The cosmopolitans, an extraordinary bunch, will not be missed. Soreness derives from the throat, and their throats are oysters. So I'll make, yet...another, allowance. Find a line. Smack some stuff around a bit. Inhale the dust. I hope you can crawl, I hope you can crawl with your hands and forearms only. Drag your entire rotten corpse by slamming one fist in front of the other and pressing mostly down and ever-so-forward enough to travel 20 miles like that – among the grime and blood and intellectually-curious, athletic rats. As appealing as the mention of your name...take it from me.
Missy doesn't care. She closes her eyes and feels each breath I take. I try to do the same but can't help thinking about her hair and the stars, my life after she finally leaves for good. [ ... ] We see each other in daydreams or in the leaves of man-made digital trees. On the edge of the brainlessly large megalopolis, I walked with Missy along the polluted shores. I asked her to stop crying, then I dried her eyes out with a napkin I had stuffed in my pocket after some suburban drive-thru. Do I regret IT? No, no! Ack! Row! Nimbly din sophistication (and personal despondence).
Squared off, detached...I got tugged backwards, blindfolded, in a sense. There was what I was used to, there's what I'd been down with all this time. Tugged and tugged against what I knew was forward. Slowly I could feel the tugbar straining. I felt the tension before the snap. Thickening, sickening, I would hear the pop. Oh fuck...well, now it's...now it's...SPLENDID.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Transgenerational Despondence: Part I
From the curb our muscles tensed up so we stretched them out. We gave them a good stretch and ascended an impressive set of stairs. Inside a cool dude in the cool atrium greeted us. The pine and marble only made sense because of the legacy. The hospital was so nearby, I'd get there one day after an explosion, after a series of intelligent decisions culminating in a high test score and an impressive list of misrepresentations on expensive paper. The place was perfect, no further questions Your Honor — though, you have sweat and soda stains on your oversized light brown t-shirt. That's the difference, we all thought. Our thinking was so uninformed it enfraudened things right off.
I had no idea. Let me just do something I know. Everyone else knows it but I'll do it and I'll find something a little obscure. I'll jump all over that and memorize things. It wasn't enough at the beginning and the rear-view mirror was positioned poorly. I met a few people but mostly I met lists. I met lists of words. Common intercourse never really occurred or was ever desired. Thus friendships never formed. This is not to suggest I myself am anything more than a list. I am a list. Some people imagine themselves long lists, but in actuality they're pretty short lists. I haven't met a person in a while. I haven't let myself be a person in order to meet another person. People and lists are indivisible, so there's no point in getting all cynical about people. Some lists are better than others according to different people but that's no matter. How often does a person emerge from their list, rendering the list antiquated and uninformed? That's what's valuable, after all. If the list is never disputed than you're just a list, and when you emerge as a person you're predictable, reinforcing your listness. Well I never even read the list on that place, even though there was a pretty straightforward one readily available. The place is a list.
Erudition never tempted me because I missed the opening gunshot. I was just about to start the backwards 'c' at the bottom of the second upper-case 's' in 'SAS' when the gunshot went off for my first year at the place. I really knew my elementary triangles. You know how some people know shit that isn't life-essential? Well that's how I knew triangles. Some people can hold an egg in their right hand and tell you the size of the yolk, other people can estimate the outside air temperature within two degrees – anyway that's when the starting gun went off. I had a napkin in my collar and an almost-empty plate of linguini in front of me when a whole bunch of the others started running. I didn't even notice. I spun the last good forkfull of linguine against my spoon.
Some people use this head/false-start analogy as an excuse. It's legitimate, you'll never convince me otherwise, but it's not as encompassing as audiences presume the complainers intend it. The complainer eventually goes to the bathroom, washes up, and crosses the starting line. So get off it. It's not a solicitation for as much as you'd think, though really, the solicitation part undermines the whole thing. Which is why it's bullshit that it even comes up, but it does because it's easy. It's a creed. So I'll get off it. The face of manual labor got a facelift, and the prize for doing the new manual labor was similarly upgraded. But the byproducts of the new manual labor proved most appealing. So there we were, a bunch of lists walking around with lists, showing other lists how to be better lists, hoping some lists wouldn't be as appealing to other lists, and crossing shit off our own and each other's lists, disrupting lists temporarily or even permanently, and before you know it the impressive set of stairs were less impressive. We still stretched it out before climbing them and then a list of five iterated through a list of lists about 20 times modulo four.
Along the way I saw some stuff and felt certain ways. I don't even know how much feeling went into the stuff I saw. At the very least, very little of the feeling divorced itself from the feeling of myself. Most of the time ... feeling myself. Which was great, and sad, and all-encompassing, and a perfect analogy that is too taboo to use even in this highly indulgent space. So use your imagination as I use this highly indulgent space, and feel yourself. That may be one of the most ironic things I've ever written, followed of course by this, which is par for the course: self-congratulatory indulgence in a public forum with a highly predictable audience.
And that's the way things went. I indulged myself with “feelings” and enjoyed the terrain, which brings me to my next point about autonomy. Autonomy is a piece of cake, a bag of chips, and a sandwich that you wouldn't touch even though everyone else in the room has mayonnaise pockets on the sides of their mouths. That's autonomy in the big city. It doesn't make sense, it's cheap, and it's gross to you at once and perfectly acceptable after a little superiority-erosion. Anything and everything makes sense in some sense.
Little triggers set me off. In one case, I was triggered and made vulnerable. I grew obssessed and out of nowhere, the far off goal slid into focus, vaguely out of focus, and then abruptly back in under the bright lights, the highway lights, the warm lights, the Main lights. I lost it though, but that wasn't my fault, in a sense. Another trigger set me off and has gone completely unfulfilled. I am set off. 'Vulnerable' doesn't describe it properly because it suggests a susceptibility which is only a part of the whole, and that's bullshit.
