Super tired

May 17, 2008 at 10:31 pm (Freestylings, Nonfiction)
Tags: , , ,

Super tired, all over with being wired, though a part of me still dreams of those furious fires, while resting in the rocking chair of the retired.

I always ask for explanations, as if someone has them, and I hope they do, even though my better reason points to the fact that they don’t. So tell me if in reason I am wont, maybe you can provide assistance where the others failed, its as if fools trapped themselves in a contest with an asteroid belt with horrendous forces pointed in their direction, ain’t no chance for a deflection from the impact that these rocks pack.

I am well aware that wisdom cannot be gained from a book, though the glosses are plentiful and even enlightening, such things are for light weight thinkers, the type that think that mere words can capture the essence of all being, the type that believe the reflections from their own mirror are something other than themselves, seeing in it all a bigger fool than “myself”, and don’t call it I, fuck em all.

I’m not an atheist, though I’m fully convinced that I don’t know anything in the way that I want to, and I am never satisfied even though most my material means are sufficient for my material needs, ya hear, and these things have stayed that way since the day I was born, thank my father, my literal father, boy, and as far as my Father, may he bless himself for in His realm I must always be but a happy slave.

So I stay tired and am more than reticent to accept your explanations, been raped before in the spiritual sense, so don’t even bother making your sly advances because I could give less of a fuck for your salvation and your beliefs of what is my spiritual situation, all I know is that this is not the best _possible_ universe, Leibniz be damned, and that since that is the case I’m not sure if life is even worth living. Romantics aside, I’m probably still on point, for if the human being isn’t special then he’s just a speck of dust and nothing he does is that relevant as fuck, right…

Maybe you can’t believe it but I used to shed tears over this sort of thing, Beethoven and all. Now I just drink and reminisce and think, realizing nothing of importance per se, but connecting subject to predicate nonetheless, honey, and even making the occasional paper or coin of money, and you realize this shit is funny. Though for me it is nothing but a tragedy of large magnitude, a family thing which hurts to this day, G. So I reminisce and let it be, while making moves that run in the opposite trajectory, having things be directed properly with the proper velocity and the appropriate acceleration, fuck it, this is my life’s situation, so I’mma plan with the tactics and the fitting strategy, so that you can react to it and make synchrony happen, buddy.

–2355, PART II

More postings of the same variety, right…

So let me express
what I can’t caress
this girl she stays at her distance
always minding her own damn business
and what can I really say, except to penetrate this thing, OK
and so I make my attempts and conquer, but it is of no consequence so why bother
the trees they grow so high they remind me of the infinite, so tight in circumference and in consequence
I wonder where all of this is going, but if I am to follow my path through the forest such that it will come out in the needed direction and will avoid all negative deflections from this simple man’s predilections, then I’ll love life and its hapless rays of happiness, treading on the territory long banned for us little citizens, and I have to do it lest I forget my rights so sovereign, a white man in a white land just thinking about his white hand’s right to white work in this white turf. Yeah I know the double standard, so get me high enough so I can die for it, I don’t love it so much that I need to procreate for it, and for the Nazi fuckers, I’m ready to be turned into a coat for it, so let’s do it, let me get my broken cross for it.

Fuck a chilly chap that fakes the funk, fucking with a skunk when he really needed to rock like a punk does on a rugged record sounding like it was ripped from four different sources, each from the other until the final product sounds like a porcupine scratchin’ the record, djigga srkatch, djiga what? Exactly..

What do you want from me? Whatever it is I can’t really care about it since the reality is too real for me to bother even as thousands suffocate in the ruins under China. Ain’t that chilly but at least it’s honest, fuck a liar, since he makes most his profits as a product of his personal misfortune, and then proceeds to exploit that slight advantage to keep promoting an impossible visage, he rots in hell even during his temporal duration, so it’s not like I forced myself on him, right, so why bother with the pulpit preparation?

And so to quote some cats: “What’s America without greed and glamor?”

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modified

May 9, 2008 at 8:29 pm (Freestylings)
Tags: ,

No need for introductions, thank Newton for the fluxions.

–1947

Words on the paper make me think about glorious rapiers slashing through the misty forest chopping up the greens like so much potatoes for the porridge, and with this culinary violence I aim to mince no words, though I may miss the sound of fifths or thirds, or what time may have you think is mandatory, I do it with that spice and gory glory so unwelcome in this our porridge’s story, which now heated will offer us with an excuse to dine…
“As if we need that and not more wine! Fuck a porridge!”

Excuse me–and I hate to be a bother, but since the sun is still underground I would find it proper that you remain calm and sober, at least until the break of dawn, lest when the sun comes up you find yourself facing down, trying to clean up what remains from your sleeping gown.

“There is reason for my crankiness and thirst for alteration, and that is that my brain is still hurting from the evening’s celebration.”

Understood but why not ask calmly? “fuck a porridge…” this ain’t exactly a restaurant, you see, and I spent time working on it for you and me. Apologies, if offered, will quickly be accepted but I insist that then with your wine the porridge will also be digested and in due time your head will be redirected.

“I’m sorry. Now can I drink so that once again I may think?”

