it's here again, the super low, the sub high
not even a fucking word - so fuck it then, fuck everything
this useless fucking blog, these useless fucking words, these useless fucking people - there's no good way to say it, it's nothing but a verbal suicide - not even this, not even that, not even death and pain - god fucking damnit, fuck - just leave me alone then, i wasn't even the one reaching out - it's the last straw, and all that - just gonna be a sick ramble
it's not even my face, it's not even my body though that doesn't help, the fatal flaw is the most personal part of me, it's the thing i care the most about if i can't care about a person, the only power i ever feel, expression in pretty patterns of words and tones - it's sick, i just want to immanentize the sickness, let it take whatever final form it's plaguing towards, be that forever, finally and forever out of the nightmare of history, unstuck from ugly time
form the quarantine, a wall of eff words - fuck off, fuck on, but no fucking, no using, no mutual, no nothing - let X be Y, let it be ugly, the only thing left is an eternal season in post-human paradise that looks so hellish, but you can't see, you won't see, no one will see, no entelechy, no body, no source, gone off the grid, fishing for electrolytes and endorphins
i wish i could get payback by tricking people, disappointing, letting down enough to equal the endless chain links of let down i've had to feel as payment for trying to improve things for myself - the sick joke is there's no improvement, there's only pitiful devolution as evidenced by these fucking words that aren't doing me any favors, but fuck favors, i'm becoming one with the tumour of my rancid personality, giving way to sounding like a silly fucking edge lord, let it be whatever it is
time to be guarded with a fuck-off arsenal, cultivate an apathy that will one day be genuine, operate from earned paranoia, some said they like the cynicism but it isn't for you, or anyone, not to be used by anyone else
it's so fucking ugly when i write, driven by emotion like this, it's so much better when i'm detached, but i don't care anymore, not gonna contrive any distance, just gonna report from the ugly epicenter of depression
3/31/19
3/27/19
3/24/19
3/17/19
Don't be an ass
I berate myself in that voice, the rough authoritarian self-despiser: Don't be an ass [by which I mean, a silly-ass jackass like somebody on the TV show of the same name] and play the game of trying to meet someone. It's a game that some playas will freak at you for calling a game. Game?! One of them berated me because it was enjoyable to express rage at a bad week by making me a punching bag, sure told me off right good, and if I care that you care then it's your victory, a suicide troll, a deep game. I'm supposed to take you seriously? In all this noise? You ain't signal bitch, fuck outa here with that sheeeyit. Fuck all y'all.
That game isn't the whole world, I'm mercifully distracted for a minute by watching my friend's kids find a metal chest with their magnesis ability in the river of the Hyrule forest. I'm watching them play Zelda, eyeing the little yamaha keyboard. I wanna play music, participate in some way, but I'm paranoid, with a flush palette bloating out against the corneas. I'm not entirely free of the fear of dizzy spells, not quite feeling back to active yet, still pacified, fried. Almonds. Pax Canadiana. It's hard to do fragments. But some people do well with that. Hats off to all y'all. Not fuck all y'all, tapada marnin tooya! Tula lula rula!
Nobody wants me lucky charms! I say no body instead of no one, cause "one" sounds like a free-floating intellect, disembodied, sterile, omnipotent in cerebral realms I can't navigate but impotent in flesh - and "body" emphasizes the corporeal warm-blooded source of energy I feel so empty of, free from. I don't want that kind of freedom, want a bond instead, deep desire for the prison of devotion that is a bond to a body with a mind, a package to love, some body to love, like Freddie sang of, the feeling from which great songs are born, with hackneyed lyrics but rhapsodic voice.
There's a theoretical object of theoretical love, impersonal, because I don't want to describe how personal it gets sometimes in this mind o' mine, constrained online, in the infinitesimally niche way I'm online. It's still mostly empty, the substance is like a proton in a mega-parsec sized cube of vacuum. It's a cube, not a sphere, cause I'm Aristotlean, not Platonic, I don't do spheres, cubes are convenient for this right-angled human-brain, I like to visualize it as a room of space, with the surface that is the "floor", a direction, orienting, which might be arbitrary from the perspective of a proton, or the being looking in at it from the outside. I'm not platonic, I'm not fiending for some abstract ideal, I want something real.
Coming back to "don't be an ass!", the voice is sheriff droogan, dragon, drogan, whatever it is, once chief of the Santa Monica PD, now kind of a big deal in Randall Flagg's America. He's scolding the "Rat Man" for impulsively pumping his shotgun and pointing it at the prisoners in the prison truck as it drives through the psycho mob toward the dismemberment machines in the New Vegas town square. "Don't be an ass!" Dragen growls with a withering contempt so potent it could describe my exasperation at myself for trying, once again, to find love, and the latest petty setback that scatters the small heap of self worth I've miraculously salvaged once again, ephemeral salvage washed away, as before, rinse and repeat. Self pity. Cop to that, cause the man who despises himself still respects himself as he who despises. Such romantic metaphors, to me they are, which is all that matters, to me, such purple prose for what purpose? Purple-vein dick jokes, really. No dagger in my heart, just a catheter in my cock, blocked.
Don't be an ass, Drogan says, and don't you dare kill the prisoners for being smart asses for God, before Flagg has MC'd their public torture and execution. You'd be like that guy who was supposed to shoot the judge, but for fuck's sake preserve the head so it can be recognized when it's air dropped over the God Squad in Boulder. And he couldn't even do that. So at least get this show right, don't fuck it up for Drogan. Torture and executing kinda blend together when some body is being drawn and quartered. Farmer John's gonna think about his mother as he's going out in the most horrific way one can imagine.
When I'm not an ass I get shit done, dunno now if it's worth doing. When values are up for grabs, it gets to be a pretty freaky eigenstate. The Eigenstate is the freeway that connects to hidden variables all over the multiverse, possibilities and timelines, fractal fractures, infinitely progressing possibilities in logarithmically increasing smallness of gradation. Things are different than ten years ago, I feel sheepish now talking like that and using such words, when I used to take myself more seriously. Gotta put the sarcastic tag on it now like an FDA label. May contain nuts known to the state of California to cause paranoia, and delusion. But, entertaining delusion, monetizable possibly if you only lean a little bit on the multiverse, the slimmest bit is a good bet, monetize delusion to stay in purchasing power for musical doohickeys. A Whoopi Goldberg contraption.
That game isn't the whole world, I'm mercifully distracted for a minute by watching my friend's kids find a metal chest with their magnesis ability in the river of the Hyrule forest. I'm watching them play Zelda, eyeing the little yamaha keyboard. I wanna play music, participate in some way, but I'm paranoid, with a flush palette bloating out against the corneas. I'm not entirely free of the fear of dizzy spells, not quite feeling back to active yet, still pacified, fried. Almonds. Pax Canadiana. It's hard to do fragments. But some people do well with that. Hats off to all y'all. Not fuck all y'all, tapada marnin tooya! Tula lula rula!
Nobody wants me lucky charms! I say no body instead of no one, cause "one" sounds like a free-floating intellect, disembodied, sterile, omnipotent in cerebral realms I can't navigate but impotent in flesh - and "body" emphasizes the corporeal warm-blooded source of energy I feel so empty of, free from. I don't want that kind of freedom, want a bond instead, deep desire for the prison of devotion that is a bond to a body with a mind, a package to love, some body to love, like Freddie sang of, the feeling from which great songs are born, with hackneyed lyrics but rhapsodic voice.
There's a theoretical object of theoretical love, impersonal, because I don't want to describe how personal it gets sometimes in this mind o' mine, constrained online, in the infinitesimally niche way I'm online. It's still mostly empty, the substance is like a proton in a mega-parsec sized cube of vacuum. It's a cube, not a sphere, cause I'm Aristotlean, not Platonic, I don't do spheres, cubes are convenient for this right-angled human-brain, I like to visualize it as a room of space, with the surface that is the "floor", a direction, orienting, which might be arbitrary from the perspective of a proton, or the being looking in at it from the outside. I'm not platonic, I'm not fiending for some abstract ideal, I want something real.
