I guess they are cutting the funding to the intermediate creative writing classes. Maybe even the poetry. I go to a scientific school concerned only with math and science, it is no wonder that they fail to see the importance of fictional writing. Yet I can't help but feel more than disappointed and alienated (more so than I already do). Writing was the one thing I cared about this quarter. At least they still have the advanced writing classes, but it is a little harder to get into, and I missed the boat for next quarter because I was too busy looking for the intermediate classes.
But that seems to be a common trend anyway lately. In this interval of time our society seems to be placing a much higher importance on the math and science fields. This could be seen in the higher salaries and public opinions and so and so. Don't get me wrong, I dig the products of these fields, and highly respect the people pursuing them, but this is not my field, and so it causes me to become at odds with the overall construct. I tell people that I am interested in philosophy and that maybe I'd like to be a writer, and they scratch their heads and ask me why I'm not interested in business or science or something more practical. Practical in this sense means something that makes more money, I think. And if people out there choose science or business because they really love it, then power to them. I know how they feel. But if what you love might not make you that much money, or gaurantee that much security, well hell, you'll just have to set your priorities. My priority is to be happy, not so much to be rich. I would think I would pursue my priority then.
You see, this aspect should be common sense, but people really haven't figured out how it works, because they don't know how to be in someone else's shoes. I think you should never tell someone that they shouldn't be what they want to be, because they have probably given it very much thought and thought about it very carefully. They probably care very deeply for this decision, and thus it is going to be a very, very soft and tender spot. If it is the wrong field for them, let them figure it out on their own. Give them a little dignity.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Miscellaneous Thoughts and Observations
Perhaps music is really a mathematic extension of our emotions themselves. An almost tangible, yet concrete stream of pure emotive dynamics. Why does such imagery stay so universal and ring so true with so many people when they listen to this music? Is the imagery created for the music? Or is the imagery created by the music, as a harmonic, emotional, mathematical output? Ok so maybe all of that is too much of a mouthful. Maybe even some of those words were misused or misinterpreted or etc. But I am still interested in what music really is. We know so little about metaphysical properties, probably because it is all speculation and we can't really prove any of it yet.
"Wow, you are quite lucid for a stoner."
"Jeez! You goddamn mentalist!"
"Mentalist? What?"
"You are prejudiced against people who have different mental approaches."
"I have never heard of that."
"Well I fuckin' made it up. But that is what you are. In fact we are all mentalist to every mental approach that isn't ours by nature. But you can decide whether you want to be aggressive about it or not. In effect, this makes you an asshole."
"Well sheesh, all I said was you were lucid for a stoner."
"Yes, and that had some very condescending implications didn't it?"
"Well, now I am angry, and yes, you are just a goddamn stoner."
"And I was angry 5 minutes ago. Time is up."
Sharing the shower with a community of ants provides ample time to study their behavior. When the water flows (which is sticky and ensnaring, since the water molecules are proportionately larger in relation to the ants' bodies) the ants climb instinctively for higher ground. Somewhere in that little exoskeletal head of theirs, they know very well that great danger and possibly death await them in the depths below, or in other words, that gaping black and silver hole that is the drain. And you know, the sheer size of the surfaces that they climb could be thousands of feet if we converted it to ant-size. They cover such immense ground in such a short time.
I don't know what a spider wants with an ant. Maybe it is like a man resorting to eating a rat when he is starving. There is nothing better out there and at least the little rat provides some sustenance, which is better than nothing. It is better than starving.
The wind was sharp and cold like a chilled knife today. It sliced right through me, right through anyone else. A hoodie is soft and porous. Easy to cut with wind.
Gun shots are like loud, terrifying, barking punches; they are extensions of the knife and fist. Offense.
What if I had no fear, no remorse, no pain, only anger? Anger that has grown to such a gargantuan scale that it has completely eclipsed all other emotions. If someone pointed a gun at me, I would be yelling and scolding them for making me irritated. They would keep me in a maximum security prison and I would think everyone who ever did anything terrible was far below me, even those who had committed the worst atrocities. I would be the greatest monster the world has ever seen. I would kill not for pleasure, not for excitement, not for necessity, but because of the mere fact that anyone living other than me is an insult and a threat to my very being. I would be the greatest perversion of time and space. I would be a supervillain.
They say keeping things to yourself that could be told to others is considered lying. I consider it preserving my sanity and social belonging, if there is anything left of the two.
END.
"Wow, you are quite lucid for a stoner."
"Jeez! You goddamn mentalist!"
"Mentalist? What?"
"You are prejudiced against people who have different mental approaches."
"I have never heard of that."
"Well I fuckin' made it up. But that is what you are. In fact we are all mentalist to every mental approach that isn't ours by nature. But you can decide whether you want to be aggressive about it or not. In effect, this makes you an asshole."
