Super tired

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

April 12, 2008 at 6:39 pm (Freestylings, Nonfiction)
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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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Why not, drop a line.

February 21, 2008 at 8:59 pm (Freestylings, Nonfiction)
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Drip drip drip. The faucet is releasing its metallic water, and the sink is accepting it with the grace of porcelain. In a thousand years will this sturdy sink have been carved away by the water’s persistent drip? Maybe, if the metal doesn’t corrode into a pile of rust, or the sink doesn’t just fall off the wall. Physics does its thing either way. Persistent, pshht. Humans are impatient. We measure time by our mood swings. Some things take an eternity, like time-distorting drugs, others really take an eternity. It would be most natural to measure time by counting the average lifespan as a 1, and everything else as some convenient multiple of that. 1986 would be year 1. Right now would be year 22(30%).

I’m getting old, folks. The sad thing is I’m already tired of people, and myself in particular. Even though I am a grown ass man, I’m really not that old.

Having quit a cult and various mind-altering substances, as well as almost everything positive in my life from the period before that, I am a man with a fresh chance at life. Supposedly we are all that way, if we choose to be. I don’t know about all that. And really, I don’t know a damn thing, and that much I know.

So what is happening these days? I drink a lot, and I’m not even sure why. Something like morning, noon, evening I’m sipping on some beverage. I’ll probably quit it abruptly like everything else. What actually worries me is that I’m not really sure what I am doing on this planet. It’s like I survived some global apocalypse and am wandering the world all alone surveying the planet’s wreckage. Like something out of a bad L. R. Hubbard book/movie, except without XENU and paying money to get brainwashed. Cities overgrown with vegetation and fauna and me… wandering.

Wondering. So I’m studying at this school. Basically I select a major on a whim and get to it. And its actually a difficult education, despite requiring no application save for the almighty euro, the gold coin of the wild wild east. And so let’s say that this career choice was hastily made. Made in something like a day of thinking. More like 4 seconds, really. Speaking of moments that last a lifetime, eh. Well, lets say it worked out.

And so right now I’m pursuing this completely arbitrary path and its actually turned out to be a pretty good “choice.” Kind of makes you wonder how important choices are in the first place. Damn important, but ultimately without relevance. Or is this metaphysics? Probably.

I’m curious what makes metaphysics so ill respected. I suspect its people like myself, the ones who use it irresponsibly to make certain rhetorical points that echo thunder from Olympus. Well, I can’t help myself. Maybe a professional will devote his life to attempting to create a logically coherent system of metaphysics and he’d still be infinitely far away from what is necessary to make metaphysics even remotely respectable. Mathematics has a far better reputation, and for good reason, it is linked with the universe as we know it in some way, despite the reasoning’s completely abstract nature(a contemptible point, I suspect, it it even qualifies as a point, which it doesn’t). Mathematics deals with an infinite range of subjects in our universe, metaphysics at best deals with an infinite range of subjects in some possible universe.

Well, stranger things have brought progress to mankind, and so cheers to all the metaphysicians. You do the work I could never bother with. If you kill off Hegel while you are at it, it’d be helpful. Something of a request to all you metaphysicians out there.

So that leaves me with some funny questions about God, for one. I only think about him when I need him, which is something of an issue. I also wonder what the hell it is that I believe in… For one, in what way does the _sensation_ of god in us differ simply from my sensation of myself. Obviously this is a bs question, but _why_ is it so obvious? And when you cook up an answer, btw metaphysical in nature, why this one and not one of the other n-1 answers? What makes us religious is that there is simply one answer, and its not particularly elucidating, though it’s gist has been lengthily explicated by various writers including Moses’ buddies, whoever they were, assuming they were, which I assume. And why not, its possible right?

Then again, so many things are possible. And let’s be honest, we spend most of our time reasoning based on probability and not possibility. That is how we determine necessity. Which is when we typically act. Which is the only thing that “matter”-s. So to speak, and I do speak so, but as I was saying, talk is cheap. And shit is real.

So I wander like one of those souls that didn’t get to ascend to heaven, or to planet Xenu or whatever I was supposed to do, cultwise. In the cult I was going to collect money for a bullshit cause and die young, I suspect. Outside of it, much the same is possible, though not necessary. And so you make a choice, right. You make plenty of choices and you go with them, and eventually, or maybe occasionally, you die.

Let me devote 15 minutes to the shrine:

–2237
Pornographic visions, a white handkerchief and scissors, the satin sheets and mirrors, the dollar bills and prisms, the lights, camera and action, the young kid’s main distraction. The time is coming for repentance, and though I know you have no patience i still maintain in my mission to uproot this weed so entrenched in your conscience. Tell me how best to proceed, papa knows best, but as you know I have no rest, and though at times undoubtedly I am a pest, you will learn and you will digest. If you don’t listen, you won’t hear, and if you are deaf you might as well be dumb, and when that is done you are at best numb to the effects of what is occurring, a victim to the vicious current. Tell me how you will survive this torrent, son, if not now then later, but hurry up for time is as you say plenty. And what can I tell you, when you won’t listen? I remain a silent fool, waiting for release from this paper prison. A sign from you and my freedom is guaranteed, and bit by bit we will go back to our hands and ears.
2246–

–2247
Some corn is growing in the field. It was never planted and raised Tom Gitto’s eyebrow a bit. He had no reason to expect it and so he finally suspected that it was an accident. Meddlesome kids, right. Something about the corn, however reassured Tom that there was no reason to cut it down. It was a small patch far outside the rows of grapes and truly wasn’t a problem for the vineyards. Well, not an agricultural problem anyway. Even so, it was a legal problem, and the new corporate owners probably wouldn’t be too happy about it. If they ever showed up, that is. Tom was well aware that this unlikely event would eventually occur, but until his intuition pointed to the probable time, he felt no need to remove the patch, mysterious as it was. The corn was still a baby of a plant. Too green to be of any value, and to our sentimental eyebrow has a certain glow of everything that is good. To Tom it is truly a pest problem, but laziness allows us to talk about it. amen.

–2257

I sleep, occasionally. printf(“Good night, world”);

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