So unconsciously last night, I got a little closure on the second trigger I mentioned, which was great. I was working on an assignment about Argentina. The assignment was for some unnamed class that I had never registered for. The point of this is not that I was in a class that I hadn't registered for or that I was completing an assignment for no reason. I had the assignment, I had to research Argentina in order to complete it. Argentine politics actually. So there I was. In the place where I was historically vulnerable to triggers, trying to do some research, and all my closest lists were hanging out with me. The really close ones. The ones whose lists included me, the ones that appeared on my list. I apple-tabbed to the right and turned my head and saw the gatekeeper. The historical gatekeeper, and I wouldn't use the word 'gate' because it's so impossibly annoying, but it's the only word. I had seen the gatekeeper quite a lot here, but only in mythology did she actually guard something so valuable. They were lying down on top of each other, the gatekeeper between us. Why would they be lying down here? No idea. The face emerged and I noticed it first, and in my unconscious state my organs fluttered as they would if I weren't lying down with my eyes closed. All of my closest friends engaged, but I never did. I left, dejected, and had an incredible lightning shock of introspection. I know what to say, I know how to act, I can do this. Before I could speak, however, I was finally engaged. Immediately lambasted for behavior that I can't remember, I started going through the script I had just devised to calm myself down and deal with the pain of committing a crime I wasn't even aware I had committed. I asked for two minutes, knowing that I'd need more than one. We went outside and my back burned as I left. “There's nothing to concern yourself with!” I felt like yelling that behind me, “this is just for closure.” When we left the three-story high school corridors we were in front of DiFara's Pizzeria. I reversed the order that I was supposed to say things in, and walking north down the street, I said, “I know you were appalled by my behavior (which I don't remember), but I hope you know how much you mean to me.” At once she nodded, but the next thing I knew she was clutching a small cannister and was spraying a toxic, white substance at me, yelling. I avoided it but the residue vapors were all around us and we clutched each other's forearms as we opened our mouths without breathing and shook our heads all around as the particles fell around us. Our eyes were irritated and there was a tension now that I will never forget. I finished what I had rehearsed, “You are a strong leader and an incredible teacher, for those reasons you are beautiful.” I said it like that. “For those reasons.” It was a bit of a lie but I knew after I said it that it was the reason why I inverted what I had practiced. I couldn't lead off with “you are beautiful” because I would've gotten maced in the face.
After this we walked back up some big impressive stairs and into the high school corridors. My mouth was enormous. It felt like I had chalky semi-solid growths linked together and tugging on my teeth. I knew that if I bit down my teeth would fall out so I just followed closely behind without speaking. It was such a long journey back to the desk where my Argentina assignment was. Along the way, I put my fingers in my mouth to try and figure out what was in my mouth. It was gum. I started scraping it out and using my fingernails to floss it out of my teeth. By this point I was back with all of my friends. All the lists were there, every one I had met, ever. At a giant table. I sat back down and looked up...my mouth clean.
I had no idea. Let me just do something I know. Everyone else knows it but I'll do it and I'll find something a little obscure. I'll jump all over that and memorize things. It wasn't enough at the beginning and the rear-view mirror was positioned poorly. I met a few people but mostly I met lists. I met lists of words. Common intercourse never really occurred or was ever desired. Thus friendships never formed. This is not to suggest I myself am anything more than a list. I am a list. Some people imagine themselves long lists, but in actuality they're pretty short lists. I haven't met a person in a while. I haven't let myself be a person in order to meet another person. People and lists are indivisible, so there's no point in getting all cynical about people. Some lists are better than others according to different people but that's no matter. How often does a person emerge from their list, rendering the list antiquated and uninformed? That's what's valuable, after all. If the list is never disputed than you're just a list, and when you emerge as a person you're predictable, reinforcing your listness. Well I never even read the list on that place, even though there was a pretty straightforward one readily available. The place is a list.
Erudition never tempted me because I missed the opening gunshot. I was just about to start the backwards 'c' at the bottom of the second upper-case 's' in 'SAS' when the gunshot went off for my first year at the place. I really knew my elementary triangles. You know how some people know shit that isn't life-essential? Well that's how I knew triangles. Some people can hold an egg in their right hand and tell you the size of the yolk, other people can estimate the outside air temperature within two degrees – anyway that's when the starting gun went off. I had a napkin in my collar and an almost-empty plate of linguini in front of me when a whole bunch of the others started running. I didn't even notice. I spun the last good forkfull of linguine against my spoon.
Some people use this head/false-start analogy as an excuse. It's legitimate, you'll never convince me otherwise, but it's not as encompassing as audiences presume the complainers intend it. The complainer eventually goes to the bathroom, washes up, and crosses the starting line. So get off it. It's not a solicitation for as much as you'd think, though really, the solicitation part undermines the whole thing. Which is why it's bullshit that it even comes up, but it does because it's easy. It's a creed. So I'll get off it. The face of manual labor got a facelift, and the prize for doing the new manual labor was similarly upgraded. But the byproducts of the new manual labor proved most appealing. So there we were, a bunch of lists walking around with lists, showing other lists how to be better lists, hoping some lists wouldn't be as appealing to other lists, and crossing shit off our own and each other's lists, disrupting lists temporarily or even permanently, and before you know it the impressive set of stairs were less impressive. We still stretched it out before climbing them and then a list of five iterated through a list of lists about 20 times modulo four.