You may, but don’t you fool yourself, my boy. There’s employment always to be found in fool’s errands, but it is not from lack of work that you chase these red herrings. Why seek what cannot be had by having what should not be sought so often that your self gets muddled in the process? said I as the porridge plopped into a pithy plate. The wine was poured, it was from the red grapes of grandpa’s vineyard, an eye opener if I ever saw one, and I’ve seen a plenty, the boy himself requesting naything except the silence of his quarters as I leave him to his own devices the porridge now cold but seasoned with plenty spices.

2021–

–1920
Gotta stay modified like some shaved wolf in a woolen coat, trampling freely over grass with impunity, a paid vacation from brutality, traded my suit for tenpence a hair but now I run with a glint of despair, looking for that land of milk and honey– all I need is stinkin money, but the fare is more expensive than what hair can get me, need to impress, need to pay fees, for nothing in the world is free, and for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, sheepish fellows now rockin that wolf fashion, scaring and scarring neighbors and children, while I graze on grass with broken down feelings, tell me what makes us fellows so easy to sway, and why it is from ourselves that we stray? Run away but stay sly, fly my son, fly so high to that never ever land of broken promises, the lies they do caress and the image at times fails to impress, but ain’t that the f-ing premise?

Gotta stay modified, like a silly boy with too much pride, like immorality its not what but how you do it, ebbs and tides if not flows and perturbations, of this our sinful nature, are to be analyzed if there is to be hope of figuring out this mess of man, and even then we should be prepared for a change of plan, before these things get entirely out of hand. Like some madman on a stomach bender, my palette–ever so tender in its hues and variations, understatements and overt arrangements… Freedom escapes me as the clock cuts down all finite competition, and as it does, I stare and listen.
1940–

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Don’t you know?

April 24, 2008 at 10:42 pm (Drafts, Freestylings, Nonfiction)

“Know what?,” you might ask. I’d prefer that you didn’t though because then it shows that I don’t know if you know what I know you should know, you know? Exactly my point, assuming a point was to be had, or made. And I’d much rather make one than have it, and after that give it up freely like some uncaged bird, wrapped up in sea-weed, for all to observe (ya heard!)… Why not.

Simply silly is my mind state of today, a most meteorologically pleasing day, spring came before the first of may, and managed to wipe away a good portion of those gloomy thoughts of yonder years that plagued this silly mind to the point of tears on not one but maybe 10 occasions plus or minus a smidgen and a heavy head placedon some train tracks, just waiting… But enough of that, the sunlight breaks through the raindrops and the trees have come to full bloom, the youth are actively preparing for the coming months’ many celebrations, and my soul is vibrating with the pangs of passion and elation.Maybe I am describing mania? Maybe not. If this is what they call being high on life, It’s enjoyable even if trite. So, lets get high tonight.

Upon reading something strange I realized that 4/20 passed and was not even noticed, hell I wasn’t even vaguely reminded of the supposed significance of the day up until right now. And this despite the calendars, cellphones and computers to prompt me along the way. I guess the reason is that it’s about as significant as St. Patric’s day and for the same basic reason(ok).

More bullshit I pile.

–2207
“Stunning, a stunning specimen. The finest of its class, where’d you get it at?”
“Nowhere special. But why do you say that? What are the distinguishing features?”
“Well, you see this here engraving?”
“Mmhuh.”
“Well, upon closer observation through this looking glass, you can see that there is actually an engraving within the engraving. You have to see it at an angle. Go ahead.”
[Fumbling, unsure what he's looking at.]
“Well, I think make out something, but really I can’t see what you are seeing. Are you sure about this?”
“Yes, of course, completely. Just turn the pen a little bit and you should see the reflection come off from within the grooves, but keep in mind that these are very small, and scattered.”
“I see something. I think it’s the letter A. Em, no, its an electrical tower, or oil rig, or something like that.”
“Maybe you should see an optometrist, you might be having a hard time getting that thing in focus, here try this one. You know, I do have a good one’s number that I can give you…”
[Gives it some thought. Looks at the shape again.]
“Ah. It’s a Tee Pee. How bizarre.”
“Yes, truly odd. They used to call ‘em the Indian special. Only 12 ever made. Capone had one. I think so did Nixon.” Terrible president…” [he mumbled] “And unless its a really good fake, then so do you.”
“Truly amazing. This is a strain on the eyes, but I think I make out another one. A buffalo.”
“Yes, not incredibly imaginative, but quite intricate, not to mention expensive.”
[rubs on eyes]
“Oh, really, here you go.” [hands him the optometrist's business card] “this guy can really help you out. A real professional.”
[puts card in shirt pocket]
“What kind of money are we talking about?” [looks back into the glass intently]
“You could probably find buyers who would dish out 5 figures for this sort of thing, but of course you’d have to know how to advertise it. Otherwise the worthless becomes simply priceless.”
“Yes, well what sort of five figures. 20, 50, 90?”
“It really depends. There won’t be immediate demand, and it would have to be vouched for, and ultimately it is the buyer’s market but if I was you I wouldn’t settle for less than 30.”
“Thanks a lot. I gotta go, I guess.”
“Yeah, no problem. Let me get you my business card. If you ever need someone to vouch for it, or if you want me to talk to some people with taste, we can have something arranged.”
[reaches for the card before the man pulls it back]
“Oh, I forgot and here’s my cell phone on the back.” [passes the card back. takes it, puts it in his shirt pocket]
“Thanks again for everything but I really have to get going. Pressing matters.”
“Of course, good bye.”
[The bell on the door chimes. The door closes.]
2242–

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stressed style

April 12, 2008 at 6:39 pm (Freestylings, Nonfiction)
Tags: , , ,

Hello, dear reader.