Coming back to "don't be an ass!", the voice is sheriff droogan, dragon, drogan, whatever it is, once chief of the Santa Monica PD, now kind of a big deal in Randall Flagg's America. He's scolding the "Rat Man" for impulsively pumping his shotgun and pointing it at the prisoners in the prison truck as it drives through the psycho mob toward the dismemberment machines in the New Vegas town square. "Don't be an ass!" Dragen growls with a withering contempt so potent it could describe my exasperation at myself for trying, once again, to find love, and the latest petty setback that scatters the small heap of self worth I've miraculously salvaged once again, ephemeral salvage washed away, as before, rinse and repeat. Self pity. Cop to that, cause the man who despises himself still respects himself as he who despises. Such romantic metaphors, to me they are, which is all that matters, to me, such purple prose for what purpose? Purple-vein dick jokes, really. No dagger in my heart, just a catheter in my cock, blocked.
Don't be an ass, Drogan says, and don't you dare kill the prisoners for being smart asses for God, before Flagg has MC'd their public torture and execution. You'd be like that guy who was supposed to shoot the judge, but for fuck's sake preserve the head so it can be recognized when it's air dropped over the God Squad in Boulder. And he couldn't even do that. So at least get this show right, don't fuck it up for Drogan. Torture and executing kinda blend together when some body is being drawn and quartered. Farmer John's gonna think about his mother as he's going out in the most horrific way one can imagine.
When I'm not an ass I get shit done, dunno now if it's worth doing. When values are up for grabs, it gets to be a pretty freaky eigenstate. The Eigenstate is the freeway that connects to hidden variables all over the multiverse, possibilities and timelines, fractal fractures, infinitely progressing possibilities in logarithmically increasing smallness of gradation. Things are different than ten years ago, I feel sheepish now talking like that and using such words, when I used to take myself more seriously. Gotta put the sarcastic tag on it now like an FDA label. May contain nuts known to the state of California to cause paranoia, and delusion. But, entertaining delusion, monetizable possibly if you only lean a little bit on the multiverse, the slimmest bit is a good bet, monetize delusion to stay in purchasing power for musical doohickeys. A Whoopi Goldberg contraption.
3/15/19
it's not fan fiction exactly
The alien cock-rocked into the space bar. He walked with a strut. The strut carried confidence, but a confidence that was not like a performance, no false bravado. Although, in fact, it was a performance, but a professional one. There was no actual bravado, just a competent actor walking in a way he was directed to [with a little spin of his own in that protruding chest] and delivering lines as intended.
The alien caulked the wagon and floated to the side of the bar that the more humanoid alien sat in, as an actor would sit, not looking like she was an actor trying to sit, but just a more humanoid alien sitting at a table, looking at her space pad that kind of looked like an iphone. She would sit like that.
"Hey," he said, cock-rocking the line, giggity, swiggity sweet, noice, four twenty, sixty nine, that's what she said. Actually, she said "hey" back, as you do when someone says hey to you. Not sure what to add, she asked: "Can I... help you?"
"I'm Jon," he announced, holding his hands out ever so slightly, viola! His voice suggested a winkey-face emoticon, the actor's own choice. The director was fine with the choice if he'd been aware at all. Jon's actual face was not winking, but there was a grin there as impervious to disappointment as could be. Or a better simile would be much the same as if his grin was as impervious to disappointment as a titanium-hulled spacecraft was to solar radiation. After announcing that he was Jon, he even shook his head a little, as if he could barely believe the good fortune he enjoyed in being Jon. He then pointed his lichen-speckled finger to the girl at the table and said: "You're Elise," with the same controlled giddiness.
"I know," Elise said with sarcastic cheer, annoyed at this alien's act, as if the significance of him being Jon and her being Elise was self-evident. What was the joke here? Then it hit her. The bulbous alien head had thrown her off, but of course, duh, this was the thing Bortis was trying to fix her up with. Not thing, person, she scolded herself. Right? Is "person" the right term? I think that's appropriate right? A pang of shame at failing to conceive of the mystery person being Jon. But she wasn't racist, just getting used to the ship. Clearly the level of cosmopolitanism here was too much for her to handle gracefully at all times in her first year. And as if this scene was some corny metaphor for racism anyway, that was so early twenty-first century. There were more important things to be symbolizing these days. But wow, Jon's head, it looked larger than ever and so perfectly spherical it seemed to defy the laws of physics, even given the ship's inertial dampers operated at three percent during this shift.
Jon recognized her recognition, still impervious to disappointment at her disappointment, this was to be expected, he'd barely gotten started. "Can I sit down?" "Sure."
Elise thought she'd done an admirable correction from sarcastic smile to panicked smile which was the most neutral look she could manage at the moment. It's not a terribly subtle facial transition, but still, not something any community theater hack could pull off. Jon swiveled downward to perform the smoothest chair-mount seen in that space bar for its whole three-year operation and locked eyes with Elise.
"He thinks we'd be a good match. I wonder what kinds of things we have in common." Jon's voice was steady as she goes. Bortis had told him Elise was desperate for a date in that blunt way of his, almost animalistic, but his species was like that. Jon enjoyed his own disapproval of such a crude statement from Bortis, and glowed over his intent to never let on that he knew anything like this. As far as he knew, she was as hard to get as any of those old officers who could afford the youth-preservation tech, when in reality this would be easy, but haha, she had no idea how hot she really was! Poor babe, lacking confidence, no concept of her power, was her whole homeworld like this? Cause if so... But he would give her power back to her, he was noble that way, noblese oblige Elise. And now she was brushing that shoulder length tuft of black hair behind her pointy ears, so cute, with that voice saying "ohmigosh", so nervous, don't worry babe, I'm harmless. Mostly.
"Well, um. We, uh, obviously both know Bortis." Elise was reasonably happy with the line, there was enough of an edge in it, but she saw no sign it had penetrated Jon, which meant at some point she was going to have to drop the passive and go straight aggressive. But shit, if this was a metaphor for racism, she would have to step carefully. Jon strained her panicked smile even more by bellowing laughter. "Bortis, yeah. Well, there's one thing in common," he said, "So, wanna get a drink sometime?"
Jon was surprised at how well he'd performed, no real anxiety even. Maybe too quickly to the drink part, but why waste time? And she was probably grateful for that too, no games necessary.
At this point, Elise's panicked smile was a grimace and her superciliary arches darkened her face and she knew those extra bones would either excite the Jon thing, or disgust him, she wasn't sure. "Look", she said through gritted teeth.
Jon figured Elise had to complete some gauntlet of the mind before facing her fear of connection, poor thing. "Jon, I'll be honest with you."
Now she was meeting his eyes, and it was suddenly all the harder, because she saw somehow that although his confidence hadn't been permeated yet, it could be. That massive mushroom head was soft inside, like a mushroom. But maybe it wouldn't be, maybe she could be honest, and he'd be cool, and this fuckup of a fixup could be forgotten before her third drink. "I'm not so... great, at the whole dating thing." Okay, honest-ish, but really mostly deflection, so, just, rip the band-aid off: "And I don't think we're as good a match as Bortis thinks we are." The last words sank into bassy vocal-fry. But it'll be cool, right? That toad-headed thing [oh god, what a horrible thought], he wouldn't take it personally cause he's not exactly a person, I mean he has a personality, he's got all the rights and respect you have to grant another intelligent being, but they couldn't possibly process rejection the same way, or maybe he wouldn't even see it as rejection? I mean, the guy's got six nostrils, he's gotta get that it's just not gonna work with me when I'm way more humanoid, human being the gold standard on this union ship for whatever that's worth. As good of a match, that could mean a lot of things, so just leave it vague.
"Well, I guess you never know until you try," Jon said, surprising himself with the steadiness. But he was falling off a cliff. Amazing how well he could hide that, what a useless skill. It was a sick joke that he would try an invitation to her to try. She stammered, "yeah, eyuh-yeah, but-"
"It's my big ol' stupid dumb head, isn't it?" He said, shattering at last, and it was out, robbing him even of his own consolation in being aloof. "No!" she said, absurdly. This was going to be even more painful, he'd end up having to pretend to accept some bullshit excuse, he'd never get the brutal truth that he didn't really want but sensed was needed so badly. The spots on his head burned and glowed. "It has nothing to do with that, it's- " And she stammered some more. At least let's hurry past the bullshit to the mission failed screen.
