I'm working out new ways to perform and record. They take the form of melodic fragments, half-assed renditions of half-remembered songs, old ideas of mine resurrected, and wherever the associative flow and feelings lead. I'm also using the recordings as a way to audition vocal effects. I'll be posting some, just because I'm in a long gestation period between produced tracks. Instead of having nothing to show musically, I can at least offer some raw precursor material.
Way to Breathe
References: fairytale of new york [the pogues], let's lynch the landlord [dead kennedys], paint it black [the rolling stones], rap [mr. show (the rich fat kids vs the tibetan monks episode)], chapter 24 [pink floyd], quicksand [david bowie], the end [the beatles], the song that doesn't end, away in a manger, revelations [iron maiden], to tame a land [iron maiden]
6/12/19
a nice bit of randomness
Back in those days, we would print stuff off the internet with our Netscape browser, jokes, quotes, text, always text, images took too long to load. I spent my attempt at higher education in a particular library cubicle that bleak winter, so tired, a slump of sores.
"Spoon!" Coming upon that Discordian "quote"' was the funniest thing ever, made me laugh for minutes. That joke religion from the seventies. It was like a revelation on nitrous oxide, "overall there was a smell of fried onions", the Robert Anton Wilson parody of "everything in this universe is the smell of burnt almonds", the William James axiom, randomness that is really all encompassing, implications in minutia.
"Spoon!" Coming upon that Discordian "quote"' was the funniest thing ever, made me laugh for minutes. That joke religion from the seventies. It was like a revelation on nitrous oxide, "overall there was a smell of fried onions", the Robert Anton Wilson parody of "everything in this universe is the smell of burnt almonds", the William James axiom, randomness that is really all encompassing, implications in minutia.
6/03/19
It doesn't take a miracle to make a miracle
The old songs slipped away the moment we embraced. I didn't need them anymore. Suddenly I understood the cliches, which is itself a cliche, I get it now! I laughed every few minutes thinking how apropos they were, how they applied. All the new songs I would have to write. All I'd had to do was hang in there til I found her, like the kitten in the poster. Her lips are the best thing ever, the floodgates, torrent-drowned tornadoes, lox underwater, lux aeterna, requiem for a life of getting by.
4/27/19
undertow
i'm so ugly, it's okay cause so are you, broke my mirrors
gonna shave my head in mourning of myself as sexual being, fuck it
forget everything and run, it's a fun run
not a grueling run, not even strenuous,
just a run of blood and luck you didn't know was luck
when you bleed out, pale and sexless
but fertile in serenity
a serene sterility, negative legacy
that feels so positive for opening space
for someone else, the chain letter ends with you
when you're so bound to your ego
no gift of life for anyone else, it's okay
don't have to conjure a life
don't have to feel alive in fucking
feel dead in ducking an old trad duty
duty-free and carpe noctem
it's not a marathon
it's a waterslide into the warm ocean drag
gonna shave my head in mourning of myself as sexual being, fuck it
forget everything and run, it's a fun run
not a grueling run, not even strenuous,
just a run of blood and luck you didn't know was luck
when you bleed out, pale and sexless
but fertile in serenity
a serene sterility, negative legacy
that feels so positive for opening space
for someone else, the chain letter ends with you
when you're so bound to your ego
no gift of life for anyone else, it's okay
don't have to conjure a life
don't have to feel alive in fucking
feel dead in ducking an old trad duty
duty-free and carpe noctem
it's not a marathon
it's a waterslide into the warm ocean drag
4/24/19
Introducing... voce con clavier
automatic
References: my michelle [guns n roses], welcome to the jungle [guns n roses], mario circuit 1 theme, fortunate son [creedence clearwater revival], tell the doctor [wax mannequin], valentine's day [david bowie], bonesong [razberrychaos], intergalactic [beastie boys], polka party [weird al yankovic], 12th street rag [euday bowman], perfect day [lou reed], tv party [black flag], bad to the bone [george thorogood], something [the beatles], quest for fire [iron maiden], run to the hills [iron maiden]
References: my michelle [guns n roses], welcome to the jungle [guns n roses], mario circuit 1 theme, fortunate son [creedence clearwater revival], tell the doctor [wax mannequin], valentine's day [david bowie], bonesong [razberrychaos], intergalactic [beastie boys], polka party [weird al yankovic], 12th street rag [euday bowman], perfect day [lou reed], tv party [black flag], bad to the bone [george thorogood], something [the beatles], quest for fire [iron maiden], run to the hills [iron maiden]
4/20/19
porcine frottage indulgence
Cadmium voltage. Graphene foliage. Carbon dottage. Dated. Fated to be here. Great. Make it so. Wet croak, choke that rhythm, I got rhythm, who could ask for anything more faggoty, lay the real thing on me, rivet slabs of platinum into me, I tell myself, I'll do that, let's get it done - let's modify, it's a fantasy with no allegiance to reality, swapping genes, epigenetic, in my carbon dottage. Cottonpickin elevator operator piece of culture, that's the kinda boy I am, unworthy of even writing about that, the carbon boy with too many silicon implants, but silicon is my second skin, it contains most of myself, the relevance of my dna diminishes day by day, that's the plan, they're only making plans for nigel, I didn't know about it, but it's for my benefit, and I have to believe I'm following it of my own free will - using the words "own free will" gets me under scrutiny from dark tales of christianity, duck tales of irrelevant tangents in chocolate factories.