Read dearly, for I welcomed you to do so sincerely. I’m under stress, but quite above the weather if such a thing makes metaphorical sense to you. Its that time when things just keep adding up and despite the lack of time you let it touch you not. Some people call it every day, but for my lucky self its just this and the next couple of months, assuming I prevail. I’ve given the short story some passing thoughts and decided to continue it after all, but it’ll have to be done some time during/after next weekend. This weekend I’ll attempt to lay down anything on the page before returning to my work. Muses, kick it to me.

–1732
Walking in a stilted pose, my thoughts are in repose, and though I’m tired I suppose that if pressed I’ll have to oppose your flowing prose with the heftiest of dose of lines ripped off from poe’s
anthology of verse, or worse I’ll make some comments on your tone so terse and your humor–cursed like a man comatose sleeping in a hearse, waiting to wake up–six feet under, wishing he never woke–illusions torn asunder.

You still think you have it all together, and though my thoughts are compacting under pressure, in comparison your style is still lacking in that precious measure, and that is a theft of the highest treasure known as trust between yourself and those you lust, a lack of honesty was the first and will be the final touch; of Death if you will, or as have you, or as you DON”T, I’ve had enough of hate, and I admit that in that I’m wont, it’s my undoing, my spate of reason, a hypocrisy, and hypocrisy is bloody treason.
–1752

1754–
So many years, and so few in comparison to a equal infinite of things temporal, it seems as though my and all ages are equally reared in ignorance, though unequally endowed with intelligence and though this seeming paradox at times smarts it also reassures an equal infinity of times. I hold no proof of the matters here so quaintly laid out, but I just as haughtily sing to you that such a proof would be meaningless to all but a few lost logicians. And for much the same reason I’d much rather hang with musicians even if their trade is more difficult and straining it produces more joyous mental (d)effects though its training, and can be appreciated by all save the deaf.

To say something positive of both, the deaf and the dumb are still better than blind, for one should not perceive the light only through the mind’s eye, its vision so easily disturbed by the slightest perturbations of emotions or so restricted in its ability for comprehension by excessive concentration. So what can I say about the blind except that they are in a sense dead to the world-at-large, lacking both preconceptions and the capacity for circumlocution they simply change their presuppositions and posit their positions through oh so many pokes and prods as to receive all our respectful nods. May she rest in peace, our lady of Justice, the same one who somehow rests on principles invisible, though quite sensible and arbitrary.

-1836

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Buggin’ Out

April 8, 2008 at 7:47 pm (Freestylings, Nonfiction)

Currently Listening
The Low End Theory
By A Tribe Called Quest
Buggin Out
Currently Reading
Don Juan
By Lord George Gordon Byron

The above suggests a hefty combination of the highest amorous intentions of the romantics with the funkiest intentions of the Tribe. Of course it could all be a lie, but then again, why bother, I assume its a typical enough combination among bloggers my age, or at least not atypical enough to merit attention. But what about the character who lies about that which merits no attention? Well, I guess that’s a fairly strange fellow. I won’t lie, I’ve been that type of strange before but I’m a different type of strange right now. A constant of course remains. Some might even say “Yo shorty back here buggin’ out” to quote the tribe. And constantly at that.

So maybe puberty comes late for a cultie. I hope so, I hope this shit ends one of these days. I can’t take hormones fucking with me, I’m too linear a dude.

As far as scene 7 goes, I’m guessing it just wont come right now. I’m not feeling it, and though I could pull some shit out my ass right now, it just doesn’t align with my original intention (the same one I’m not feeling) and so it would be messing with me which, I guess, is another way of saying I’m being slothful about this story. Then again I suspect I’m going to hell. The classic catholic fears worry me not and I will pay what I need to pay to afford this lifestyle of laziness.

And so…

Greetings, people.

My mind is blank and yet I feel the pressure building in my chest, which normally means I need to vent in one way or another on this forum, so pay no mind to my lack of mind, and keep on reading, assuming you exist and all, dear reader.
If you are just some Russian/Chinese Casino/Viagra/Valium/Real Estate bot trying to spam the comment sections of this website, keep on spamming, for that literal one in a million might just be the one in a couple of billion reader on this little piece of internet farmland. This blog _is_ the American Dream. Imagine us plugged in, tubes tightly tucked in, and blissful. Currently my position is horizontal, my state-slightly inebriated, my intentions- good enough to write with, and my patience–dwindling.

Stick to what you trust, and you will trust what you stick to.