"You don't have to be nice," Jon said, glaring at the table. "My species has a hard time meeting people outside our home planet. We're just not... super appealing I guess. But sometimes... a person can be special on the inside." The actor playing Jon took a beat to shift his gaze artfully from dejected to poignant, and met the eyes of Elise, now really looking at him. The actor thought he knew how to play the scene, but it was a tricky balance - that "special on the inside" line was almost surely a typical Seth McFarland satirical sitcom-gets-serious reference, but he was interpreting just a dash of sincerity, that kind of thing where irony becomes actual for a microsecond and allows itself to become even deeper irony immediately after, all the better in this Star Trek The Next Generation meets Family Guy mashup. "And if you don't look under the surface, you could miss something great." The actor even felt something there, like he'd phased into Jon for just a second. But Jon wouldn't actually be this cornball would he?
The actor playing Jon enjoyed the actor playing Elise's expression change from awkward to reflective, particularly because he saw it was clearly amateurish acting compared to his, even though he was the bit-player. But all the same he felt her feel something.
"Miss something great. And possibly be single for the rest of my life," Elise said because she was reflecting, and not protecting the secret of her very real problems with men, beyond the standard shallowness that she figured everyone had, whether they'd admit it or not.
"Or at least for Bortis's pee ceremony," said the actor playing Jon, merging into the character because it was something he could imagine himself saying, like at the table read, he could have been the one responsible for that little punch-up, but they never used his suggestions. It was legit wit. Besides which, she seemed to be taking him seriously, like of course she knew how corny it sounded but hey, sometimes simple things are profound if you let them reverberate.
But Elise, she told herself, you know where this will end up. It'll end up that yes, he's actually not just a code-monkey but a brilliant, sensitive, sophisticated being of taste with a good sense of humour, and many other wonderful things that tick all the personality boxes and some boxes you never knew you had [giggity]. But in the end, there'd be that giant head, and she just knew she'd never get used to it. And she just wouldn't have the strength to power through a real partnership with the reality of this weird alien, this weird, nice alien with the green and yellow head which glowed when his thoughts were racing, which really fucking creeped her out, even though it was cool, and beautiful in its own way, and beloved by the science types so why can't he fuck one of them? Oh wait, she was a science type, right. But still.
But she could try. She could at least go with Jon to the pee ceremony, in fact, she'd come off as far more tolerant than she really was if she was seen with Jon, she'd be noticed by the officers, she'd score brownie points with the military brass, a merit badge for diversity, and all she'd really pay for that with is a reasonably good time, soon degrading into awkwardness and disgust and eventually reinforcing her own provincialism and superficiality in romance but fuck it, they could make very special episodes about angelic women hooking up with deformed kids who are cello prodigies, and never show the actual sex scenes, cause, woah, no thank you, we'll just pretend to have imagined it - and that whole nasty last ninety percent of it could run its course in a few months, tops.
"No, I don't mean what's inside, like my soul or anything," Jon said. "I do have an awesome soul, don't get me wrong, but I mean, I've got something special underneath, and no, I'm not talking about my wang [giggity], I mean, literally underneath, see these weird green spots on my face? They come right off, they're just makeup."
The alien caulked the wagon and floated to the side of the bar that the more humanoid alien sat in, as an actor would sit, not looking like she was an actor trying to sit, but just a more humanoid alien sitting at a table, looking at her space pad that kind of looked like an iphone. She would sit like that.
"Hey," he said, cock-rocking the line, giggity, swiggity sweet, noice, four twenty, sixty nine, that's what she said. Actually, she said "hey" back, as you do when someone says hey to you. Not sure what to add, she asked: "Can I... help you?"
"I'm Jon," he announced, holding his hands out ever so slightly, viola! His voice suggested a winkey-face emoticon, the actor's own choice. The director was fine with the choice if he'd been aware at all. Jon's actual face was not winking, but there was a grin there as impervious to disappointment as could be. Or a better simile would be much the same as if his grin was as impervious to disappointment as a titanium-hulled spacecraft was to solar radiation. After announcing that he was Jon, he even shook his head a little, as if he could barely believe the good fortune he enjoyed in being Jon. He then pointed his lichen-speckled finger to the girl at the table and said: "You're Elise," with the same controlled giddiness.
"I know," Elise said with sarcastic cheer, annoyed at this alien's act, as if the significance of him being Jon and her being Elise was self-evident. What was the joke here? Then it hit her. The bulbous alien head had thrown her off, but of course, duh, this was the thing Bortis was trying to fix her up with. Not thing, person, she scolded herself. Right? Is "person" the right term? I think that's appropriate right? A pang of shame at failing to conceive of the mystery person being Jon. But she wasn't racist, just getting used to the ship. Clearly the level of cosmopolitanism here was too much for her to handle gracefully at all times in her first year. And as if this scene was some corny metaphor for racism anyway, that was so early twenty-first century. There were more important things to be symbolizing these days. But wow, Jon's head, it looked larger than ever and so perfectly spherical it seemed to defy the laws of physics, even given the ship's inertial dampers operated at three percent during this shift.
Jon recognized her recognition, still impervious to disappointment at her disappointment, this was to be expected, he'd barely gotten started. "Can I sit down?" "Sure."
Elise thought she'd done an admirable correction from sarcastic smile to panicked smile which was the most neutral look she could manage at the moment. It's not a terribly subtle facial transition, but still, not something any community theater hack could pull off. Jon swiveled downward to perform the smoothest chair-mount seen in that space bar for its whole three-year operation and locked eyes with Elise.
"He thinks we'd be a good match. I wonder what kinds of things we have in common." Jon's voice was steady as she goes. Bortis had told him Elise was desperate for a date in that blunt way of his, almost animalistic, but his species was like that. Jon enjoyed his own disapproval of such a crude statement from Bortis, and glowed over his intent to never let on that he knew anything like this. As far as he knew, she was as hard to get as any of those old officers who could afford the youth-preservation tech, when in reality this would be easy, but haha, she had no idea how hot she really was! Poor babe, lacking confidence, no concept of her power, was her whole homeworld like this? Cause if so... But he would give her power back to her, he was noble that way, noblese oblige Elise. And now she was brushing that shoulder length tuft of black hair behind her pointy ears, so cute, with that voice saying "ohmigosh", so nervous, don't worry babe, I'm harmless. Mostly.
"Well, um. We, uh, obviously both know Bortis." Elise was reasonably happy with the line, there was enough of an edge in it, but she saw no sign it had penetrated Jon, which meant at some point she was going to have to drop the passive and go straight aggressive. But shit, if this was a metaphor for racism, she would have to step carefully. Jon strained her panicked smile even more by bellowing laughter. "Bortis, yeah. Well, there's one thing in common," he said, "So, wanna get a drink sometime?"
Jon was surprised at how well he'd performed, no real anxiety even. Maybe too quickly to the drink part, but why waste time? And she was probably grateful for that too, no games necessary.
At this point, Elise's panicked smile was a grimace and her superciliary arches darkened her face and she knew those extra bones would either excite the Jon thing, or disgust him, she wasn't sure. "Look", she said through gritted teeth.
Jon figured Elise had to complete some gauntlet of the mind before facing her fear of connection, poor thing. "Jon, I'll be honest with you."
Now she was meeting his eyes, and it was suddenly all the harder, because she saw somehow that although his confidence hadn't been permeated yet, it could be. That massive mushroom head was soft inside, like a mushroom. But maybe it wouldn't be, maybe she could be honest, and he'd be cool, and this fuckup of a fixup could be forgotten before her third drink. "I'm not so... great, at the whole dating thing." Okay, honest-ish, but really mostly deflection, so, just, rip the band-aid off: "And I don't think we're as good a match as Bortis thinks we are." The last words sank into bassy vocal-fry. But it'll be cool, right? That toad-headed thing [oh god, what a horrible thought], he wouldn't take it personally cause he's not exactly a person, I mean he has a personality, he's got all the rights and respect you have to grant another intelligent being, but they couldn't possibly process rejection the same way, or maybe he wouldn't even see it as rejection? I mean, the guy's got six nostrils, he's gotta get that it's just not gonna work with me when I'm way more humanoid, human being the gold standard on this union ship for whatever that's worth. As good of a match, that could mean a lot of things, so just leave it vague.
"Well, I guess you never know until you try," Jon said, surprising himself with the steadiness. But he was falling off a cliff. Amazing how well he could hide that, what a useless skill. It was a sick joke that he would try an invitation to her to try. She stammered, "yeah, eyuh-yeah, but-"
"It's my big ol' stupid dumb head, isn't it?" He said, shattering at last, and it was out, robbing him even of his own consolation in being aloof. "No!" she said, absurdly. This was going to be even more painful, he'd end up having to pretend to accept some bullshit excuse, he'd never get the brutal truth that he didn't really want but sensed was needed so badly. The spots on his head burned and glowed. "It has nothing to do with that, it's- " And she stammered some more. At least let's hurry past the bullshit to the mission failed screen.