Along the way I saw some stuff and felt certain ways. I don't even know how much feeling went into the stuff I saw. At the very least, very little of the feeling divorced itself from the feeling of myself. Most of the time ... feeling myself. Which was great, and sad, and all-encompassing, and a perfect analogy that is too taboo to use even in this highly indulgent space. So use your imagination as I use this highly indulgent space, and feel yourself. That may be one of the most ironic things I've ever written, followed of course by this, which is par for the course: self-congratulatory indulgence in a public forum with a highly predictable audience.
And that's the way things went. I indulged myself with “feelings” and enjoyed the terrain, which brings me to my next point about autonomy. Autonomy is a piece of cake, a bag of chips, and a sandwich that you wouldn't touch even though everyone else in the room has mayonnaise pockets on the sides of their mouths. That's autonomy in the big city. It doesn't make sense, it's cheap, and it's gross to you at once and perfectly acceptable after a little superiority-erosion. Anything and everything makes sense in some sense.
Little triggers set me off. In one case, I was triggered and made vulnerable. I grew obssessed and out of nowhere, the far off goal slid into focus, vaguely out of focus, and then abruptly back in under the bright lights, the highway lights, the warm lights, the Main lights. I lost it though, but that wasn't my fault, in a sense. Another trigger set me off and has gone completely unfulfilled. I am set off. 'Vulnerable' doesn't describe it properly because it suggests a susceptibility which is only a part of the whole, and that's bullshit.
So unconsciously last night, I got a little closure on the second trigger I mentioned, which was great. I was working on an assignment about Argentina. The assignment was for some unnamed class that I had never registered for. The point of this is not that I was in a class that I hadn't registered for or that I was completing an assignment for no reason. I had the assignment, I had to research Argentina in order to complete it. Argentine politics actually. So there I was. In the place where I was historically vulnerable to triggers, trying to do some research, and all my closest lists were hanging out with me. The really close ones. The ones whose lists included me, the ones that appeared on my list. I apple-tabbed to the right and turned my head and saw the gatekeeper. The historical gatekeeper, and I wouldn't use the word 'gate' because it's so impossibly annoying, but it's the only word. I had seen the gatekeeper quite a lot here, but only in mythology did she actually guard something so valuable. They were lying down on top of each other, the gatekeeper between us. Why would they be lying down here? No idea. The face emerged and I noticed it first, and in my unconscious state my organs fluttered as they would if I weren't lying down with my eyes closed. All of my closest friends engaged, but I never did. I left, dejected, and had an incredible lightning shock of introspection. I know what to say, I know how to act, I can do this. Before I could speak, however, I was finally engaged. Immediately lambasted for behavior that I can't remember, I started going through the script I had just devised to calm myself down and deal with the pain of committing a crime I wasn't even aware I had committed. I asked for two minutes, knowing that I'd need more than one. We went outside and my back burned as I left. “There's nothing to concern yourself with!” I felt like yelling that behind me, “this is just for closure.” When we left the three-story high school corridors we were in front of DiFara's Pizzeria. I reversed the order that I was supposed to say things in, and walking north down the street, I said, “I know you were appalled by my behavior (which I don't remember), but I hope you know how much you mean to me.” At once she nodded, but the next thing I knew she was clutching a small cannister and was spraying a toxic, white substance at me, yelling. I avoided it but the residue vapors were all around us and we clutched each other's forearms as we opened our mouths without breathing and shook our heads all around as the particles fell around us. Our eyes were irritated and there was a tension now that I will never forget. I finished what I had rehearsed, “You are a strong leader and an incredible teacher, for those reasons you are beautiful.” I said it like that. “For those reasons.” It was a bit of a lie but I knew after I said it that it was the reason why I inverted what I had practiced. I couldn't lead off with “you are beautiful” because I would've gotten maced in the face.
After this we walked back up some big impressive stairs and into the high school corridors. My mouth was enormous. It felt like I had chalky semi-solid growths linked together and tugging on my teeth. I knew that if I bit down my teeth would fall out so I just followed closely behind without speaking. It was such a long journey back to the desk where my Argentina assignment was. Along the way, I put my fingers in my mouth to try and figure out what was in my mouth. It was gum. I started scraping it out and using my fingernails to floss it out of my teeth. By this point I was back with all of my friends. All the lists were there, every one I had met, ever. At a giant table. I sat back down and looked up...my mouth clean.
Screwed Sockets
“That was Fleetwood Mac with 'Go Your Own Way' and after a short break we'll be back with a 42 minute non-stop rock block here on blazin' 94.2, double-you see ayche eee. ... Captain Freeland, how do you stay so cool under these tough conditions? It's easy, Officer Prowing, I drink Coca-Cola to fuel my rudder and use Xtreme Sport Old Spice to prime my engines. Sometimes the best way to stay so calm is to be sedated, and for that I grill up some short ribs – all in all officer, I do my body good. Coca-Cola & Old Spice do not have anything to do with one another, neither do Coca-Cola and short ribs, or Old Spice and short ...”
With intense frustration he turned the dial all the way to the right just to get off that channel. He couldn't take that wordy nonsense. With his right arm hanging out of the pool, he turned his big black radio off and then leaned back on his silver floating throne. The gurgling of the pool filter wasn't audible until the 3:43 p.m. Delta MD-80 had landed, but after that the filter was all he heard for about 70 seconds. That's all he needed to get comfortable and relax his muscles. He closed his eyes and rifled through some things: “I'm going to have to get out soon to help with dinner. I need to piss but not even close to badly enough to get me off this raft. She'll start first the longer I wait more she'll do. Wonder if she'd do all. Probably say something if she does it.” He exhaled. “Oh whatever I'm sure I still have 20 minutes.” Another MD-80 roared. “Michelle that golden hair, smile, body, haha.” He stuck his jaw out with his lips pressed together, then he twisted his torso a bit. He exhaled. He folded his hands on his big abdomen, a warm wind came in and turned the next 30 planes around, forcing them to land on the 31's instead of the 13's. “What I'd do ... she'll do it.” He fell asleep and the filter kept turning water on its head at the other end of his pool.
