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

Leave a Comment

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

2 Comments

Reeling and Hurting

February 27, 2008 at 9:55 pm (Freestylings, Nonfiction)
Tags: , ,

Fuck. My chest is tight, my throat is pulsating, my eyes are glass, my mind is still reverberating from the wave of calm that hit me earlier, the type that makes you yearn again, the shit gets tougher as the time passes, withdrawal is deep and the mind matters less as every moment passes, and the things we seek, seem to fill glasses as if on automatic pilot, my mind is gone, my sight is blurry, my scent is funky, I’d pay you to do something funny, tell me what it takes to make a smile, a million dollars or a spoonful of sugar, call a diabetic right, call me a medic, ait.

Fuck.

So I have another bout of insomnia, despite the precautions that I took. I will not elaborate. Fried chicken, at KFC, that’d bring back some memories. Similarly, some posts on websites I haven’t visited in a while would bring back some memories.

If I had the time, money, patience and opportunity, I would take that trip to liberal arts land and write you a treatise on memory. Mnemosyne, the queen. Simonides and his feats. The banquet chamber and the seats. The well-ordered classical mind. All refer to artifices in the art of memory. A branch of rhetoric as you might recall. Or you might not. For memory is of things experienced, and yet it is fabricated of things that need not have occurred. It is by no means that fabled sense experience of philosophy, though it may be “it’s” product, memory is something far more plastic and malleable. It is the very meaning of who we are, there to be marveled at and known, though not according to any satisfactory norm. We know it anyway, and more clearly than anything else in our minds. In a flash of our mind’s eye we can see a forest. A god damn universe in immeasurable time. Animals are probably endowed with similar capacity, one could even postulate that their entire thought process runs along those lines. BUT MAN, right.

So memories of times past have gotten me to write this. The opportunity was insomnia of course. The times are not so long ago chronologically speaking. In the same time Stalin would have relocated and expunged enough people to finish a project, and in the same time I would have finished high school, dropped out of college multiple times, joined/quit a cult, worked various measly jobs, attempted to intellectualize solo, street-lived for months, worked some more bs work and finally left the country altogether to start a new life. So reading these posts from times past got me thinking about the changes, and not so much thinking as feeling. Feeling bittersweet emotions, the bitterness should be obvious and unjustified, the sweet, odd and well, sweet.

I will reflect no further. I am a mirror in need of polishing.

I apologize for the following, its pure shit.

–1158

Alligator, alligator, picks a slot and eats the blotter paper. Soon to be in neverland, Peter Pan, hand in hand, singing songs in chants and prance. Sing along and do demand, to make headlines on demand.

In the end there is no honor, single people, single bother, why do i speak words of wisdom, absurdity it makes no difference, why to shake and when to bother, tell me mother who is my father?

In this enchanted land, Alligator has hatched a plan, the shell has cracked upon the pavement, blueprint bleeds blue blood, what a delicious caper, unforunately the ink is gone, down the sewer, into the pond. Alligator follows through, with his eyes after me and you. Down the drain and out the toilet, Alligator is there to spoil it. Please explain to me the plan, speaks Alligator to the the old old man. Oldie takes out the paper, points and explains the foiled caper. Alligator acts as if in shock, then he pulls out his big ol –ock. Speak of the devil, thinks the old man, points HIS pistol and shoots the gland, prostate if I must be frank, alligator squirms and swims back into the tank. Bleeding in the diseased water, he starts to feel the end of the blotter. The drip drop of the faucet is powerful, the sights are clear, the mind still our cure for years. For the time to come, decades had to pass, the time came without the turn of an hourglass. Alligator, now Ali Slater, sits in his bathtub waiting.

Can you explain these stange visions, sir?, asks the boy his learned clerk.

Yes, I can, but I still have some work.

Please, indulge me, just this one time. I’ll pay you twice your normal dime.

Why thank you, master, I will oblige, for my sire, it is quite alright. What you saw was but a dream, a fanciful thing of bizarre proportions, the sky’s the limit to the distortions.

But i thought it was toilet paper.

Rectal administration, its best ingestion method…
1214–

Again, apologies accepted.

Leave a Comment

Meditation on A Coward.

February 15, 2008 at 8:11 pm (Nonfiction)
Tags: ,

Dies a thousand deaths. He does. Apparently a soldier dies but once. I wouldn’t know about the latter statement. The former one I’m duly familiar with. It’s certainly a sin, and there is much to be said about cultivating the opposing virtue. I’ll cower from that particular task and leave it to the reader to fill in the details however heshe wishes. As I ponder these things I tend to think about all those times when the smallest of actions, had they been undertaken, could have turned the tide in my inner turmoils. A pat on the back helps occasionally. A drink doesn’t, generally, even if it gets labeled liquid courage.

Our acts our angels are or good or ill, our constant shadows that walk by us still.(John Fletcher) This little chunk of wisdom, the implications of which generally lurk in the “shadows” is interesting to look at from the standpoint of habit formation (don’t be afraid to pick your favorite school of psychology to interpret how habits happen). The more we do something, the harder it is to retrain ourselves to replace it with something else. No matter how much you train, even the slightest slip up brings you back to your old habits. (if only for a short time, and certainly not erasing the new habits) A constant shadow nevertheless. Just look back. And if you are afraid of the dark, don’t go there, its all shadows.

Ever dream those dreams where the pain is unidentified but pervasive, the tension thick, the overriding sensation being of punishment from the outside? That is as good a death for a coward as any.

I wonder about our generation. What are we up to? What are we achieving? What habits are we forming?

,tose

Leave a Comment