It's a British Steel future here, you know? It's fine, you're waiting for the funnel, I'm waiting for the funnel, we're all waiting for the funnel here on the street, it's a no-go zone for everyone else but we're waiting for the funnel, to suck us all into heaven, that deadlight, it's dreadfully delightful
let it be, let it dilate, let your soul dissipate like contaminant on dishes in detergent, frothing, frollicking, frottage being a cottage industry in this province, after you bloodlet, let the dishpit disintegrate, bet you didn't think you had it in you, did you dipshit, to use that word? the shameful story, what else can turn a dubiously honorable sepuku into a self-immolated activist who nobody cares about, he went to that extreme, doused himself with gasoline, and was a fleeting story on some boiler plate news aggregator, dishonorable discharge from life, the self-despiser can't even respect himself as a despiser anymore, couldn't even be a good addict, couldn't act the part, couldn't commit, contribute, kernal panic? Yes, don't hesitate, just do it. Do it accapella. Try and contrive that rhythm that we need, automatic, manual manipulation by an autonamous force above my head, above my pay grade, automatically, making me an automaton, but when i manage to metaprogram, for a microsecond, that frequency i can never climb to, i feel like i can set the nodes of automation for my track to forge a personality, a soul out of that, that's the best i can do these days, that's what i say, that's how i see it, that's how he sees it, that's how johnny sees it, ceded no ground, seeded apples all over it, was a groovy orchard for aeons, a skull orchard for ages beyond that, site of a garden of corpses to fade, crumble, a layaway, by the wayside, down the drain-o - some didn't want to drain, didn't like the hole, how dark it is, could not conceive of a pinprick yang in there, down there, could only see it as the funnel of oblivion, no tunnel, no other side. One way means one thing when there's time, and another thing when there isn't.
there's things i supposedly did, in dreams, i still connect to, the ones that haunt me the most, like i must orbit some hideous secret - but i don't know about all that, that's my special report, today's special, don't know why it's not on the menu, it went the way of that rotini i loved and business as usual, it's ripples in a river
and corporeal's going away
It's a British Steel future here, you know? It's fine, you're waiting for the funnel, I'm waiting for the funnel, we're all waiting for the funnel here on the street, it's a no-go zone for everyone else but we're waiting for the funnel, to suck us all into heaven, that deadlight, it's dreadfully delightful
let it be, let it dilate, let your soul dissipate like contaminant on dishes in detergent, frothing, frollicking, frottage being a cottage industry in this province, after you bloodlet, let the dishpit disintegrate, bet you didn't think you had it in you, did you dipshit, to use that word? the shameful story, what else can turn a dubiously honorable sepuku into a self-immolated activist who nobody cares about, he went to that extreme, doused himself with gasoline, and was a fleeting story on some boiler plate news aggregator, dishonorable discharge from life, the self-despiser can't even respect himself as a despiser anymore, couldn't even be a good addict, couldn't act the part, couldn't commit, contribute, kernal panic? Yes, don't hesitate, just do it. Do it accapella. Try and contrive that rhythm that we need, automatic, manual manipulation by an autonamous force above my head, above my pay grade, automatically, making me an automaton, but when i manage to metaprogram, for a microsecond, that frequency i can never climb to, i feel like i can set the nodes of automation for my track to forge a personality, a soul out of that, that's the best i can do these days, that's what i say, that's how i see it, that's how he sees it, that's how johnny sees it, ceded no ground, seeded apples all over it, was a groovy orchard for aeons, a skull orchard for ages beyond that, site of a garden of corpses to fade, crumble, a layaway, by the wayside, down the drain-o - some didn't want to drain, didn't like the hole, how dark it is, could not conceive of a pinprick yang in there, down there, could only see it as the funnel of oblivion, no tunnel, no other side. One way means one thing when there's time, and another thing when there isn't.