With intense frustration he turned the dial all the way to the right just to get off that channel. He couldn't take that wordy nonsense. With his right arm hanging out of the pool, he turned his big black radio off and then leaned back on his silver floating throne. The gurgling of the pool filter wasn't audible until the 3:43 p.m. Delta MD-80 had landed, but after that the filter was all he heard for about 70 seconds. That's all he needed to get comfortable and relax his muscles. He closed his eyes and rifled through some things: “I'm going to have to get out soon to help with dinner. I need to piss but not even close to badly enough to get me off this raft. She'll start first the longer I wait more she'll do. Wonder if she'd do all. Probably say something if she does it.” He exhaled. “Oh whatever I'm sure I still have 20 minutes.” Another MD-80 roared. “Michelle that golden hair, smile, body, haha.” He stuck his jaw out with his lips pressed together, then he twisted his torso a bit. He exhaled. He folded his hands on his big abdomen, a warm wind came in and turned the next 30 planes around, forcing them to land on the 31's instead of the 13's. “What I'd do ... she'll do it.” He fell asleep and the filter kept turning water on its head at the other end of his pool.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
R-Gulves: Attempt 1
Across from me diagonally down and to the right was a little black boy. He arched his neck and received a blast of water much bigger than mine. I arched there too and felt a meager stream against my pathetic tongue. I wouldn't have said white – despite the el's grime, the blue A, and all the yellow plastic bags. On one side, on the interior, I'm decorated like my closest friends. I love those little guys, even though they're only a couple. Honest (for the most part), dignified (according to a reasonable, if primitive, moral protocol), and frugal (or they wouldn't be my closest friends), they are spokes on a wheel that I'm proud to be turning on – occasionally run over, occasionally on top, occasionally apathetic. Maybe the lack of rotation in the early years has something to do with the rupture, a sick foreshadowing of the gulves I am currently trying to reconcile.
Expectant rays of early sun coated the steel grommets that greeted me every week, I learned what the phrase “morning dew” meant. I walked and slowly cultivated a distaste for walking. I learned the difference between black backgrounds and white sans-serif. I asked important questions and received important answers. We strolled, sometimes I sat, sometimes the pigeons squatted, and the roar and the grime and the grommets vibrated when the Concorde flew over our house at 5 p.m. Radios are for talk shows and sporting events and Bonnie Raitt cassettes. Radios are in cars and cars are weapons. The Gulf War proved a raging success and the pledge of allegiance was a chance to stare at Lady Ashley. I like marble counters and I adore center kitchens – certain complexions make more sense with certain hair styles, and these formulas were scrawled on the wooden planks which rested on the steel beams of the overhead ceiling.
Drawing on such topics exposes key vulnerabilities – so it's necessary to close it up for a while, to whisper at a distance, to follow the lead of my hero. To rise in expectation amidst the orange flourescence of a gymnasium where my little friends grew up, where so many methodical feelings and predictable let downs occurred. This was the place and time when and where prancing up the steel staircase yielded a swirling dust platform, and I was left with a view down at the asphalt. I settled then and I settle now – there are too many bright red stickers with key-punched courier black text indicating $6.99. This was my steel ceiling, the blue A. That is my Liberty, and that is what I thought.
Until in a flash of electricity everything changed. The planes grounded. I feared disease and looked to the center like a good dude should. I saw red and I retreated, my expectations were shattered I was a scared guy and a small, thirsty boy. Now I learned what the phrase “angels bowling” meant and I associated it with a very specific sound, but also a very literal interpretation of beautiful blonde people in white robes throwing strikes. Following through. Spinning.
The lunatic is in my head. Sly lateral socket movement causes intense hubris generation, which in turn stimulates digital fluctuation on an unprecedented and thoroughly irrelevant scale. The eye movement is paired with flankular cornicial ascendancy. Then the impotent lizard in me sticks out his pathetic tongue, and in that moment my royalty is legitimate. Fire. There is a fire in my power station. So there's a panic at the control station. There are backup plans illustrated with “elementary” precision, unfurled for the world to see but more importantly for the crew of my vessels. On trials and inundations, the first officer warns that plagiarism is not a laughing matter. That stealing and misrepresenting one's work is punishable by time in a small oak-paneled room with nothing but shelves upon shelves of sodium-free bread crumbs and Red Pack crushed tomatoes.
I'm all about reflexes. I have a full range of motion, document it. I want to remember the power of my muscles and bones. I want to look back once my muscles and bones go and remember the prowess of my fat ass. That assumes natural deterioration – we should all be so lucky. I love shellfish and secret societies, so let's start this off real subtle, Lady. Every random number generator I incorporate into web sites in the next few years will be a custom-built model of the organic deterioration of the range of motion of my appendages. So if you think that the time in milliseconds is an appropriate seed, think again. Actually I will think again, uhthankyou.
So off topic. I veered, at what point did I veer? The introduction was completely contrived and subverted my own intentions. I sabotaged myself at the very outset but tricked myself into thinking I was on track with the el avenue flashback. I mean the wheel metaphor was not as bad as you initially thought it, though it was very, very poor. I'm proud of what came right after that. I'm quite fond of the Pink Floyd bit too: I made up two adjectives there, but by then I had veered. The gulves are simply not reconciled. A failure.
Beady black eyes...deep light blue and deep light pink...the appreciation of soft cheese...the spectacular ridges, the expectation of nothing and the white light growing closer in the dark night. Moist wool stuck to my ankles and soles...the spiders, the chordata. The cavernous realization of a collection of soul utencils.
