity, but the sneaking drama of increasingly small intervals of having done the increasingly oft-needed job made the whole endeavor so briefly joyous while increasing the feeling of being so axled up to the wheel i thought i'd rolled off of~

i like this poem, and this one too, five stars - what a fuggin file of synonyms for fuck - all this art people profess to like, profuse liking as the crest of hard-fought energy arcs, every orifice bleeding, sad lotta colleagues i'm cut off from anyway, blah - finesse of unfitness, ephemeral survival

okay, how about something positive, to balance out all the negative? i dunno, i'm comin up dry, but i'll say, as an insight, if i admit defeat, in my inability to will myself out of a hole, then maybe i need to ask for help - but fuck that, i don't wanna, cause my problems are petty, here's a how-dee-do

hobbit hd

and no, it's not high definition, just median grain digital concave, custom skin map, a choice only i would make (the only choice i made) in an era stacked with potential, a mumble of individuality and consequent harddrive flickers, fleetloop shortcircuits so no, not high definition, not that kind of aitch-dee, rather memory-storage, randomly-accessed - but it's not a hollow drive, it swells, it's swell, the only thing that's well, so draw from the drive, might as well, groundwater bitstock, drygoods, bichromal code from this or that, instagram filter /sarcasm

posting links to things i like, as if i'm so gleeful about them i can't keep them to myself, gives the appearance of pep - betrays for a brief moment i did "like" something in an eff-bee way, and if you string fifty likes it could almost make a mardi-gras necklace that distracts from the fact it's weeks out of date, a hangover immune to healthy choices

what a strange feeling, like i'd literally shrunk - surely this fence wasn't always this high, or am i really that short? not just the normal short, but did i shrink? are these lilliputian hallucinations? they've got a negative slant, but it's still vaguely fun to feel any hint of altered perception, for no particular reason - feeling ridiculous out for a "run", for no real reason, other than, i guess i should do something like that, after being inside for so long... running, it's supposed to be good for me, i guess, as if there's any general rules for health, but i also can't say that any convention flouting i'm doing is doing me any good either, there's still the gut-rot and only noise, no body sense i can tune into as an alien homing beacon pointing me back to that extra-solar world, so...

go for a run, then, and walk back disappointed there's no runner's high, what's so subpar about me i don't get rewarded for running? and feel worse, if anything, after the running of the human, and wonder about sadness to where it becomes so abstract i'm not sure what i'm wondering about anymore, so subtle in a macro-philosophical sense where all ninety-nine atlas pages of my awareness occupy the tiny tip of a cold iceberg that cares nothing for the chip i comprehend, and then sadness in the concrete, the so-concrete-it's-scary how chemical structures prefigure my oh-so-important emotions, and what i think are thoughts are the shapes of molecules locking into larger polymers or more likely shearing off the vaunted keyholes by blunt mechanics of misfit dynamics still too fine for me to get a handle on as they happen between picoseconds

but i feel a little more normal size when i reach my staircase and normaler still when i'm back in my hobbit hd, so now what, back to a wiki-hole? then stutter to sleep at a time i didn't plan on

expression is so neat and tidy now, so much so that i write nothing for not knowing what's apropos to write in this place or that, except when i do this - there's always this, at least, when social media fails my contemporary oughts wants - who cares what you write anymore? not anyone in'm'circle, returns have diminished  but what d'you expect? it's just the way the curve parabolas like a poorly-thrown boomerang, still expecting responses from years-old paradigms, the world's moved on, it doesn't work like it did in 2004, or even 2008, which had its own grandeur - maybe some people younger than my spirit are hitting their own grandeur years in a phase-transition i can appreciate, still running a deficit - as

i self-consciously research david foster wallace, a wiki hole, articles, the guy named david pope who should be a household name cause he made nine million and counting selling real estate on the moon, for real - but there's too many amazing amazing just amazing stories to pay attention to them all or even any of them, i guess i'm bore-able, might resort to electro-convulsive therapy and then the resistant to-treatment crater, cliff preposition

as depressed as i sound in a reverb chamber, i'm sometimes amused with how concentrated it can get, the stack of lament under compression, wavehammered feedback from first principles, like line noise amplifies via itself, itSELF to a crushing extreme, meanwhile, hidden faces in spectrograph glyphs for gearheads

so much depends

on this voice i can't figure out, but refuse to refine, so, digital whine, drink til yer blind, abstain and edge toward death by consumption anyway from eating void - peak void - must have reached it, can't possibly continue to use that word - no fun, but still alive & sloplit

i AM them, then?

a sheet! it's a sheet! i need to be in school more, so, like, this, kinda, you know? yeah, you ought to, anyway - sheetform - befoul exams - blast an airhorn when you stub a toe!

i've been more direly in need of a pen shield in the past - much more direly in need of a pen shield than this - this is nothing - just mat telling his stories again. we are now on the mateau, the edge is nowhere in sight - fucking mat stories, gawd... am i ever sick of Mr. Offshore's fucking stories, or should i say, the one hypertext article that never ever ends and if you like to hear my pencil scratch pen shield, you're in luck, writing at you, you fuck.... today is a day that requires a lot of venting, and shields - oh bully for him, he gave up OTHER DRUGS on his OWN, and man, i know, i'm being rude, but fuck, today is a bad day, i was gonna name it after either robert frost or the other american poet who was a dick publicly to robert frost, walt whitman? t.s. eliot? can't remember who was who... i'm sure he doesn't mind a bit, he's blissfully unaware in his self-absorbed mat g bubble, his smug matitude, petting his platitudes... oh fuck, that's gotta be a bit over the line, but everybody's richer than me, and i'm a loser, i LOST, so... fuck you, and yours, and y'all, i'll use what little leverage i have and not stymie myself arbitrarily from self-imposed standards and thus, play my own fucking games and see how many graphs (!) i can write before he fuckeeng stops talking! fock!