"You don't have to be nice," Jon said, glaring at the table. "My species has a hard time meeting people outside our home planet. We're just not... super appealing I guess. But sometimes... a person can be special on the inside." The actor playing Jon took a beat to shift his gaze artfully from dejected to poignant, and met the eyes of Elise, now really looking at him. The actor thought he knew how to play the scene, but it was a tricky balance - that "special on the inside" line was almost surely a typical Seth McFarland satirical sitcom-gets-serious reference, but he was interpreting just a dash of sincerity, that kind of thing where irony becomes actual for a microsecond and allows itself to become even deeper irony immediately after, all the better in this Star Trek The Next Generation meets Family Guy mashup. "And if you don't look under the surface, you could miss something great." The actor even felt something there, like he'd phased into Jon for just a second. But Jon wouldn't actually be this cornball would he?
The actor playing Jon enjoyed the actor playing Elise's expression change from awkward to reflective, particularly because he saw it was clearly amateurish acting compared to his, even though he was the bit-player. But all the same he felt her feel something.
"Miss something great. And possibly be single for the rest of my life," Elise said because she was reflecting, and not protecting the secret of her very real problems with men, beyond the standard shallowness that she figured everyone had, whether they'd admit it or not.
"Or at least for Bortis's pee ceremony," said the actor playing Jon, merging into the character because it was something he could imagine himself saying, like at the table read, he could have been the one responsible for that little punch-up, but they never used his suggestions. It was legit wit. Besides which, she seemed to be taking him seriously, like of course she knew how corny it sounded but hey, sometimes simple things are profound if you let them reverberate.
But Elise, she told herself, you know where this will end up. It'll end up that yes, he's actually not just a code-monkey but a brilliant, sensitive, sophisticated being of taste with a good sense of humour, and many other wonderful things that tick all the personality boxes and some boxes you never knew you had [giggity]. But in the end, there'd be that giant head, and she just knew she'd never get used to it. And she just wouldn't have the strength to power through a real partnership with the reality of this weird alien, this weird, nice alien with the green and yellow head which glowed when his thoughts were racing, which really fucking creeped her out, even though it was cool, and beautiful in its own way, and beloved by the science types so why can't he fuck one of them? Oh wait, she was a science type, right. But still.
But she could try. She could at least go with Jon to the pee ceremony, in fact, she'd come off as far more tolerant than she really was if she was seen with Jon, she'd be noticed by the officers, she'd score brownie points with the military brass, a merit badge for diversity, and all she'd really pay for that with is a reasonably good time, soon degrading into awkwardness and disgust and eventually reinforcing her own provincialism and superficiality in romance but fuck it, they could make very special episodes about angelic women hooking up with deformed kids who are cello prodigies, and never show the actual sex scenes, cause, woah, no thank you, we'll just pretend to have imagined it - and that whole nasty last ninety percent of it could run its course in a few months, tops.
"No, I don't mean what's inside, like my soul or anything," Jon said. "I do have an awesome soul, don't get me wrong, but I mean, I've got something special underneath, and no, I'm not talking about my wang [giggity], I mean, literally underneath, see these weird green spots on my face? They come right off, they're just makeup."
3/12/19
Don't Stop Me Now
I need some kinda cry therapy maybe. Nothing can permeate my armor of medication. Enlightenment, cursement, ecstasy, robust depression - you get to miss robust depression, even then, you can still sing: I'm in love with my car. It's a good running joke, that "I'm in love with my car is a second-rate song" joke, that joke's got legs, runs at hundreds of horses.
I'm teetering on the edge of becoming Jeremiah, the cult leader, reaching such a pure level of self-righteous entitled rage as to tap into some demonic Jovian source. Except I wouldn't tap into that power, if I even knew how to sell out in an alien language. They accept venetian latin as an interchange, but I don't travel through time the same way I travel in space, so that's not an easy requirement for me. I'm not like them but I can pretend. I'm not even drunk but I'm quoting song lyrics constantly, they're in everything, like cancer. Maybe I'll partner with Cancer, Candace Cancer, we'll be workmates with benefits, she's like Fry's alien worms from that vending machine sandwich expired in antiquity, Cancer will be my manager, she'll improve everything about me, focus me into an emission of precision and get results! Like Freddie Mercury, ready? Pure, crystallized abortionist on a glass focal point. Rapidly changing minerals in rocks, dynamite with a laser beam, guaranteed to blow your mind.
Good enough for Now.
Don't you see, don't you see, don't you see? Don't... you... see? My name is not Jeremiah, I would never want a name like that. It's a cursed name, circa 1670 something... Don't you see, don't you see what's coming to me, what's got... to come... to me? Or am I looking into a mirror and bashing my head into the mirror asking "tell me what to do, tell me what to do," crying: "tell me what to do". I'm telling my reflection to tell me what to do, my bloody headed rejection, that pretty hair getting bloody, but it's dark hair so the blood is just an extended silhouette, hair clumps bobbing in peripherals, popping in and out of frame of jagged glass: TELL ME WHAT TO DO!
And I see a smile on the other side, and I start taking instruction, cause I'm learning high venetian latin, a second century dialect, I know what to do! What that is, I'll tell you... sometime... I promise... you forget things... I already paid you, remember? You don't remember? You don't see?
Wishful thinking, continue the gaslighting, keep the fire burning. Keep the windshield wipers going. It won't matter. We're all circling the drain. I looking forward to saying that again - years from now.
This is gonna be another descriptive post, in the posting wars, you see me now a veteran, a missive from a passive consumer of lite conspiracy theory. Not heavy, just low grade acid.
It's great, I'm not accountable to anyone. I'm trying to talk myself into positivity, that's all. Don't hold me to account on that front. With heavy head. Don't know where my heart is. Am I gonna start talking about that now? Better to just cry with no object. Or a doppelganger object. The object was replaced, and I have capgras delusion, my limbic system doesn't work right, I can't attach emotion to the object, the ticker, the organ that more than any other keeps me alive, or is that the brain? Distracted by tits. Clits. Porn. Tawdriness, objectifying. But it's pure art. Well, it's an art form. But the beauty is a tangent off that, a crazy angle I can't crick my head to see.
Don't you see, what's got, to come, to me, come to me, come to me. Come hither.
If nothing else, if all is lost, I'll still be cynical, so cynical, blackly cynical, that's what I'll clutch in my cold dead fingers.
Even if something could penetrate my armor of medication, there'd be a kevlar underbelly, a scab lattice of cynicism. Except for this depiction of a Live Aid concert in 1985, the movie cuts through me, leaves eyes misty, brings to mind the elegiac cliche "that [recently dead performer] taught me how to be weird" or is it "taught me it's okay to be weird". The weird okayness is a syringe, pricks through my scabs, pumps me full of that chemical I hardly ever feel anymore so it grabs my attention, the chemical that precedes crying, the cry-chem that only throbs for a second. But watching that movie, I was getting those pangs on the regs. Rami Malek had something to do with it too. How to be weird. Except I was watching smurfs when Freddie was teaching, but I appreciate retrospectively. Can I nostalgize about times I wasn't born? I dunno but fuck it, I will anyway. There's all kinds of manifestations of weirdness. There's the monday morning kind, let's fuck it up business-like, it's time for business! The show must go on, isn't that another Queen song? Civilization's too big to fail - in the shadow of the mushroom cloud. It's okay if it reminds me of an Abba song, that's the water I'm swimming in, a mystic droning in, drowning?
I'm teetering on the edge of becoming Jeremiah, the cult leader, reaching such a pure level of self-righteous entitled rage as to tap into some demonic Jovian source. Except I wouldn't tap into that power, if I even knew how to sell out in an alien language. They accept venetian latin as an interchange, but I don't travel through time the same way I travel in space, so that's not an easy requirement for me. I'm not like them but I can pretend. I'm not even drunk but I'm quoting song lyrics constantly, they're in everything, like cancer. Maybe I'll partner with Cancer, Candace Cancer, we'll be workmates with benefits, she's like Fry's alien worms from that vending machine sandwich expired in antiquity, Cancer will be my manager, she'll improve everything about me, focus me into an emission of precision and get results! Like Freddie Mercury, ready? Pure, crystallized abortionist on a glass focal point. Rapidly changing minerals in rocks, dynamite with a laser beam, guaranteed to blow your mind.