The opener:

–2147
Can’t vibe to the rhythm, feel strange sitting, spitting on the floor, blasting blood on the marble surface with my head wrapped up in a worry– what a circus, and the time is running out and the animals are coming out their cages, and are hungry. Tell me what can I do to soothe their nerves? Save for music, maybe so, but who will save me? Who will make the effort to reach out for his brother and if not help then at least not hurt me, and accept that this brother will probably remain thankless doing nothing of value, except if he somehow becomes moved by the whole thing, which I not only highly doubt, I doubt, collecting doubt from multiple sources and trading my better angels for it, with doubt I gloat, and hang that medal on my god damned coat.
–2152
–2008
And so I’m standing high, as in stoned, and am staring into a friend’s eyes and in between us is a scene straight out of some soap opera, a guy yelling at a gal over some thing not worth our time, and we don’t hear it anyway, though the scene is real–we are abstracted from it. She’s yelling back and I give my buddy a nod and he seems to be in the same space and all of this is amusing to us and I don’t know what to say or do except to plug in my headphones and nod to the beat while witnessing this melodrama. The funny part about it is that the actors really seem to enjoy having an audience, even one as messed up as us and so the show must go on. And what can you say to that, really? I say nothing and keep on nodding as the actors start overdoing it a bit, not even sure themselves if they are pissed at each other or want their drama exported to the greater audience now available. Me and my buddy are joined by some onlookers, seemingly sober, even though we are at some sort of afterparty, in observing this bathetic scene. The additional audience also register some level of dissatisfaction within themselves with the scene, but have not the gall to ignore it altogether. This being their inner state, they exchange glances among themselves and take the time to acclimate themselves to the hectic climate, one so at odds with the dance floor where they came from. Me and my comrade in smoke decide the scene is conventional enough to depart and enter the darker room where the bass rules and make our voices heard, within our heads at least, yelling at the top of our lungs in our separate spaces, drawing ever farther as the crowd swallows us. I nod and he responds, and then there is nothing more. A scene from our time and nothing more, youthes in our daily situations, a little puzzle and a little more.

–2241

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post++

March 29, 2008 at 6:39 pm (Freestylings, Nonfiction)
Tags: , ,

And why not, I’ll write another. Hey, so say hi to your boy. Do it, and do it more often than you prefer to, and do it even if the Nile shortens by a mile or two and do it even if the mountains collapse and the seas overflow and the sky rains rocks hitting us all in our respective blocks. Imagine the damage, and overcome it, and if you _are_ the damage, collateral or not, still say hi to your boy, and share the joy.

So my alcoholic antics are under control, either than or I’m in heavy denial. God knows, but it’d be nice if I could be certain about any damn thing some of the damn time. The time and thing being damned aside, certainty is not something I’m good at. Precision I’m getting better at, but oh oh oh pipes the piper.

That knotty bundle of nerves, that tension unremitting, that thing they called heart, what a thing to own. Mine aches from time to time, and the heart fibrillating amounts of caffeine only help to speed past the thing quicker. I dunno, I’ve never known what the point is, but work is a nice island, and a pleasant mirage. Motivation boils down to treating the mirage as something Real more often than not.

–2023
The children run wild in the fields. They are discovering the essence of life, and don’t feel an ounce of guilt, though they might feel a gram of some. And so they smile and they hold hands and jump and scream with their shrill screams and they seek one another, eyes closed counting down to the end of the clock, they are bound to find one another, and even if they can’t they will still try and even if it all goes nowhere they will persevere, so much for the uniqueness of the individual, it is as if in a moment they are all the same, a single team, a single motion, unified in that joy of emotion, that emotion of joy.

Fast forward some 15 years and they need help to get them to the same place. They need crutches, they need substances, they need bass, they need sex, they need attention, they need more than they can have, and they need it all the time, they need, they need, they need. And how much and by when, and with whom, they know. Why? God knows, I suspect. Fuck em all. I’m better, and I’ve been better, and I stay better. Even back when I was a bed wetter and couldn’t play in the fields because they beat me stiff and blue in school hallways and bathroom stalls, even back then I was better. So in my silent place, in my private chambers I forced my mind into decisions that I refuse to regret, and today I stand tall and proud in no need of need, in low spirits indeed but looking down on those poor fools, those silly mammals those high brow camels, those pathetic shambles that as children chimed so sweetly.

I’m your pusher man, I have what you need, so pay your bill.

– 2036

– 2048-
I need to speak and if I cannot then you will do it for me. I’ll handle your jaw with my hand, little puppet, speak and don’t forget to make those words leap out your throat as if they were meant, and make sure my time is not misspent, for suckers like you are cheap and time is money.

Aren’t you tired of the same things happening on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday and then pretending that something new will occur on Thursday? Self delusion, sweeter than sweet lies, because even if they are meant it’s more expensive. What can I say? If anything it would probably have to be something that you couldn’t handle on a good day, and today is a horrible one, the type that occurs when you forget what you are attempting to achieve. And the necessary desire has been forgotten and stashed in some dark closet, locked and reopened by British excavators, newly visiting the lands north of the equator, stolen and resold, and by some odd means returning to their master after their massive untold struggles unfold, and even then you are unsure, so embrace this trust and talk as I thrust.