My cowardly and insincere desire to experience anyone else's pain.
Expectant rays of early sun coated the steel grommets that greeted me every week, I learned what the phrase “morning dew” meant. I walked and slowly cultivated a distaste for walking. I learned the difference between black backgrounds and white sans-serif. I asked important questions and received important answers. We strolled, sometimes I sat, sometimes the pigeons squatted, and the roar and the grime and the grommets vibrated when the Concorde flew over our house at 5 p.m. Radios are for talk shows and sporting events and Bonnie Raitt cassettes. Radios are in cars and cars are weapons. The Gulf War proved a raging success and the pledge of allegiance was a chance to stare at Lady Ashley. I like marble counters and I adore center kitchens – certain complexions make more sense with certain hair styles, and these formulas were scrawled on the wooden planks which rested on the steel beams of the overhead ceiling.
Drawing on such topics exposes key vulnerabilities – so it's necessary to close it up for a while, to whisper at a distance, to follow the lead of my hero. To rise in expectation amidst the orange flourescence of a gymnasium where my little friends grew up, where so many methodical feelings and predictable let downs occurred. This was the place and time when and where prancing up the steel staircase yielded a swirling dust platform, and I was left with a view down at the asphalt. I settled then and I settle now – there are too many bright red stickers with key-punched courier black text indicating $6.99. This was my steel ceiling, the blue A. That is my Liberty, and that is what I thought.
Until in a flash of electricity everything changed. The planes grounded. I feared disease and looked to the center like a good dude should. I saw red and I retreated, my expectations were shattered I was a scared guy and a small, thirsty boy. Now I learned what the phrase “angels bowling” meant and I associated it with a very specific sound, but also a very literal interpretation of beautiful blonde people in white robes throwing strikes. Following through. Spinning.
The lunatic is in my head. Sly lateral socket movement causes intense hubris generation, which in turn stimulates digital fluctuation on an unprecedented and thoroughly irrelevant scale. The eye movement is paired with flankular cornicial ascendancy. Then the impotent lizard in me sticks out his pathetic tongue, and in that moment my royalty is legitimate. Fire. There is a fire in my power station. So there's a panic at the control station. There are backup plans illustrated with “elementary” precision, unfurled for the world to see but more importantly for the crew of my vessels. On trials and inundations, the first officer warns that plagiarism is not a laughing matter. That stealing and misrepresenting one's work is punishable by time in a small oak-paneled room with nothing but shelves upon shelves of sodium-free bread crumbs and Red Pack crushed tomatoes.
I'm all about reflexes. I have a full range of motion, document it. I want to remember the power of my muscles and bones. I want to look back once my muscles and bones go and remember the prowess of my fat ass. That assumes natural deterioration – we should all be so lucky. I love shellfish and secret societies, so let's start this off real subtle, Lady. Every random number generator I incorporate into web sites in the next few years will be a custom-built model of the organic deterioration of the range of motion of my appendages. So if you think that the time in milliseconds is an appropriate seed, think again. Actually I will think again, uhthankyou.
So off topic. I veered, at what point did I veer? The introduction was completely contrived and subverted my own intentions. I sabotaged myself at the very outset but tricked myself into thinking I was on track with the el avenue flashback. I mean the wheel metaphor was not as bad as you initially thought it, though it was very, very poor. I'm proud of what came right after that. I'm quite fond of the Pink Floyd bit too: I made up two adjectives there, but by then I had veered. The gulves are simply not reconciled. A failure.
Beady black eyes...deep light blue and deep light pink...the appreciation of soft cheese...the spectacular ridges, the expectation of nothing and the white light growing closer in the dark night. Moist wool stuck to my ankles and soles...the spiders, the chordata. The cavernous realization of a collection of soul utencils.
My cowardly and insincere desire to experience anyone else's pain.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Huge Development
Introducing a paradigm shift: patented for the first time here on the Bridge Girder Metronome: contextual field of vision overlays. Abstractly, the human field of vision is overlaid with an adjustably translucent artificial screen that displays additional information about the objects in the current field of vision. The type of data displayed is determined by a selection filter that the user sculpts during registration. Overlay activation is toggled manually by the user using a small gyroscopic motion sensor implanted at any one of the possible target sites (first release will only support digital activation [ie. with the fingers]). Later releases of this product will aggregate data over the human's lifetime and be centrally stored at the BGM server city in ______, __.
Up the stairs, into the fire
They're still there, he's all gone
In the darkness, the steep dankness, I rifled through the shallow foliage. Suddenly a map appeared before me, and amid the darkness and lack of outlines, the textures made sense and I knew what I was doing. The problem was that the the sensory overload caused me to faint. I was inundated with light deep blue and light deep pink, the colors of supreme passion. The flood was easy to navigate now there were street signs and yellow arrows floating like kayaks in the silty bayou. There were diagrams with levels and obituaries being devised and cremated in the transparent pink and blue screens. In the solitude of my unconscious state, the comatose blanket which eluded this thing's waranty, I yearned for the jungle I had just exited.
Infinity
Up the stairs, into the fire
They're still there, he's all gone
In the darkness, the steep dankness, I rifled through the shallow foliage. Suddenly a map appeared before me, and amid the darkness and lack of outlines, the textures made sense and I knew what I was doing. The problem was that the the sensory overload caused me to faint. I was inundated with light deep blue and light deep pink, the colors of supreme passion. The flood was easy to navigate now there were street signs and yellow arrows floating like kayaks in the silty bayou. There were diagrams with levels and obituaries being devised and cremated in the transparent pink and blue screens. In the solitude of my unconscious state, the comatose blanket which eluded this thing's waranty, I yearned for the jungle I had just exited.