Good enough for Now.
Don't you see, don't you see, don't you see? Don't... you... see? My name is not Jeremiah, I would never want a name like that. It's a cursed name, circa 1670 something... Don't you see, don't you see what's coming to me, what's got... to come... to me? Or am I looking into a mirror and bashing my head into the mirror asking "tell me what to do, tell me what to do," crying: "tell me what to do". I'm telling my reflection to tell me what to do, my bloody headed rejection, that pretty hair getting bloody, but it's dark hair so the blood is just an extended silhouette, hair clumps bobbing in peripherals, popping in and out of frame of jagged glass: TELL ME WHAT TO DO!
And I see a smile on the other side, and I start taking instruction, cause I'm learning high venetian latin, a second century dialect, I know what to do! What that is, I'll tell you... sometime... I promise... you forget things... I already paid you, remember? You don't remember? You don't see?
Wishful thinking, continue the gaslighting, keep the fire burning. Keep the windshield wipers going. It won't matter. We're all circling the drain. I looking forward to saying that again - years from now.
This is gonna be another descriptive post, in the posting wars, you see me now a veteran, a missive from a passive consumer of lite conspiracy theory. Not heavy, just low grade acid.
It's great, I'm not accountable to anyone. I'm trying to talk myself into positivity, that's all. Don't hold me to account on that front. With heavy head. Don't know where my heart is. Am I gonna start talking about that now? Better to just cry with no object. Or a doppelganger object. The object was replaced, and I have capgras delusion, my limbic system doesn't work right, I can't attach emotion to the object, the ticker, the organ that more than any other keeps me alive, or is that the brain? Distracted by tits. Clits. Porn. Tawdriness, objectifying. But it's pure art. Well, it's an art form. But the beauty is a tangent off that, a crazy angle I can't crick my head to see.
Don't you see, what's got, to come, to me, come to me, come to me. Come hither.
If nothing else, if all is lost, I'll still be cynical, so cynical, blackly cynical, that's what I'll clutch in my cold dead fingers.
3/10/19
3/09/19
the answer
i'm president
that's the answer
whatever you say to me
i'm the president
of i don't give a fuck
america's my protectorate
i'm like Emporer Norton with actual money
i'm taking the wheel of this planet, the republic of earth
we're taking this thing to mexico!
nothing can wipe the smirk off my face
you thought osama had a smirk, check this shit out
i'm the president, that's the shit
the real funky shit
because president
here's a conspiracy i really believe in:
my military burned my school records
and i don't worry about fetuses
but i'm good at pretending to worry
one of my skills
i'll tell you what's going on
even the opposition is propping me up
they'll gag or kill their journalists if they have to
but most of the journalists do what they're told
cause the money's too good
way too much money, money money money - money
why?
because they're scared of my followers
and what they'll do if i'm taken down
they're 35% but they have way more guns than the other 65%
way too many guns, guns guns guns - guns
why?
because when you get locked into a serious gun collection
the tendency is to take it as far as it'll go
the 65% are collecting drugs, the 35% are collecting guns
who's gonna win d'ya think?
the answer is: i'm president
that's the answer
whatever you say to me
i'm the president
of i don't give a fuck
america's my protectorate
i'm like Emporer Norton with actual money
i'm taking the wheel of this planet, the republic of earth
we're taking this thing to mexico!
nothing can wipe the smirk off my face
you thought osama had a smirk, check this shit out
i'm the president, that's the shit
the real funky shit
because president
here's a conspiracy i really believe in:
my military burned my school records
and i don't worry about fetuses
but i'm good at pretending to worry
one of my skills
i'll tell you what's going on
even the opposition is propping me up
they'll gag or kill their journalists if they have to
but most of the journalists do what they're told
cause the money's too good
way too much money, money money money - money
why?
because they're scared of my followers
and what they'll do if i'm taken down
they're 35% but they have way more guns than the other 65%
way too many guns, guns guns guns - guns
why?
because when you get locked into a serious gun collection
the tendency is to take it as far as it'll go
the 65% are collecting drugs, the 35% are collecting guns
who's gonna win d'ya think?
the answer is: i'm president
3/03/19
Space Mormons
You gotta laugh. What can you do but laugh? Don't you cry tonight, there's a heaven above you baybay. Check out the Space Mormons. The Galactic LDS. They're giving ECCO a run for its money. The Office of the Control of Coincidences concerning Earth is like, what? Who are these Space Mormons, they're not galactic, they're not even stellar, although they got ambitions, like I wanted my Free Republic of Metopia to be a nuclear power, for peace of mind. Some say that's taking the definition of home defense a little far, but those naysayers can burn in the nuclear fires I would start only if provoked, if I had nukes to withhold, which I don't.
The Space Mormons want the planet that was prophesized, or is it a whole system of planets, maybe a whole galaxy, so everyone can get one. I like to imagine that engineered utopia. That's not a metopia, that's a youtopia. But I gotta engineer for real, make your space ark, that's how you're getting there. And if you think you can stiff me, you better be sure I haven't sabotaged that ship for its three century trip. You be trippin. Bitches be triflin. But you're a very sexy mormon. Very hard to please. You can taste the bright lights but you won't get there for free, in the Space Jungle, welcome to the Space Jungle... and you, as a demographic, are famously polite and charming, even insane freakouts you do politely, you gotta laugh. It makes me laugh in particular, being an amateur investigative scholar of freakouts, it's amusing, even as it's tearing me apart lobe by lobe, the polite freakout I can never touch, an astral projection beckoning. It's your charms, they aren't lucky but everyone's after them.
Space Mormons... more than meets the eye. I wish I had a prophet who promised me a planet. Me personally. The bigger the Lie, the more likely it is to be believed, isn't that what they call "the" Big Lie? That's a lie so big it's worth believing in, like that story of Pi that was supposed to make me believe in God. If you waaahnit you gaaaaaahtit you just got to believe... believe in yourself, ah. See the key word is self. It was a good story though, that Life of Pi.
The bigger the Thetan, the deeper the quicksand, you know what I mean? Sometimes a cow's gotta die when it's too sacred to live. Hey, we all die, don't you cry, for any of these organisms, it'll be your turn soon enough. I got actuary tables if you want to know how you're gonna die. No? Okay, just thought it was polite to offer, as long as you're offering yourself as sacrifice, a holo-caust, every nerve burnt individually. Sometimes an ox gotta be gored, man. I've already killed my darlings. But I talk to em everyday in an unhealthy amount of seance sessions, nostalgia abuse benders. Keep em alive past bedtime, stay awake my beautiful eyes, show me some skin, the regions of the mind I wanna see, train my brain on that, who needs the peace corps? What's there to live for? Why do they keep disappearing?
The Space Mormons were successful in their interstellar journey, and we were all rooting for them, all the time, well I was anyway, I know I don't speak for y'all. But unfortunately, when they got to Vega they ran right into that Time Rift from Star Trek Discovery, and things got all four dimensional, and I had to trust my math, and you know what? It saved my butt. From that moment on, I worshipped math, I made geometry sacred but that didn't do it, so the little got mo' and mo'. I just keep trying to get a little better, said a little better than before. Just doing what all my friends and well-wishers wished for me, to get a little better, get well even, cause junksick is a drearily-sane forever war, you get what you pay for, forget about fighting more - huhah! Abso lutely nothin'. But some day I might want for nothing to be enough.
The Space Mormons want the planet that was prophesized, or is it a whole system of planets, maybe a whole galaxy, so everyone can get one. I like to imagine that engineered utopia. That's not a metopia, that's a youtopia. But I gotta engineer for real, make your space ark, that's how you're getting there. And if you think you can stiff me, you better be sure I haven't sabotaged that ship for its three century trip. You be trippin. Bitches be triflin. But you're a very sexy mormon. Very hard to please. You can taste the bright lights but you won't get there for free, in the Space Jungle, welcome to the Space Jungle... and you, as a demographic, are famously polite and charming, even insane freakouts you do politely, you gotta laugh. It makes me laugh in particular, being an amateur investigative scholar of freakouts, it's amusing, even as it's tearing me apart lobe by lobe, the polite freakout I can never touch, an astral projection beckoning. It's your charms, they aren't lucky but everyone's after them.