The history of this thing, my message, is long and needs no forgetting and even less regretting. If I could explain, then I would but since you re doing it for me, then you shall unfold it for me, and you will do just fine, you’ve been preparing for it for quite a while, since I’ve been your friend since before you knew my name I’ve been there since the beginning and I’ll make it to the end, you have nothing to fear you have no reason to bleed you can chime in as you need…

–2105

2125–
I’m making no sense and even if I made more sense on the average I would still have to make it dense, and would still have to prepare the fence for the shooting of the guards and the fence cannot face the slaughters And I cannot stand the tears and I cannot bear the years and maybe you shall share your expertise?
Bitch I make chump change out of fools like yourself and you are nothing but a tub of salt in an ocean of guilt, so where’s the boat? I sent out the SOS hours ago, and just a guess, its not here yet? Right, well, tell me please what am I to do? Even if it was up to me, which it never has been, the angels refuse to descend and help me transcend, and don’t act like I didn’t try, because I did and don’t call me bitter because I’m downright acidic, fuck a pH scale, I’ll make you choke on the inhale or on the exhale, quixotic tonic, got you thinking of turnstiles and styles erotic, like chocolate cake and that temptress topic, silly mammals listen to slivering snakes, like they don’t know no better…

So I want to arrive in the park in full gear prepared for the new year like Santa Claus, with the latest words from my lawyer, paying attention to the payment clause. I need the understanding that I’ve been demanding, It’s a contract and my head’s been expanding, don’t call it an ego, because that shit’s forbidden, and only sometimes forgiven, assuming you are clever and keep it hidden. So prepare your defense and make sure you are ready for the run and the jump above and across the fence, because if you can’t hack it, it’ll hack you, the devil’s in the detail and sometime now it’ll get you.
–2135

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Windy days.

March 16, 2008 at 11:04 am (Freestylings, Nonfiction)
Tags: , ,

Currently Listening
Reachin’ (A New Refutation of Time and Space)
By Digable Planets

Scene 6 has not been worked on, since life has been intervening on my little fantasy world. Meanwhile, this intervention has not been enough to shake this little post’s persistence. Should I self-censor? I do. So I’m walking back from school the other day, am homeward bound and am getting drunk at various pitstops. A recently purchased and replaced mp3 player is pumping highly familiar and nonuniformly depressing songs into my hearing cavities. I’m feeling sick, lovesick I guess, assuming it wasn’t the liquor or the music, and decide to skip my house till I sober up. So I keep walking, passing by some buildings that are vaguely familiar to me by virtue of my irregular stumbling upon them in various states of drunken duress, one set particularly familiar due to a recent memory of a shooting around there.

A shooting, yes. Since you can’t just bring this sort of thing up without elaborating, I’ll mention that the pistol was (hopefully) a gas pistol (all bark no bite) and that I got out of there quickly either way. I made eye contact with the shooter, but was rather far either way so I didn’t bother following up with the police or anything. Plus, with police around here its more rather than less useless to follow up.

But back to me, myself and I. I’m walking, trying to keep from staggering, and the hours are starting to pass, and my whole body starts to get heavy, but the music is still pumping strong and there is still some of that energetic feeling to the liquor and so I just keep walking. I walk for a good four hours on fumes and mp3s. The scenes seen in that light were priceless. The invention of portable music devices has made it possible to live your life with a soundtrack and I respect that, deeply. Thank you to the ones who throughout the years have worked/profited from work in the field of portable music devices, encoding formats, etc. Since I still download music for free I guess my thanks to the artists in/out of the music industry should be directed as worked/didn’t profit. Most of you profited anyways so I’ll just thank you and you take it as you like it.
The scenes in that light were basically a kind of landscape portrait of erosion and attrition of the urban landscape. That and way too many white power slogans all over the place. What did those god damn fabled jew-masons do to you that you now have to break windows and act like a hooligan in the name of Beethoven and all that is good and German. I guess the national socialists are accepting slavs these days, white enough to be Aryan. I hear good things about the Asians, but they are still to be distrusted. Even black people are starting to be ok in certain more cultured nazi corners, but jews are rank evil. That’s Europe for you, eh. a freestyling for the good old days:

–1232 How can I unleash this torrent so that it pours out the way a lioness roars for her cubs, like the pipes burst on the street, like heads burst with my lips. It must be patience and perseverence, the passion of an army of spirits, souls and saviours, the simple people and their pastor’s sleeper cell. I suggest we conspire to bring about that time when there will be no more earth wind or fire. As for the water, let her flow, let her wash all that is around, for all years old. Let there be a new begininning, a new contract and a new upbringing, let it be free from sinning, and better than the last, the time is ripe for a fast, but not so fast, terror man, the time is not ready for your slight of hand, and it sure as hell is not the law of the land.
this isn’t real and you know it
love, my heart on the stove, sizzling like a shish-kebab
while you smile and you nod
to my words so innocently suggested
my thoughts so wickedly inflected
explain to me why should I bother
when this thing will go no farther
than where it started, in me myself and I
you surely know, for the barbecue smells good
and your senses sure cannot deceive you
mine don’t and yet I cannot see you
distortions elevate you to some place close to god
a living being, my place is somewhere else
out my chest comes out a childish sob
while I mask that so I come off tense
on this bed where I lie, cheat and rob
on this bed of earth I act a snob much like surely do you
if I could only see you too.
so much salt and grain, gets is precious rain
–1302

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Things that have been said.