there's things i supposedly did, in dreams, i still connect to, the ones that haunt me the most, like i must orbit some hideous secret - but i don't know about all that, that's my special report, today's special, don't know why it's not on the menu, it went the way of that rotini i loved and business as usual, it's ripples in a river
and corporeal's going away
signal
Just hide, that's all you gotta do - just let it be - even when nothing's nearby. Just contrive a rhythm if there isn't one - just do it - just like they say, can't beat the real thing. Just bounce it off the wall, have it resonate, reverberate, certain half-life contrivance fade out. Just dream, that's all you gotta do, iterate through the dreaming brain, whatever form of consciousness you wanna call that, no reason whatever to think that...
A special report: Troper, Zoe Troper squirmed out of those clothes you made her - energy, made this life a painting, twists in vector perpendicular to the cube, a hole inhaling time, like that guy says, when words mattered more, a funnel forms [- She was made by a replicator, you could call her a replicent, I reported on this event. The replicents were replacing the mexicans, who replaced the mexicants, but finally even mexicans opted out of manufacturing maxi pads for pennies, the americando spirit assembled them instead for a transition period, like next gen nuclear kept things glowing for a golden age of atomic electricity, but ordinary pieces of toast, another fantasy that coulda been, theoretically, a blueprint for a free energy machine, impossible, things are too tangled up now, calm down, Nuclear People -] when they almost had the power of a replicator, coordinated directed molecular assembly, atomic sub routine - holographic replication to the planck constant - the other side of light maybe. The only things to ever avoid replication, assimilation into the replicent collective, were the guys that were so freaked out about jews replacing them, this master race of idiots, doomed to getting shot to death in pointless Monster Assaults or becoming Henry Hill, severed from his mob franchise, it got real eighties for a while there.
Mash it up properly, don't take anything that seriously, can't, can't be, it mustn't. But the parable of that episode is that it can be, let it be, just do it, it'll happen to you. THE experience simply happens when I let it, have to blood let it, practically make myself dead to make it happen, but when I go through semi-lethal contortions, put myself through anesthetic pull towards flatline abuse, then I can stop doing, it simply happens...
...the legends are true, I can exist here without a body, it's like if I was stuck firmly comfortably in the rut ringed with ripples that spread in expanding circles, perturbing a crystal lake with myself as oasis island, it was always like this, already, I just didn't notice, now I see, a lake, a sea, an ocean, a plane for simple beautiful movements that make a difference, so we can recognize signal, feel, up and down, did I stutter? Did you hear me? I think you did, but how is any hearing or seeing possible when there is no time, or it's more like time is a living thing, it's the erosion of your thing, it shapes you into that squiggle I wouldn't tag it with a name, like the lamia, I'll extend it to that - if it doesn't have a name, like the last track on your album, it can be heard as audio waves, the size of the spectrum is plentiful, multiple home run, extensions, replace me, I need something better to occupy this space, some one better, replace, cause I don't matter, I'm trying to give it up, this is my signal.