Space Mormons... more than meets the eye. I wish I had a prophet who promised me a planet. Me personally. The bigger the Lie, the more likely it is to be believed, isn't that what they call "the" Big Lie? That's a lie so big it's worth believing in, like that story of Pi that was supposed to make me believe in God. If you waaahnit you gaaaaaahtit you just got to believe... believe in yourself, ah. See the key word is self. It was a good story though, that Life of Pi.
The bigger the Thetan, the deeper the quicksand, you know what I mean? Sometimes a cow's gotta die when it's too sacred to live. Hey, we all die, don't you cry, for any of these organisms, it'll be your turn soon enough. I got actuary tables if you want to know how you're gonna die. No? Okay, just thought it was polite to offer, as long as you're offering yourself as sacrifice, a holo-caust, every nerve burnt individually. Sometimes an ox gotta be gored, man. I've already killed my darlings. But I talk to em everyday in an unhealthy amount of seance sessions, nostalgia abuse benders. Keep em alive past bedtime, stay awake my beautiful eyes, show me some skin, the regions of the mind I wanna see, train my brain on that, who needs the peace corps? What's there to live for? Why do they keep disappearing?
The Space Mormons were successful in their interstellar journey, and we were all rooting for them, all the time, well I was anyway, I know I don't speak for y'all. But unfortunately, when they got to Vega they ran right into that Time Rift from Star Trek Discovery, and things got all four dimensional, and I had to trust my math, and you know what? It saved my butt. From that moment on, I worshipped math, I made geometry sacred but that didn't do it, so the little got mo' and mo'. I just keep trying to get a little better, said a little better than before. Just doing what all my friends and well-wishers wished for me, to get a little better, get well even, cause junksick is a drearily-sane forever war, you get what you pay for, forget about fighting more - huhah! Abso lutely nothin'. But some day I might want for nothing to be enough.
3/02/19
2/26/19
sci-fi
Some good things going on... like I'm finding a way to enjoy this new sci-fi series. And... putting up a front of bravado against that bleakest feeling, trying not to read anything into any thoughts of fronting, it's all good. Meh. It shows me how things are empty. Not that I agree, but it shows me, again and again, pretty convincingly. Gotta fill somehow, flood fill.
The technological updates in this sci-fi show are analogous to modern conveniences like dishwashers, or more contemporaneously, streaming videos on the internet, the guy is worried his employers are gonna screw him out of growing a new arm, after he got it sheared off by a chunk of ice they were mining that unexpectedly shattered - to have that option, theoretically, of growing a new arm sure sounds like a wondrous new age, but why'd he have to get it cut off in the first place, and why is it only theoretical, the really ugly reality of capitalism grinding on into later centuries puts a damper on things, like in every age. What do self-important media assholes always say when we talk about inequality? The poor are so lucky, luckier than ever, they have dishwashing machines, clothes drying machines, smart phones, why are they complaining? Just work harder. Live, work work work work, die.
The technological updates in this sci-fi show are analogous to modern conveniences like dishwashers, or more contemporaneously, streaming videos on the internet, the guy is worried his employers are gonna screw him out of growing a new arm, after he got it sheared off by a chunk of ice they were mining that unexpectedly shattered - to have that option, theoretically, of growing a new arm sure sounds like a wondrous new age, but why'd he have to get it cut off in the first place, and why is it only theoretical, the really ugly reality of capitalism grinding on into later centuries puts a damper on things, like in every age. What do self-important media assholes always say when we talk about inequality? The poor are so lucky, luckier than ever, they have dishwashing machines, clothes drying machines, smart phones, why are they complaining? Just work harder. Live, work work work work, die.
2/23/19
You have no idea how other people see you. You'd be shocked. The disparity between words voiced, and how you're 'seen', by which I mean, the feelings people have about you, a complicated mix usually, they sometimes congeal in words, text, email, diatribes, confessions, declarations, giggly conversations. Like how I see people, and all the things I must be quiet about, at all costs. Self-policing, but I think I'll mostly keep at that. They're not all bad things, sometimes there's illicit love, and petty anger, and ways I see people that reveal things I just don't wanna reveal about me.
2/22/19
cellllll le brate half measures, c'mon!
It's hard to watch. You hate to see it.
Hard to watch what's out there, what works. Folks. Just plain folks. With sleeves of sophistication - people I know. It's hard to watch even people I don't know. It's also hard to watch just about any movie, even though I'm bathing in them lately, cause there's always these attractive people, characters fucked up beautifully, larger than life, reminding me how small I am. Whatever emotion I get wrapped up in as portrayed by a director and an actor in some character -some character wrapped up in some hollywood actor- whatever that emotion is, it's pathetically vicarious, can see it but I can't be it, can't apply a molecule of that flavour to the modest things I want. For myself. Why not go whole hog, damn the metaphor, never mind the style, just go, do it, just, do it, just do it, but you hate to see it.
This Child of the New Dawn says: the screens mirror the radio waves I send out into the universe to scan for something I can use. I say "this child of the new dawn" to distinguish from "those children of the new dawn" the ones who signed on to stick around failed folk singer Jeremiah's "beautiful dream he's having" and participated in murder and self-inflicted games of russian roulette. I won't bother with the special words anymore, it can be as vague or cryptic as I want, to hell with everything else. I know there are hard limits on any potential sociopathy, no need to worry, it's all done for love, in love, with the half-dead companion who's hovering above the abyss, hanging onto the cliffs by a couple fingers. I'll use anything, throw everything but the kitchen sink at the wall, see what sticks, where my enemies are dead, still in a line against. I'm not going for some brand of rage and hatred, that's not me, never been me, not my parameters - just self-respect, in as ugly a manner as I can dredge out of me, like a fuck-off aesthetic, the only voice that's right for this epoch. Fuck off. But not really.
All the songs are gonna be about the same thing now. Until I get what I want, that's how I'm creating a hostage crisis. It'll be like a cartoon-writer's strike, no one will care. I'm really my own hostage and my own ransom. So I will care, greatly. I'll care so much, I'll make a masterpiece out of it. Or a garage, where I write all of Weezer's songs before they do, but never get success. But in that alternate universe, I don't require any tradition to define success for me, and the physics of this universe allow me to fit in just well enough, while preserving and enhancing the charms of my eccentricities and imperfections, to feel good, to not feel the void almost all the time. But thank heavens for my anti-depressants and the pharmaceutical mega-corporations that oversee their manufacture, even if they're evil, because they're a rope stretched over the abyss beyond the black rainbow.
Hard to watch what's out there, what works. Folks. Just plain folks. With sleeves of sophistication - people I know. It's hard to watch even people I don't know. It's also hard to watch just about any movie, even though I'm bathing in them lately, cause there's always these attractive people, characters fucked up beautifully, larger than life, reminding me how small I am. Whatever emotion I get wrapped up in as portrayed by a director and an actor in some character -some character wrapped up in some hollywood actor- whatever that emotion is, it's pathetically vicarious, can see it but I can't be it, can't apply a molecule of that flavour to the modest things I want. For myself. Why not go whole hog, damn the metaphor, never mind the style, just go, do it, just, do it, just do it, but you hate to see it.
This Child of the New Dawn says: the screens mirror the radio waves I send out into the universe to scan for something I can use. I say "this child of the new dawn" to distinguish from "those children of the new dawn" the ones who signed on to stick around failed folk singer Jeremiah's "beautiful dream he's having" and participated in murder and self-inflicted games of russian roulette. I won't bother with the special words anymore, it can be as vague or cryptic as I want, to hell with everything else. I know there are hard limits on any potential sociopathy, no need to worry, it's all done for love, in love, with the half-dead companion who's hovering above the abyss, hanging onto the cliffs by a couple fingers. I'll use anything, throw everything but the kitchen sink at the wall, see what sticks, where my enemies are dead, still in a line against. I'm not going for some brand of rage and hatred, that's not me, never been me, not my parameters - just self-respect, in as ugly a manner as I can dredge out of me, like a fuck-off aesthetic, the only voice that's right for this epoch. Fuck off. But not really.
All the songs are gonna be about the same thing now. Until I get what I want, that's how I'm creating a hostage crisis. It'll be like a cartoon-writer's strike, no one will care. I'm really my own hostage and my own ransom. So I will care, greatly. I'll care so much, I'll make a masterpiece out of it. Or a garage, where I write all of Weezer's songs before they do, but never get success. But in that alternate universe, I don't require any tradition to define success for me, and the physics of this universe allow me to fit in just well enough, while preserving and enhancing the charms of my eccentricities and imperfections, to feel good, to not feel the void almost all the time. But thank heavens for my anti-depressants and the pharmaceutical mega-corporations that oversee their manufacture, even if they're evil, because they're a rope stretched over the abyss beyond the black rainbow.