March 5, 2008 at 7:22 pm (Drafts, Freestylings, Nonfiction)

It has been said that I write too much for the reader to cope with. I have taken it upon myself to assume that I should therefore write more. It has been suggested that I compose my thoughts more, possibly into some sort of short story. I figure I already include a fictional section in each of my posts, so I might as well compose my otherwise as freely-as-possible-associated thoughts.(at least from time to time) Before I get to the fictional, however, I’ll mention some of the happenings in my internal and external life in as cryptic a manner as possible.(if only to keep to the requirements of minimal online anonymity)

I’ve had this monologue running through my head the whole day. I revisited it at different times, and in different moods, simply to experiment with how it would sound. Its audience is a special torturer of mine, a colleague of mine I see on the daily. Its narrator is the almighty and quite sickly I. Its subject is the disease that links us. I will not reproduce the monologue since you, generally speaking at least, are not the audience. I will share a recurring theme, however.

The painfully beautiful.

Picture eyes. Rather dark ones, shades of brown, if you are still picturing. Picture them however you prefer to imagine your eyes, with one requirement. Make them awfully striking. And yes, I mean awfully. Evade all cliches, though you could certainly apply most of them with the appropriate intent, evade them nonetheless because they are not what you feel as you look into these curious things. I don’t really know about you, but I feel that curious feeling of wretched pain coupled with a wantless need. One does not outshine the other, and neither outshine the eyes themselves. Lively things, those eyes. Maybe they should be part of a face. Maybe not. I wonder what causes the fixation. I call it a disease, and innapropriate attraction is its main symptom. More than distracting when trying to act normal, whatever that means.

And here I was–planning, time-managing and being a responsible citizen. This is just two weeks ago, and I thought that I had finally gotten it all collected and then this damn disease hits me. Mission impossible, indeed.

Pathetic. A world of choice, and I chose the one that will get me sick. Fucking masochist. Enough of that.

Short Story-Draft

Scene 1- The Traffic Jam
–
The day is running along and Andre is late for fork. Stuck in traffic, Andre is shifting between radio stations nervously, his upper teeth are pinching against his lips in between his lower teeth, and his eyes are desperately searching for a way out of this slow death. The seeking program on the radio finally locates a station that he can stand. The freeway is multiple hundreds of miles of concrete, and in Andre’s section consists of a five lanes that at night allow street racers to perform daring maneuvers to the sound of blasting techno music. Andre’s gaze has turned towards tire marks, the remains of some vicious race undoubtedly, and his body is momentarily feeling the rhythm of the funk station. The mirrors vibrate off of the baseline. Andre rolls down his window. He extends his elbow out and so announces his manhood, which signal makes the airflow into the car approved, but his situation no better. Sweat rolls down his temple. His fingers start tapping out of tune.

“Why the fuck does everyone have to pile on the same damn road at the same f——- time. F—, f— f—…. It’s the third time… This just is _not_ going to look good. F—”

Andre lowers the volume and lights his cigarette as the commercials roll. His free foot starts tapping, and he signals to switch lanes. He does so swiftly, slightly cutting off a sleepy engineer. He presses the gas. Then he stops. He presses the gas, and then slows down. Then he stops. And he presses the gas. And then he speeds up, and then he stops. And then he waits.

“What about salmon, mommy? Can’t we get more salmon!? Its so rich in –” Asks little Johny, the soccer champion on KXYZ, “The Chamelion!” before Andre cuts him off with his seek button.

The lane that he had just been in speeds up.

Part 2– later.
–

15 min freestyle:
–2115
The lion’s fur is waving in the air. The wind seperate each individual hair and gives it life. THe lion stands erect and proudly gazes, chest forward, into the great pasture. The sun is setting, and the lion’s retina is changing its size. The night is a time much awaited. All day spent lying down lazily and thinking of nothing special, just observing the scene. The wind signals change, and the fur does its duty.
–2122

Too tired to continue, sorry. Turned out quite short this time.

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The daily times.

March 3, 2008 at 5:39 pm (Freestylings)

Perfect timing. Bell rings, I kick out the salesman, without even busting a sweat. In between jerking it and playing the new gta, I ruin this man’s carefully arranged face. Fuck a salesman, and his family, and his sister, and his baby cousin. Fuck em all. I have needs to attend to. Selfishness to the maximum.

Interlude aside… People dying, burning up in trains, national heroes being revived through song and praise. Google it, if you need to. Enough references here to make out what I’m saying. The national thinking, somewhere between depressed and pious. My state- drunk, as per usual.

So, mirror, mirror on the wall, tell me when shall I fall. Mind you, done it before. What has made me into a boorish whore? Tell me. Speak, you shiny glass, you bounty of hermetic mysteries. Speak.