A special report: Troper, Zoe Troper squirmed out of those clothes you made her - energy, made this life a painting, twists in vector perpendicular to the cube, a hole inhaling time, like that guy says, when words mattered more, a funnel forms [- She was made by a replicator, you could call her a replicent, I reported on this event. The replicents were replacing the mexicans, who replaced the mexicants, but finally even mexicans opted out of manufacturing maxi pads for pennies, the americando spirit assembled them instead for a transition period, like next gen nuclear kept things glowing for a golden age of atomic electricity, but ordinary pieces of toast, another fantasy that coulda been, theoretically, a blueprint for a free energy machine, impossible, things are too tangled up now, calm down, Nuclear People -] when they almost had the power of a replicator, coordinated directed molecular assembly, atomic sub routine - holographic replication to the planck constant - the other side of light maybe. The only things to ever avoid replication, assimilation into the replicent collective, were the guys that were so freaked out about jews replacing them, this master race of idiots, doomed to getting shot to death in pointless Monster Assaults or becoming Henry Hill, severed from his mob franchise, it got real eighties for a while there.
Mash it up properly, don't take anything that seriously, can't, can't be, it mustn't. But the parable of that episode is that it can be, let it be, just do it, it'll happen to you. THE experience simply happens when I let it, have to blood let it, practically make myself dead to make it happen, but when I go through semi-lethal contortions, put myself through anesthetic pull towards flatline abuse, then I can stop doing, it simply happens...
...the legends are true, I can exist here without a body, it's like if I was stuck firmly comfortably in the rut ringed with ripples that spread in expanding circles, perturbing a crystal lake with myself as oasis island, it was always like this, already, I just didn't notice, now I see, a lake, a sea, an ocean, a plane for simple beautiful movements that make a difference, so we can recognize signal, feel, up and down, did I stutter? Did you hear me? I think you did, but how is any hearing or seeing possible when there is no time, or it's more like time is a living thing, it's the erosion of your thing, it shapes you into that squiggle I wouldn't tag it with a name, like the lamia, I'll extend it to that - if it doesn't have a name, like the last track on your album, it can be heard as audio waves, the size of the spectrum is plentiful, multiple home run, extensions, replace me, I need something better to occupy this space, some one better, replace, cause I don't matter, I'm trying to give it up, this is my signal.
4/17/19
4/15/19
I'm seeing the dim chaos of relationship emotions and politics playing out a thousand miles ahead of me... the dust storm approaching just in front of the first shock wave. The radiation arrived at light speed, has already blinded our eyes, flayed our skin - the mechanical acoustic waves are catching up a little ahead of the blast wave. They're loud.
4/12/19
The Special
Well, here I am again. In this strange place. Contemplating a strange action. Insane, one might say, insanophilic, the desire to go there, the place of insanity and self administered retina scars like black rainbows. If it's so special, why's it not on the menu? That cobalt blue verbiage.
Nobody knows you and nobody wants to. Contemplate that, completely, sink to the bottom of the mudhole, get every mol in you, and feel the deep reality of no one wanting to know you. That takes care of the bullshit but doesn't leave much.
It's returning, I'm reverting. Losing cool, drowning in paranoia and self-abnegation, fearing and affirming the worst about me, choking on the old useless paradigm that's just next door to murder, suicide, apocalypse, personal political, singularity of anxiety. There's an urgency building up slow and sly, a force behind the lines, critical mass'll hit some time, compress time, rough squeeze through raspy organ tubes.
Can't deny the need for void to be filled, take it seriously, I'm not careful what I wish for, fuck that. Fixing worked last time, for long enough, I'll take anything, the vacuum is so cold and sucking out everything. More reason to hope for a miracle, reasons to deconstruct it as a 'miracle', reasons for I shall be released any day now, cause of something she told to someone. It's not all sarcastic, the miracle doesn't require a miracle, when it happens it becomes the new paradigm, thanks God but I found a parking space, nevermind, don't need you.
Heat death coming for those trapped in linear time. But I'm not being stalked. When I'm not cool, I'm burning alive with nerves and adrenaline, I don't like adrenaline, I don't get off on it, I'm not being stalked by saber toothed tigers, I don't need that stuff pumping in tight headache pulses at a tempo I can never catch up with, to work with. Losing my cool, confidence, identity... uncomfortable in the skin even though I'm sober (for all intents and purposes) and taking better care of myself.
Not teachable. Not able to be a fan, of anything anymore. Wanting to be my own greatest fan, but failing at that. Sure, I can say that, why not?
Be like the boy. We like Roy. Whichever. Why do we care? Why write about apathy? Why expect anyone else to care about writing about apathy? Because it's not really apathy, far from it, apathy is a misleading sugar coat euphemism for caring so much it strangles me. Not so much you. But it's really true, it's not empty, or at least it doesn't have to be. Just seems eternal and infinite when I'm in it.