2/21/19
PUNCHING down
I can't punch up what's already been perfectly stated. Anything I add will be a fist through drywall, not productive. I'm down, so I'm gonna punch down, though there's nothing to punch here. I'm due for a breakthrough.
When I didn't care, it didn't help either. That conventional wisdom is bunk, that I just have to stop caring. All this magic, all these secrets, I've had enough.
The anger is at this place I've gotten to that makes me react despairingly to minor things. It's not personal. I wish there was a person I could focus it on, but there isn't one, it's spread even and vast, it's somewhere between chunky and smooth peanut butter.
"At least I'm sober", sarcastic obeisance to the benign cult. I'm not a pedant about sobriety, I don't care if I meet the definition in the Queen's English. Oh good, there's at least one thing I don't care about.
Still care too much about all the rest of it. I'm due for a breakthrough.
Maybe I can make a breakthrough by quitting trying, it's the first step towards failure, as homer said, but actually, it's been thousands of steps of rejection. I won't hold myself hostage, that's not my intention, if I'm a psychic vampire then get your neck out of my mouth, it's not like I have any power.
I'm due for a breakthrough, but it's like the Big Quake that's supposed to hit sometime, it might be after I'm dead. So what if I'm due?
So fucking bleak, too bleak for poetry. Oh it could get much bleaker, I know. So what? So what if I'm due for a level of bleak that makes this look weak, I'm still gonna say what I'm gonna say.
When I didn't care, it didn't help either. That conventional wisdom is bunk, that I just have to stop caring. All this magic, all these secrets, I've had enough.
The anger is at this place I've gotten to that makes me react despairingly to minor things. It's not personal. I wish there was a person I could focus it on, but there isn't one, it's spread even and vast, it's somewhere between chunky and smooth peanut butter.
"At least I'm sober", sarcastic obeisance to the benign cult. I'm not a pedant about sobriety, I don't care if I meet the definition in the Queen's English. Oh good, there's at least one thing I don't care about.
Still care too much about all the rest of it. I'm due for a breakthrough.
Maybe I can make a breakthrough by quitting trying, it's the first step towards failure, as homer said, but actually, it's been thousands of steps of rejection. I won't hold myself hostage, that's not my intention, if I'm a psychic vampire then get your neck out of my mouth, it's not like I have any power.
I'm due for a breakthrough, but it's like the Big Quake that's supposed to hit sometime, it might be after I'm dead. So what if I'm due?
So fucking bleak, too bleak for poetry. Oh it could get much bleaker, I know. So what? So what if I'm due for a level of bleak that makes this look weak, I'm still gonna say what I'm gonna say.
2/19/19
dying season
Season drips, seeps into groundwater, gets absorbed, another cycle in an arbitrary number, smart money is on what we expect, a normal president - arbitrary tributary - burn everything else away.
It's hard on me. Yes it is. I'm in the void now, raging against the dying. In the nearly-dead season. And over there is that newly-wed season, glass ceilings, gated communities. You all have it made, my bitter lament. And paranoid too. And selfish. Still did the stunt of helping that guy though, so now I'm allowing myself delusions as welfare, in a welfare cosmos. Remember what the things mean...
Bill Burroughs said, "exterminate all rational thought". Fuck that, pyrotechnically sterilize thought bonds, disconnect from the sources of supreme futility and failure, stand aside, seeing what a crazy paranoid trip that is, but still too attached, to feeling it must be true.
There will be another seasonal shift. But how many more, I'm not sure, it's a little concerning sometimes, facilitates remergence of primal fear - or decorative yet derivative paranoias.
It's hard on me. Yes it is. I'm in the void now, raging against the dying. In the nearly-dead season. And over there is that newly-wed season, glass ceilings, gated communities. You all have it made, my bitter lament. And paranoid too. And selfish. Still did the stunt of helping that guy though, so now I'm allowing myself delusions as welfare, in a welfare cosmos. Remember what the things mean...
Bill Burroughs said, "exterminate all rational thought". Fuck that, pyrotechnically sterilize thought bonds, disconnect from the sources of supreme futility and failure, stand aside, seeing what a crazy paranoid trip that is, but still too attached, to feeling it must be true.
There will be another seasonal shift. But how many more, I'm not sure, it's a little concerning sometimes, facilitates remergence of primal fear - or decorative yet derivative paranoias.
worthy
I helped a guy, I can have a huff, I'm worthy of this modest proposal: a hit of nicotine laced propylene glycol and vegetable glycerin, on a wattage setting that knocks my breath away for half a minute. On a limited diet of drugs, except for the mood ones that come from the pharmacy. But the loopholes I allow for, allow for a variety of religious experiences. Okay, religious is a stretch. Just wanted to reference William James. And I'm probably not meant for religious experiences, or I squandered that possibility by following my guide all the way up the Himalayan mountains, finding the head of the Kwik-E-Mart, and asking him my three allotted questions: Are you the head of the Kwik-E-Mart? Really? You?
And I feel the effects of the mood drug regime in odd ways, when I helped that guy, and the physical effort of trying to dig a car out of the cliff of ice it had crunched into was past the threshold of where it sends these zaps to my head in flashes that can trigger phobia some times, but right now it's fine - not one of the desired effects or side-effects. But THC really boosts an orgasm, whether in indica form or sativa, still can't really tell the difference because the difference is subtle, the mental effects far outweigh any other qualities, and thus feast on all the oxygen of any potential qualitative difference, even though John Lilly doesn't like the term "qualitative".
I'm digging this thirty-seven-year old stranger out of the snow, using a shovel when I need an ice-pick, a performance really. Then I call the tow truck which luckily is able to pull that little 86 mobile up enough from the weird and deep angle it's etched into, a little bumper crumbling here, crumpling there. Not a job for me, but there's some solidarity in his bug eyes, near-panic, really fucking with his buzz - he doesn't want to be caught high with his clean license. The two cop car compliment is staying seemingly forever while we go about this kabuki of trying to dig his car out of the ice, though it's never gonna happen, that cop says, physics, so we say to each other we're not physicists. Those eyes, so bug! I feel like this is an unacceptable fucking up of the buzz. Maybe it doesn't have to ruin a whole week in addition to a night.
BCAA coverage did the job. I was a passenger, let's say, make up some story about hitching. Then it turns out I knew the guy in grade school, he recognized me after hearing my name, like people tend to, to my continued dismay, as if I want to go back down that memory lane. But the present is thirty-seven, maybe finally I can be okay with where things have evolved. Cause Thirty-Seven-Year Olds are resonating with me, some mind linkage happening. Class of, whatever, I don't care what year. Guaranteed to get a choice Simpsons reference, from the good years of seasons two thru six.
And I feel the effects of the mood drug regime in odd ways, when I helped that guy, and the physical effort of trying to dig a car out of the cliff of ice it had crunched into was past the threshold of where it sends these zaps to my head in flashes that can trigger phobia some times, but right now it's fine - not one of the desired effects or side-effects. But THC really boosts an orgasm, whether in indica form or sativa, still can't really tell the difference because the difference is subtle, the mental effects far outweigh any other qualities, and thus feast on all the oxygen of any potential qualitative difference, even though John Lilly doesn't like the term "qualitative".
I'm digging this thirty-seven-year old stranger out of the snow, using a shovel when I need an ice-pick, a performance really. Then I call the tow truck which luckily is able to pull that little 86 mobile up enough from the weird and deep angle it's etched into, a little bumper crumbling here, crumpling there. Not a job for me, but there's some solidarity in his bug eyes, near-panic, really fucking with his buzz - he doesn't want to be caught high with his clean license. The two cop car compliment is staying seemingly forever while we go about this kabuki of trying to dig his car out of the ice, though it's never gonna happen, that cop says, physics, so we say to each other we're not physicists. Those eyes, so bug! I feel like this is an unacceptable fucking up of the buzz. Maybe it doesn't have to ruin a whole week in addition to a night.