You cannot, as I suspected. Inanimate things, so limited. Pathetic functions, so bounded, while my people, all (my) people, so unbounded.

Since you cannot speak, I’ll speak through you, for you–my reflector, call you blog, call you spectrum of choice, colorful and full of voice, microphone and speaker for the internal feeling, the internal vision, the magical eye, the sixth sense, intuition in the Descartian field, geometrical ideal of the most manic sort, that is you, my irritable chore.

My mind is still calculating under heavy fire, will I panic, will I flee, will I just sit here and wetten, be it from urine, blood or sweating? I guess it’s the timeless choice of animal and man alike… fight or flight, fuck or shy, lead or cry, do it under the divine eye. No pressure, just choices to be made, and they are free, as we are so often to be reminded. Call me cynical, call me suicidal.

So the boat ships out and I wave to the public, the mist rolls in and they vanish. Before I knew, and before you suspected–the thunder rolls down and the skies are setting. My thoughts turn towards my mother– dying. So I stroll down in the rain, the floors ‘a quakin’, to my cabin, crying and plans ‘a making. So I sit upon my bench of wood, as my shipmates light the cannabis and I think to myself in this foamy water, will I slip, will I bother… So many things to be arranged, so many things to be done before a man is made. How many roads, right. How many rows, I say, in the galley slave alley, I say. Speak, and bear witness, while I walk through the valley of the deserted with the quickness. Explain to me the reason behind this madness, the whole world speaks of violence and nobody even flinches, tough motherfuckers and ignorant bastards alike, they pretend and they’re bright. Either you die under your own word, or you profit and still burn. So in this cabin, and in this smoke, I choose to not take that toke, and instead waft throughout the mist taking no breaths, while the police starts ringing their alarms about the sess.

Why? Why? Why?… my thoughts till I die.

–
Something of a spontaneous freestyle I guess. No minutes clocked on that one. I got no time to rhyme. I speak the truth.

Remember those movies where the aliens learned english from watching Schwarzenegger flicks, well, I’m doing the same, except with hip hop. Go figure…go figure [echo, echo, echo]

Childhood memories, still running through my head. Little sir echo, raising his head out the swamp, singing a little british tune in the voice of my mother, singing a school-age rhyme. Strange life of change, be it in kilometers or miles, I still count in hours and particularly in seconds. Tick. Tock. They used to call me Dr. Spock. Can I blame em? No time to tame ‘em. Management skills, spell it with a z. Skillz needed to be real, in this field of transactions, needed to get some action, needed for all that is valued, in this society of ours, making change, and racking up the percentages, the points, the shit I abhor, my valued labour. I’m here to sell my self, even though my cv be puny. And what about yours? That size of your dick I adore…

Like romans, raised for battle, equipped with actuaries and lawyers not gladiuses or lyres, our bodies look like pussies, to our much respected predecessors and companions, the ones who steer these Roman galleys, the ones who bleed and don’t even move a lip. Their faces set on stone, their eyes don’t roam, just focus and unfocus, on a point, and on its locus, ready for war, simply divine, praying to the one on the chariot of fire, red is his favorite color, and if you were greek, you’d play the lyre. Raised like ‘em, but learned nothing. Books stacked and ready, yet the eyegaze stays tuned to the tube on steady. Explain to me the fixation, I know you suspect something as the problem, starts with b and ends with read, and some c and ircuses.

Primary orality, what a banality, switch to that which is expected, remind youself of the things respected by your peers, or the ones in your demographic, same thing really, ingore the mental dissonance, or traffic of the train of thought, that type of thing leaves you quite distrought, as it should and as I suspect it would once you discovered the TRUTH, rining from the mountaintops with a voice of shaking thunder, quite the wonder. Explain to me why its not a distraction, why its nothing more than a careful predilection towards a certain breed of heavenly inflection in the tone of voice of the warrior, the type of thing for the clairvoyant on the sneak tip, what a slave ship…

Our bodies stacked by the dozens, racked by chains, our shit smeared on walls, the water yes it falls in controlled quantities from metal spoons and our minds are reduced to the level of mental stools. Fuck and forget about it, yet we cry about it, our souls were meant for more and we did nothing about it, just signed the waiver and waved our goodbye’s as the ship set out to the land so so far. Ah yes. Oh no.

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End of the Week

February 29, 2008 at 7:14 pm (Freestylings)
Tags: , , , ,

I’m a bit tired, and that would be an understatement. We provide the fire with kindling it needs as the night proceeds. Jose is given the task, but we all end up doing it, since its fun to walk into the woods looking collecting sticks in the dark, friend or not. We’d go two and three at a time. Laughs shook the forest. It was the type of scene that makes horror film writers get especially excited. It was also the type of scene that would not go anywhere particularly horrific. Makes me wonder why I talk about it at all. You must know the feeling, that feeling where you just remember something and are not completely sure why it’s important, but are struck with the impression nonetheless. At times like this I tend to get a little freudian. Allow me to associate, as freely as I can. First, the woods. Dark and full of sleepy life. Teeth around the corner. A bloody mess– a possibility. Certainly some sticks. Definitely some knowledge and joy. But what about me? Slightly alienated, always a step away from the rest. I reveal more that I want to reveal when I least suspect it. Certainly not a smooth operator. I wish to be more than I am, don’t we all. Engrossed by the sticks. Are they dicks? Not freud’s strongest point, I think. The sticks remind me of childhood, when we’d fight with them, and break things with them, and break them if they couldn’t break what we were trying to break. Or maybe he was on to something…? And now they are our break, the reason for our bonding. Which makes me think of chemistry, and why not? Is it not worth thinking about? Makes me wonder what exactly the therapeutic worth of this whole process is… For it to work, I guess I need to be directed, possibly other-directed, and why not if nothing else works.