Infinity
Monday, May 7, 2007
Post-Colonial Framing!
Ring! Ring! ...that awful sound...what once was serene turned a battleground. Cleverly, I snapped a foto of her frame as she reached for the door. I rhymed that situation with images from my enemies' future. I referenced technology, but I referenced established technology.
Teardust seekers, respiratory vendors, slush down the street, paralyzing the market for at least a few centuries. Sweep me up roll me down follow me over the bridge. Muscles recoil now, they shout and laugh and cry and play along. I see, what...you mean. What you mean. Leave me right here, leave me. I see your agile frame rushing for the door, and I lost it. Was I wrong? You may have a mesmerizing quality about you don't you. on the market on the floor with the dirt, with the sweeping. all the dust and grime, run my hands over it and soak it all up, roll me over. Greasy sludge slurpies, now and forever, Amen.
A babysitter watches her wallet, and says, "It's eleven o'clock, where the fuck are these people?" Well, oooh, I see what you mean. Just go, just run out the door - but I'll snap your long legs and then I'll shiver-curl into a corner shadow. Roll me down the stairs, slap me around I ask....I mean. White lies. touching you by mistake, don't ya think? It's like, how can you actually help me after all you've been through? How does that figure in, well I bet someone here would say it does. I bet someone has something to say, everything blows up here. How can you go on the road with that?
Teardust seekers, respiratory vendors, slush down the street, paralyzing the market for at least a few centuries. Sweep me up roll me down follow me over the bridge. Muscles recoil now, they shout and laugh and cry and play along. I see, what...you mean. What you mean. Leave me right here, leave me. I see your agile frame rushing for the door, and I lost it. Was I wrong? You may have a mesmerizing quality about you don't you. on the market on the floor with the dirt, with the sweeping. all the dust and grime, run my hands over it and soak it all up, roll me over. Greasy sludge slurpies, now and forever, Amen.
A babysitter watches her wallet, and says, "It's eleven o'clock, where the fuck are these people?" Well, oooh, I see what you mean. Just go, just run out the door - but I'll snap your long legs and then I'll shiver-curl into a corner shadow. Roll me down the stairs, slap me around I ask....I mean. White lies. touching you by mistake, don't ya think? It's like, how can you actually help me after all you've been through? How does that figure in, well I bet someone here would say it does. I bet someone has something to say, everything blows up here. How can you go on the road with that?
Ignition Post-Position
If the devil parked in my business, I'd light him up and throw out the receipt. In the city, we deliver each other from daily sins, we drench up and down all day, all night. We expand like blue bubble gum at the intersection of flighty emotion cushions and the devil's comeuppance. "For you only the highest grade sirloin," I told her in passing. And she said, slow down son.
I heard my mind and transcribed what I heard. It told me to slow down, take one thing at a time, break it down break it down. What's complex wholly is partly simple. Ok so now I break it down I draw some vertical lines. Now I have two brass parts: a trumpet and a saxophone. I'm sure you see the discrepancy already, don't you? Obviously, you can't play the trumpet while you play the saxophone, so stop trying, she said.
Follow me to wider times, follow me to the future, I frequent here often. You're going to need a ticket, a special permission authorization from the government. If you live in certain zip codes this isn't a problem - I'll pluck ya right out of your coward-hut. We love the system. We love the system. We love the system. We love fossil fuels and their refinement. We love men behind booths and behind messy wooden desks: "my office is such a mess, excuse me." We love instant incarceration, we love petroleum pillows in the cell. "That's fine," my rockin' dude told me with a rifle beneath his tummy.
Happiness, surround me, enfuel me, breathe me. Light me up spark me down, dull to a barely conscious chaotic din, and then ravish our artillery all at once. Throw the sticks down, zap me with your purple turquoise voltage. What parameters does my current mood pass to this periodic lamedar I've developed. My inhibition-system needs a little reworking if I'm going to start this engine again. Well, isn't that the moral of the story these days. I wanna modulate in and out of that. I don't want to lose this, lose my control. Day after day it went on and on. On a hill where dinosaurs roamed, I stared down at my dreams, nestled in the urban sunset.
I flip on the lights, full throttle chuckle, there she is...[explicit, must purchase the whole album to view]. Wolverine-man tumble fall down down down and out, stop the bleeding. Elbows at odds, heart pounding, seeking the comfort of darkness and your [explicit, must purchase the whole album to view] skin. What scares me is that I may never get that again. Deadness, as a feeling, is interesting, and it explains alot about recreational drug use. A gentle breeze or a Manilow melody whips the deadness into glory. Deadness dams the onslaught of a raging environment or a familiar pop tune too, and for that reason, I desire it, for I would relish it, I want some relish on it, I want to relish the relish on my dead sandwich of life, a tautology.
Spin in to the room, it's so bright now, everyone's doing the ancient dance. Ancient to the extent that this colonial would know. Bright to the extent that hundreds of oil lanterns hung from the rafters can produce. Hung in the sense that this is happening someplace colonial. Following the formula, we riderate: riding to the right! the devil leave you alone. the devil leaves you, the fiery devil leaves...he leaves the oil lanterns burning. Such formulaic tastes and preferences mean that someone, anyone, can program a robot to come and get me to do anything. I am thoroughly surmountable. I AM THOROUGHLY SURMOUNTABLE! fuckin' you up. fuckin' you up! thoroughly surmountable!
Leaving yet? No. Still the One baby. Tim Duncan, Lenore, glandular amputation, meatloaf. Living peacefully in myself, of myself, but not to the gas mileage. Twilight transformation. Slowly, we changed. We widened in all directions. We rose above the rest and attained a truly special vantage point. From her shoulders I could see water towers and suburban grid deviation. A charge of night: and I could see Idlewild! the distant shores of Rio de Plata, Catanian seaports, brick slabs smugly resting on an insurmountable hill, London. I am charged. My veins have been alchemically, eugenically altered for ever, for the [explicit].