and now for... whatever – and just to prove it isn't personal, i'll write during your share too – even tho you don't annoy the living fuck out of me at all – I think my head's fucked toooday ÷ tooonight = ~ oh jesus. You all just get such a giddy newfie kick outa rosie and her favourite topic, the importance of meetings ha ha ha ha ha ha!

holy god, this whole time i shouldabin ink scratchin-
the frustration of having to hear...
the mumbler
the frustration of having to hear...
the ULTRA ENUNCIATOR
WTF is with me? why is everything annoying? cause i'm a defective aberration - there's no winning this game - ADHD 2013 - the real new strain, so good at its job - ADHD without the H - just fuzz and space and hyperdefecits

SLEAZEart cutesy courtesy at this squeaky place of lots of sleaze. Rococaline keylime Geodon: It doesn't make you sleep. Terrible people - synesthetic fusion, jamband recovery, hambone protein, sheet-routine disruptor: a rolling neuroburn of body twists and stretches, skin, abdominal tattoos, tramp stamps, neck ink, freckle clusters, foie gras frontal lobes --- in my defense:

i imagine that i AM them - what does that mean, then,
to WANT want WANT someone
for yourself?
well, to a sick solipsist like the universe...

it's a cheque you can cash, ms body piercings, suffered for my sins to best perpetuate the cycle

50mg melancholy

Don't judge me. It's my nature to do that. Don't judge me for judging you. It's my nature to do THAT. Judge not lest ye be judged. Judge not and be judged anyway. Judge and also escape judgment.

What does it mean when I'm not impressed? With much of anything? Even though I know it's all miraculous, from the big bang to this little niche of the universe, objectively a miracle, a nothing-something transformation. But it's painful to even hear about anyone's success, even someone I don't know. Maybe it means I don't do so well on antidepressants, but markedly worse after reducing the dose.

It's hard to find words for this new even flatter plane and how it's painful to describe mundane things and how shrink wrapped routines have turned out to be the lesser evil and a leaking serotonin bucket is a subtle but physical ache. Those sly emotions, the overlapping outcrops of the body's chemical tides. Biding my time, actually wasting it, until tragedy shakes me out of the static malaise... No tragedy yet, only mundane half-medicated fifty milligram melancholy.

point

in general, my words aren't generous
when i write, it's to complain
i tend not to share happiness, in text
though, i figure if i felt it more, i'd share it more, too
but who can tell what, where, when there's
so much synthetic in the substratum
and happiness is now a subset of economic theory

? meaning means less than ever
and okay, death

generally

waiting for the stomach to settle

eating isn't healthy
wears out the tubes
life is killing me

and i'll drag everyone down
and i know how i sound
as well

habits formed in the meta-game, meta-stable malignancy
it'll be hard to dislodge what's congealed
this absurdity might continue for an absurdly long time
past what you'd think would be sustainable


waiting for a settled stomach, or some spoof of that
so i can swallow one of a series of pills, take an extra traz
to just embrace sleep with an extra wide stretch of the arms - and not bother with another statement on extra glut - but, see cloudy punctuation and gauzy syntax swirl - and sound like half a self - and shrink from things - with or without corrosive intoxicants, my world gets smaller and smaller, like people shrink in old age, whether that be mental or physical or an acute dilation of this too shall pass - cracked-out lyrics, don't say that word, cause i failed to write the libretto on the subject that would have conquered several worlds - fuck it - fuck that, fuck them, fuck y'all



gluroakrle - won't dignify with an apostrophe - behold the unwritten, unsent email response - decomposed in the mind - phosphate in fertilizer - gotta mean something - sulfide solution - shrink wrap tear

it's harder and harder and harder to assemble any meaning to this process of pushing food through tubes - so congratulations, void, you won my heart and mind


resounding stomach
pet name for a pill, so cute
and tree frogs, and kittycats, also cute
and despite being the most slapdash avatar for dionysis yet, he still spoke the truth when he said
"love hides in the strangest places", i don't deny that
so, it's not all lost, just so fucked up the system's crying for a hard reset
which will probably not happen within the time it takes my tubes to wear out to an unsupportable toxic chemical dump in a bag of human flesh, but it will happen at some point, no thanks to me
being part of the problem, and useless except as a lamentation artist
with a leviticus postscript
the earth's museum
and one thing and another like that

just noticed, when about to make a poetic update, that everything deemed worthy to be on my newsfeed has a big annoying photo - that's what the network wants to see, no leatherbound, non-illustrated heap of text, not fit to print - that's why i'll post here and not there, conventions are starting to crystallize in shards that poke me aggressively into shrinking postures of propriety, so fuck facebook and crack metaphors and social chores

we'll all end up in the same sewer pipe everything's swirling into anyway, it's not like i'm significantly better or worse, my delusions of grandeur and over-corrections with shame shindigs are predictable pentacyclic permutations, something very similar to something i would say

i love global hotkeys

hotkey love, encompassing love of power

glakatu shekwek

glakuh, glakuhtaurus checkhak

they thsould call you thsqueek *i used a th and an s, thso iths only a half listhp, not a full listhp, the bethst of both worldths, yayah, put that in your panel*

emergency medical transcription is a game, a theory, and a hallucination - the past is history, but it's not even past, and the future's a mystery but it's bearing down on me - or actually, not really, it's not even a mystery, it takes forever, tomorrow and today are so blurred together in a monotonous slur, but at the moment, i'm grinding on energy cause it's so manifested for a lil lolitalic interval and i refuse to think of fleetingness

oh thsqueek, i just wanted to say oh to somebody, yo
reprusen'