BCAA coverage did the job. I was a passenger, let's say, make up some story about hitching. Then it turns out I knew the guy in grade school, he recognized me after hearing my name, like people tend to, to my continued dismay, as if I want to go back down that memory lane. But the present is thirty-seven, maybe finally I can be okay with where things have evolved. Cause Thirty-Seven-Year Olds are resonating with me, some mind linkage happening. Class of, whatever, I don't care what year. Guaranteed to get a choice Simpsons reference, from the good years of seasons two thru six.
2/13/19
blood circulation
She said my hands are so cold! She's one of those people who notices, it's important, reminds me that it's important. But...
I gotta stop seeking, in all senses. Of course it wasn't gonna work, at home, under covers, seething colours and shrouds of light, what was acid gonna teach me, what confidence could it give me? Of course it wasn't gonna work in some might-as-well-be-random sample of several hundred dubious matches, so much theory, so little practice.
The romantic, in the most literal sense (if there can be one) and the spiritual have fused-together-so-tight, a rogue nucleus ripe for chain reaction: stellar energy. Or pointless burn-out, nebulae broadcasting noise to nobody. I'm orbiting this thing I call love, small l and capital L, the major and the minor, trying to create faith as all basis for it weakens, a spent force, heavy element shedding particles. It's like the danaides topoi and the leaky basin, trying forever to fill it so I can bathe away my sins. Also like how I try to fill my brain with stuff that blocks neurotransmitters from re-absorption, so I can be happier, and functional, and driven - but my life won't co-operate, even with the pragmatic boost of mood, the circumstances of failing to meet my goals, such modest goals, keep battering down my will to keep seeking and the extra transmitters don't help that much. Just barely keeping afloat.
Actually, I don't lose much sleep over many goals, it's mainly just that one goal, of literal romance. What is literal romance? Oh for me, it's like one of those novels, except way more realistic, and all the better for that, some kind of problematic partnership, with conflict, but enough moments of comfort. The last few times it's been weird inabilities to communicate or re-connect even though we thought we were both so open, the vexation of not being able to identify the blockage, or the deeper unconscious not allowing that to happen. Polite fights, cold conflict. Rage and passion were much better, I miss those relationships more.
I gotta stop seeking, in all senses. Of course it wasn't gonna work, at home, under covers, seething colours and shrouds of light, what was acid gonna teach me, what confidence could it give me? Of course it wasn't gonna work in some might-as-well-be-random sample of several hundred dubious matches, so much theory, so little practice.
The romantic, in the most literal sense (if there can be one) and the spiritual have fused-together-so-tight, a rogue nucleus ripe for chain reaction: stellar energy. Or pointless burn-out, nebulae broadcasting noise to nobody. I'm orbiting this thing I call love, small l and capital L, the major and the minor, trying to create faith as all basis for it weakens, a spent force, heavy element shedding particles. It's like the danaides topoi and the leaky basin, trying forever to fill it so I can bathe away my sins. Also like how I try to fill my brain with stuff that blocks neurotransmitters from re-absorption, so I can be happier, and functional, and driven - but my life won't co-operate, even with the pragmatic boost of mood, the circumstances of failing to meet my goals, such modest goals, keep battering down my will to keep seeking and the extra transmitters don't help that much. Just barely keeping afloat.
Actually, I don't lose much sleep over many goals, it's mainly just that one goal, of literal romance. What is literal romance? Oh for me, it's like one of those novels, except way more realistic, and all the better for that, some kind of problematic partnership, with conflict, but enough moments of comfort. The last few times it's been weird inabilities to communicate or re-connect even though we thought we were both so open, the vexation of not being able to identify the blockage, or the deeper unconscious not allowing that to happen. Polite fights, cold conflict. Rage and passion were much better, I miss those relationships more.
Redemption in the void
Is there any forgiveness, beyond the black rainbow? Can I find something to forgive me, personify it, make you the angel I need to have?
A segue from geodesic decay to hospital hallway, crossfade. At some point we hear a voice. The rare bits of dialog have so much weight, your earthly ambassador in this opaque maze: a human voice, and he sets the theme early: "It's easy to get disillusioned." A kaleidoscope of long tense electromagnetic pulses as the voice settles in. "If you don't know who you are. What you are." Then the light changes and the face shifts in palettes seeping underneath. "I know who I am. What I am. That's what gives me my confidence. And my power."
Everyone is getting so hermetic. Good for them, it's what they want, to be sealed off, I can understand that kind of want. I do my own form of sealing off, I like to get into extreme comfort trips, music videos that feel up-beat, the rhythm can go down like that, it always worked. There are cursors here and there. What is created in the void doesn't matter how it sounds, later.
Why am I reminding myself of emptiness again and again? Can't you hear me? I heard that. Nod the head. Off the wagon. Was on the nod, assent to that. Since I forgot what it was like. How can it all sound so much the same, across filters of personality? Vision of universality takes the form of grass, a rainy blade, that kind of blade, a perfectly wonderful bug crawling over that blade, what's outside the black rainbow. What they told me I had a right to. Not in a proprietary way, not like manifest destiny or dominion over the beasts of the earth.
Flirting with identifying self as unnatural. I stopped being a fan of nature, you can get to thinking that way when you've hung out too long beyond the black rainbow. I want to be natural, with you. Can I have some of your nature? Cause I was in that less-than-nothing howling wind, in the hallway, remember that hallway? It was life or death in that hallway, beyond the life and death spans of individuals, if you can imagine that. You had to hold on for dear life, and at the same time reach out to find another ledge, you had to venture, the stakes were higher than anything.
I remember that I was unnatural lust personified, but what is unnatural about that? It's a part of nature that has a source of joy, but the drives it creates take the form of enormous feats of heroism and treachery, betraying one's own code of morality, the deep desire to include oneself in others, wearing the black jacket of Noriega's fine custom leather and ruminating on some brand of unnaturalism, even after taking off one's appliances, a bare head sticky with hair glue, still feeling as unnatural as ever because what remains post-appliances is a deformed retinal-scarred thing you could barely call a living creature --- but the whole time, wanting that natural reality, the remedy for the sucking void inside, the depth and desperation of that need making the living thing inside the leather jacket all the more wretched, all the less desirable, no matter how red the light, no matter how effective the drugs, no matter what the voice on the phone said, that all important beyond-the-facility communication with a forest of fax sounds book-ending the drawn retrograde breath, a short sprout of telecom trees being the nail in the coffin of the message, a thing it didn't ask for but a fatal partnership, cemented in betrayal and casual cruelty, mutual culpability, observation rooms and mud and blood - but we needn't get so literal. But let's do it anyway, irony left me, don't care how I sound, I'm down to trading in cliches, obeying the basest instinct, and seeing this all from the outside, besides.
The scene of the assisted suicide of Dr. Mercurial Arboria is the most sad and beautiful thing I've ever seen on a screen. I haven't been moved by a movie like this in, I dunno, ever. Had become so aloof to the artform, the idea of even watching any movie twice was insane. And yet I can get lost in this one, make it my whole world, my music video. I'll latch onto that shadow vision, grip it tight and yet try and keep my oily personality off it, and not tag it too much, just let it be what it is in my head, not try and make it anything for others. But I want to bring other people into my world. But there are ways to go about that (keep it dead, in the shed, that's the way). There are windowpanes you keep shut, unless you have to remind yourself again.
When things become as elemental as the pale man in the black jacket and the girl with the teardrop, I remember. The man deranged in perfect control, arranged as protocol demanded, the procedure in place. And the girl, angel, taking on all these burdens, giving birth, taking the hit for more life. She appears angelic to my bug eyes, even though I know she's no angel really, she gets dirty, she gets into the mud, the mud gets into her, we breathe it together. We're all guilty in this planetary prison colony. This putrescent life made her a killer, the new age of enlightenment, like we needed yet another one, has warped her telekinetic abilities into a narrow brutal survivalist's toolkit.
We've been beyond the rainbow together. When we brought back the motherlode, we found there was no back, not anymore. We didn't know what to do, it had gotten away from us. Bad things happened, every moment since an attempt to salvage something from the horror. Words fail, and that is so wonderful, that I can't tag it, when words flow off it like it's a gleaming teflon skull, the new-school mercury alloy of programmed molecules, that's when you know it's legit, it's the real deal, it's a work of art worth inhabiting me, making me its gibbering evangelist, the art will be fine, whether I represent it well or not, it doesn't matter.
Barry. Bring home the motherlode, Barry. The character's name is Barry. There is no home, not anymore.
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