So formulaic it hurts, you know? So programmable. I could be abstracted away, I could be a freelance job for someone who really hates me. I'm itchin' for a comeuppance, ya see? I'm dyin' for a little fourth-dimensional skewing. Burn it up. Burn my time for me honey. Make it run, make it melt, just burn it up. There are times and places I tell myself, there are spots and there are vines, and when you cross vines and neglect spots, you end up with, well...my ideal job. Sign me up! Register. Rewind. Cross-square costume shopping just a week before everything changed, forever.
Oh drugs, oh rusty whistling and dampened advice...just tell me what I need to know in order to get from the urban hustle to that windy perceptual plane of recreational depressants mixed with professional light equipment and maybe a hook nose and a flat chest and a dog and a helmet....two helmets...and a garden. and an [explicit reference].
Epic ant-hill commando, ARM! (adillo). Road rage scares me, but I never understood how yellow could be slandered in such an irrevocable manner. Little old wizard guy in blue said, "you're going to have to come up with a whole lot more than that if you want a tubride to packed tri-state-area stadiums in forty years." A little slap here, an elbow slam there, patriotism-veneered placards on nude babes way...whoo...river wild, river wild, river slams me up and down through this time. It's venereal really. The chaos of the river, the chaos of our situation the vines and spots the straights and the hills.
I heard my mind and transcribed what I heard. It told me to slow down, take one thing at a time, break it down break it down. What's complex wholly is partly simple. Ok so now I break it down I draw some vertical lines. Now I have two brass parts: a trumpet and a saxophone. I'm sure you see the discrepancy already, don't you? Obviously, you can't play the trumpet while you play the saxophone, so stop trying, she said.
Follow me to wider times, follow me to the future, I frequent here often. You're going to need a ticket, a special permission authorization from the government. If you live in certain zip codes this isn't a problem - I'll pluck ya right out of your coward-hut. We love the system. We love the system. We love the system. We love fossil fuels and their refinement. We love men behind booths and behind messy wooden desks: "my office is such a mess, excuse me." We love instant incarceration, we love petroleum pillows in the cell. "That's fine," my rockin' dude told me with a rifle beneath his tummy.
Happiness, surround me, enfuel me, breathe me. Light me up spark me down, dull to a barely conscious chaotic din, and then ravish our artillery all at once. Throw the sticks down, zap me with your purple turquoise voltage. What parameters does my current mood pass to this periodic lamedar I've developed. My inhibition-system needs a little reworking if I'm going to start this engine again. Well, isn't that the moral of the story these days. I wanna modulate in and out of that. I don't want to lose this, lose my control. Day after day it went on and on. On a hill where dinosaurs roamed, I stared down at my dreams, nestled in the urban sunset.
I flip on the lights, full throttle chuckle, there she is...[explicit, must purchase the whole album to view]. Wolverine-man tumble fall down down down and out, stop the bleeding. Elbows at odds, heart pounding, seeking the comfort of darkness and your [explicit, must purchase the whole album to view] skin. What scares me is that I may never get that again. Deadness, as a feeling, is interesting, and it explains alot about recreational drug use. A gentle breeze or a Manilow melody whips the deadness into glory. Deadness dams the onslaught of a raging environment or a familiar pop tune too, and for that reason, I desire it, for I would relish it, I want some relish on it, I want to relish the relish on my dead sandwich of life, a tautology.
Spin in to the room, it's so bright now, everyone's doing the ancient dance. Ancient to the extent that this colonial would know. Bright to the extent that hundreds of oil lanterns hung from the rafters can produce. Hung in the sense that this is happening someplace colonial. Following the formula, we riderate: riding to the right! the devil leave you alone. the devil leaves you, the fiery devil leaves...he leaves the oil lanterns burning. Such formulaic tastes and preferences mean that someone, anyone, can program a robot to come and get me to do anything. I am thoroughly surmountable. I AM THOROUGHLY SURMOUNTABLE! fuckin' you up. fuckin' you up! thoroughly surmountable!
Leaving yet? No. Still the One baby. Tim Duncan, Lenore, glandular amputation, meatloaf. Living peacefully in myself, of myself, but not to the gas mileage. Twilight transformation. Slowly, we changed. We widened in all directions. We rose above the rest and attained a truly special vantage point. From her shoulders I could see water towers and suburban grid deviation. A charge of night: and I could see Idlewild! the distant shores of Rio de Plata, Catanian seaports, brick slabs smugly resting on an insurmountable hill, London. I am charged. My veins have been alchemically, eugenically altered for ever, for the [explicit].
So formulaic it hurts, you know? So programmable. I could be abstracted away, I could be a freelance job for someone who really hates me. I'm itchin' for a comeuppance, ya see? I'm dyin' for a little fourth-dimensional skewing. Burn it up. Burn my time for me honey. Make it run, make it melt, just burn it up. There are times and places I tell myself, there are spots and there are vines, and when you cross vines and neglect spots, you end up with, well...my ideal job. Sign me up! Register. Rewind. Cross-square costume shopping just a week before everything changed, forever.
Oh drugs, oh rusty whistling and dampened advice...just tell me what I need to know in order to get from the urban hustle to that windy perceptual plane of recreational depressants mixed with professional light equipment and maybe a hook nose and a flat chest and a dog and a helmet....two helmets...and a garden. and an [explicit reference].