The thing I have no euphamism for returning, because I'm losing my cool. Feeling not worthy of anything. Gotta find the cool again, but can't through chemical crutches, and I don't even want to. Don't worry. I'm so upstanding I worry about you worrying. But the squeaky wheel gets the cock greased. I should ask for donations, fund my dickstarter. Hah. Ha. Yeah.
There's purple prose that isn't very visual, it's just like a bruise, a good old-fashioned bruise from when injuries were from having fun, as a kid, not from daily meatgrinders, online mindtinders. Any day now, I shall release. Inside. Within. Not without. So horrible to say this. Actually it would be fine to sing it, and I could give it an intonation and rhythm that would make it sayable, with style even, clothe in mesh-layers of sarcasms like kevlar, but writing, oh god, no prose is purple enough to obscure the bare words and their implications.
Nobody knows you and nobody wants to. Contemplate that, completely, sink to the bottom of the mudhole, get every mol in you, and feel the deep reality of no one wanting to know you. That takes care of the bullshit but doesn't leave much.
It's returning, I'm reverting. Losing cool, drowning in paranoia and self-abnegation, fearing and affirming the worst about me, choking on the old useless paradigm that's just next door to murder, suicide, apocalypse, personal political, singularity of anxiety. There's an urgency building up slow and sly, a force behind the lines, critical mass'll hit some time, compress time, rough squeeze through raspy organ tubes.
Can't deny the need for void to be filled, take it seriously, I'm not careful what I wish for, fuck that. Fixing worked last time, for long enough, I'll take anything, the vacuum is so cold and sucking out everything. More reason to hope for a miracle, reasons to deconstruct it as a 'miracle', reasons for I shall be released any day now, cause of something she told to someone. It's not all sarcastic, the miracle doesn't require a miracle, when it happens it becomes the new paradigm, thanks God but I found a parking space, nevermind, don't need you.
Heat death coming for those trapped in linear time. But I'm not being stalked. When I'm not cool, I'm burning alive with nerves and adrenaline, I don't like adrenaline, I don't get off on it, I'm not being stalked by saber toothed tigers, I don't need that stuff pumping in tight headache pulses at a tempo I can never catch up with, to work with. Losing my cool, confidence, identity... uncomfortable in the skin even though I'm sober (for all intents and purposes) and taking better care of myself.
Not teachable. Not able to be a fan, of anything anymore. Wanting to be my own greatest fan, but failing at that. Sure, I can say that, why not?
Be like the boy. We like Roy. Whichever. Why do we care? Why write about apathy? Why expect anyone else to care about writing about apathy? Because it's not really apathy, far from it, apathy is a misleading sugar coat euphemism for caring so much it strangles me. Not so much you. But it's really true, it's not empty, or at least it doesn't have to be. Just seems eternal and infinite when I'm in it.
The thing I have no euphamism for returning, because I'm losing my cool. Feeling not worthy of anything. Gotta find the cool again, but can't through chemical crutches, and I don't even want to. Don't worry. I'm so upstanding I worry about you worrying. But the squeaky wheel gets the cock greased. I should ask for donations, fund my dickstarter. Hah. Ha. Yeah.
There's purple prose that isn't very visual, it's just like a bruise, a good old-fashioned bruise from when injuries were from having fun, as a kid, not from daily meatgrinders, online mindtinders. Any day now, I shall release. Inside. Within. Not without. So horrible to say this. Actually it would be fine to sing it, and I could give it an intonation and rhythm that would make it sayable, with style even, clothe in mesh-layers of sarcasms like kevlar, but writing, oh god, no prose is purple enough to obscure the bare words and their implications.
4/04/19
4/02/19
Sgt. Draper, the seed crystal, and the Dead Angel
The dying angel is losing grip, the dead hand set to trigger the end of everything, for aeons anyway.
The poison seed crystal flows through me right now, liquid crystal, generating words that won't matter almost as soon as they're crystallized. Nothing lasts, but nothing is lost, here, we're all clear, there's a pointlessly gunshot man in the cabin, another one who died for nothing, like all death is in the real world, art imitates life and death.
3/31/19
the spring low
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
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
3/27/19
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
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