So I’m sexually frustrated as per usual. Why not mention it, I mention everything of importance on this bizarre thing called blog… what a horrible sound. So I quit smoking, which I’d started just a couple of weeks after I started school here. I’m now an alcoholic. I’m sort of getting concerned. I drank something like 3/4ths of a liter of gin today, all day. I’m always falling for impossible things. They’re so much better than The Real, no? I’m losing my composure, and that might be a good thing. I don’t know. I live with an old woman, and death is in the air on a daily basis whether I want to admit it or not. I try to make her feel better about herself and and up feeling shitty about myself, while she continues along her path as deep as her life, and I upon mine as shallow as it is. No matter, i wonder when it will end, and it’s only natural for the rational.

So many thoughts, and they all reek of melodrama. I guess. My meter for these sorts of things is off. +-infinity as far as I’m concerned. I know I’m coming off depressed, but its a dull existence that I lead. “Existence,” what a dirty word. So simple, and I wished for more. My mind is not what I wanted it to be. Cheers to that, homes. Houses, whatever. And no matter how much psychologists attempt to convince me that happiness, or its pursuit, is not that important I can’t help but disagree. Nothing personal, of course.

I’m tired, so tired.

Hmm, I guess there is much to be said about not taking yourself too seriously. I’m not sure I’ll say it. Everything important has been said already, no. No! ?

It’s not what you say, its how you say it. How reassuring.

Fickle.

freest. 15m

–1945
Gelatin on an old man’s tray.

Old man: “Jell-o, OK!”

Yeah, right. Right?

Spoon to mouth existence, certainly. What about it? Its a good way to insert something chewable into the toothless bastard’s diet. Hell, you can fortify it with vitamins. Why not?

I’m tired of this job. I need life. Green grow the rushes, ey! I’m still green, that’s what everyone says. And they say it like its a bad thing. I stay green. I like it that way. Its all so simple when you’re green. That’s the color I’d die for.

Its got to end. Life is limited, just like opportunities. Opportunities are a life of their own, in their own way.

A little birdy let me speak out the windows of my cell through its graceful flight, my messages were transmitted, to the worrisome little kitten. I, so tired of my world of sin, renounced it–the world, for the flights of fancy. The bird refuses to renounce the universe, and still fancies flying. I make a virtue out of habits which I don’t possess, and reach for it in duress, while others grab it without the slightest hesitation, but me and my cellmates unite in this frustration. Sloppy seconds, and tertiary lepers make the lowest noises possible, in this world of open madness.

See, in our not so distant past, there was a method through which heroes were created. Its something of a cult actually. First thing you have to do is embrace death as the probable necessity of your cause. Then you have to train yourself to hold on for your life to an ideal. Next you have to define strictly what you will let go of, so that nothing can separate you from your life in this ideal, and lastly you have to persevere, to your likely death. Your immortality is guaranteed.

Supposedly. I am still flirting with that first step, and what keeps stopping me from embracing it is the last promise. God, maybe you can explain it to me through your mysterious silent signs. Immortality sure escapes memory.

And so I am tirelessly driving my wagon, in a fractured state. My 82 Honda feels like my teeth, in need of a check-up. My racial status is clearly marked out. I’m white like the grand imperial ghost, and if I spent money to fry under a machine, I’d be tan like light toast. I want to impregnate a dark woman and create some mongrels. Maybe one day the races will vanish. Will the tensions persist? In the meanwhile I enjoy the benefits which are vanishing. Maybe one day there will be peace, but for now I choose the path of ignorance.

See, there was another man who the silent majority remains silent about. I will also remain silent to honor the current tradition, at least as regards his name. He advocated the total and maximal learning of ignorance. In other words, let us not shy away from revealing to ourselves our total ignorance of the universe, and hence by becoming maximally ignorant, we through the coincidence of opposites in God become what we can be.

This is my ideal. But of course this is not what I mean when I say I choose the path of ignorance. Following Tradition, I choose the noble path of Ignorance, of the conventional sort that is. For example, I have no idea how to repair my Honda. No idea at all. I pay people for that. I pay the god damn top dollar in fact. Nothing can stop me. Except reality, of course. But in my dreams and day dreams I AM UNSTOPPABLE. Can you dig?

Oh, fuck, I missed a turn.

Anyway. As I said, I drive people for a living. It pays enough. Statues dissolve in the acid rain of our concrete jungle. Can you dig?

There we go, the parking lot. We’ve arrived. And you, now you must roam somewhere else, try Harold Square or something. Shoot, out of here!

–2110

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