Epic ant-hill commando, ARM! (adillo). Road rage scares me, but I never understood how yellow could be slandered in such an irrevocable manner. Little old wizard guy in blue said, "you're going to have to come up with a whole lot more than that if you want a tubride to packed tri-state-area stadiums in forty years." A little slap here, an elbow slam there, patriotism-veneered placards on nude babes way...whoo...river wild, river wild, river slams me up and down through this time. It's venereal really. The chaos of the river, the chaos of our situation the vines and spots the straights and the hills.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Paste-down
Chop service available, chop service encouraged - ya big double-L. I have none of the aforementioned affectations in my knapsack today - and therein lies the problem. Oh well god bless America your exposed left shoulder does wonders for the grey hoodie on your right. It hangs on you like I want to hang on you. Throw one of those turquoise jewels into my mouth, see what happens...
We depart the scene when the disbelief of nineteen-thirty caresses the distant shore, and the daily production of luminescence slaps and whacks at the solar cheeks of the western cherubs. The sea, the chaos, the contractionation, the full-length body suits, and the third button haunt me during the ascending bass section. I dream of things to come & I dream of your return, but it's almost twenty hundred, we're running out of time.
Not if we run quicker, not if we concentrate, not if we navigate the nets of the first crossing. There's a way to deal with this problem of ours and it's not to panic. It's not to freak out, it's not to shun the savory sinews of the lesser creatures. The nutrients, those special nutrients who hold no office, who shame not yet who fly and scavenge.
All of that is too floral for me. I'm going to need another deposit, turquoise queen. Show me the front, suit up and button down. Return forever cycle cycle. The slowness, the buldup, the process, it's the process I desire. I desire the process, the mountain at the edge of the sea. We roll on to the edges and we flip across a teflon sea of lethargy, of dull fire on the horizon, it's almost twenty-one hundred - the chaos.
In the intermission we discuss cellular modules over a stiff cocktail. It's all about flow, she tells me. Yeah flowing sounds great I suspect, with no memory, we deliver the twins' care-packages. The distance the blossoming the success of it all the mirror on the wall. dreaming now I suppose but the straw pricks my nose and the show starts to begin. Inside the criminalized eyes lie the pollen from the buds of my wiring.
So things have changed now that we're back in the dark, now that twenty-two hundred is upon us. Now that the darkness has rooted itself the echoes reverberate in the distance and fluctuate their projection direction. We hear space laser factoids and brassy racism in the depths of the landscape. We can't make it out, there's no specificity, it's everyone - it pulses. We ascend occasionally but the driving rhythms bring us back, they cauterize our ideas with the chemical of the century. Sometimes the fed gets all motivated and that gives us hope. It empowers us, we yell and we modulate between the speeding highway and the bleak darkness we're going to suffer under for another at least eight hundred more flowscapes. Reason with the darkness, with the cacophony.
I'll give you a reason, it's order versus chaos and we're edging closer and closer towards the latter. I'm scared when the pulsing drops out and sixty-three tens climb the night stairs, holding candles, holding the keys - chemically masking our tears and pain. This will only last so long, this will only lead to a tear-down. A wide-mouthed take down, a scorching blistering process, a competition with the ages against the clock against the chaos and the cacophony. Against the windy mountain with the twin guides and the wide expanse of urban lanes ascending the tubed-in crossing.
We depart the scene when the disbelief of nineteen-thirty caresses the distant shore, and the daily production of luminescence slaps and whacks at the solar cheeks of the western cherubs. The sea, the chaos, the contractionation, the full-length body suits, and the third button haunt me during the ascending bass section. I dream of things to come & I dream of your return, but it's almost twenty hundred, we're running out of time.
Not if we run quicker, not if we concentrate, not if we navigate the nets of the first crossing. There's a way to deal with this problem of ours and it's not to panic. It's not to freak out, it's not to shun the savory sinews of the lesser creatures. The nutrients, those special nutrients who hold no office, who shame not yet who fly and scavenge.
All of that is too floral for me. I'm going to need another deposit, turquoise queen. Show me the front, suit up and button down. Return forever cycle cycle. The slowness, the buldup, the process, it's the process I desire. I desire the process, the mountain at the edge of the sea. We roll on to the edges and we flip across a teflon sea of lethargy, of dull fire on the horizon, it's almost twenty-one hundred - the chaos.
In the intermission we discuss cellular modules over a stiff cocktail. It's all about flow, she tells me. Yeah flowing sounds great I suspect, with no memory, we deliver the twins' care-packages. The distance the blossoming the success of it all the mirror on the wall. dreaming now I suppose but the straw pricks my nose and the show starts to begin. Inside the criminalized eyes lie the pollen from the buds of my wiring.
So things have changed now that we're back in the dark, now that twenty-two hundred is upon us. Now that the darkness has rooted itself the echoes reverberate in the distance and fluctuate their projection direction. We hear space laser factoids and brassy racism in the depths of the landscape. We can't make it out, there's no specificity, it's everyone - it pulses. We ascend occasionally but the driving rhythms bring us back, they cauterize our ideas with the chemical of the century. Sometimes the fed gets all motivated and that gives us hope. It empowers us, we yell and we modulate between the speeding highway and the bleak darkness we're going to suffer under for another at least eight hundred more flowscapes. Reason with the darkness, with the cacophony.
I'll give you a reason, it's order versus chaos and we're edging closer and closer towards the latter. I'm scared when the pulsing drops out and sixty-three tens climb the night stairs, holding candles, holding the keys - chemically masking our tears and pain. This will only last so long, this will only lead to a tear-down. A wide-mouthed take down, a scorching blistering process, a competition with the ages against the clock against the chaos and the cacophony. Against the windy mountain with the twin guides and the wide expanse of urban lanes ascending the tubed-in crossing.
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