"Well sheesh, all I said was you were lucid for a stoner."
"Yes, and that had some very condescending implications didn't it?"
"Well, now I am angry, and yes, you are just a goddamn stoner."
"And I was angry 5 minutes ago. Time is up."
Sharing the shower with a community of ants provides ample time to study their behavior. When the water flows (which is sticky and ensnaring, since the water molecules are proportionately larger in relation to the ants' bodies) the ants climb instinctively for higher ground. Somewhere in that little exoskeletal head of theirs, they know very well that great danger and possibly death await them in the depths below, or in other words, that gaping black and silver hole that is the drain. And you know, the sheer size of the surfaces that they climb could be thousands of feet if we converted it to ant-size. They cover such immense ground in such a short time.
I don't know what a spider wants with an ant. Maybe it is like a man resorting to eating a rat when he is starving. There is nothing better out there and at least the little rat provides some sustenance, which is better than nothing. It is better than starving.
The wind was sharp and cold like a chilled knife today. It sliced right through me, right through anyone else. A hoodie is soft and porous. Easy to cut with wind.
Gun shots are like loud, terrifying, barking punches; they are extensions of the knife and fist. Offense.
What if I had no fear, no remorse, no pain, only anger? Anger that has grown to such a gargantuan scale that it has completely eclipsed all other emotions. If someone pointed a gun at me, I would be yelling and scolding them for making me irritated. They would keep me in a maximum security prison and I would think everyone who ever did anything terrible was far below me, even those who had committed the worst atrocities. I would be the greatest monster the world has ever seen. I would kill not for pleasure, not for excitement, not for necessity, but because of the mere fact that anyone living other than me is an insult and a threat to my very being. I would be the greatest perversion of time and space. I would be a supervillain.
They say keeping things to yourself that could be told to others is considered lying. I consider it preserving my sanity and social belonging, if there is anything left of the two.
END.
Monday, November 27, 2006
You and the Environment
I love this time of year. The cold does something to me, it unlocks memories deep down that I had forgotten all about, or never knew they existed, and I feel them all over again. Good memories. It is the cold, and the smell of the cold. It is the smell of moisture and burning fires in fire places. And there are the great billowy clouds of many shades. The greys, the blacks, the whites, all towering high above, landscapes in their own right. It is also the time of year when the darkness comes. But we won't talk about that.
Is there a time of year that unlocks your memories? Do you step outside and feel something against your skin? And smell something that brings back everything in startling detail? Yeah, probably. Probably.
The cold makes me think of the vast and the profound, while the warmth makes me think of the closeness and the lazy affection.
But they are not just thoughts. They are whole states of being, inexplainable with the human tongue, or the human alphabet. Or anything else apart from a direct stream of consciouness. Because being does not come in twos, or threes, but only one. Each being is one. And that one has a world only they can live in.
What if we could share it? What kind of contrapition would that take? Would you really want to share with someone else? Would you want to think with them? As them?
Is there a time of year that unlocks your memories? Do you step outside and feel something against your skin? And smell something that brings back everything in startling detail? Yeah, probably. Probably.
The cold makes me think of the vast and the profound, while the warmth makes me think of the closeness and the lazy affection.
But they are not just thoughts. They are whole states of being, inexplainable with the human tongue, or the human alphabet. Or anything else apart from a direct stream of consciouness. Because being does not come in twos, or threes, but only one. Each being is one. And that one has a world only they can live in.
What if we could share it? What kind of contrapition would that take? Would you really want to share with someone else? Would you want to think with them? As them?
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Peaks and Lows
I couldn't take my eyes off of the ring of light that surrounded your head, where the overflowing light from the approaching cars poured over and through your translucent stray strands of hair to flood my eyes. It was the first truly cold night of Autumn, and it was already getting to the end of November. The air was thick with moisture, and all the passing streetlights diffused into the sky to make the darkened horizon glow with artificial light. I rested my head on the cold glass, and felt the vibrating roar of the hungry tide just outside. I closed my eyes and was greeted by that familiar burnt green lightning on black velvet. Bright images fading from the retina.
I was lost inside myself again. But this time the poles were reversed. It was only an hour ago when my body had buckled yet again under the evergrowing weight of my own hopelessness, a now natural and regular interval in thought. But after this low was an incredible peak, an almost instantaneous reversal of such rareity that I was taken aback. I was lost in reverence for everything around me; there was complete admiration in me for the passing cities, darkened and asleep under the cold drizzle of the November night. Shimmering shavings of beautiful noise surged all round my head. This vessel was drifting in an endless lightstream, homebound.
I realized how badly I wanted to achieve permanent reverence, or what the ancient Greeks called ataraxia: complete tranquility, ease of mind, and unfailing happiness. Philosophers like Aristotle believed ataraxia to be the highest good, the peak of individual achievement. This is the highest natural high possible, as pleasurable as a chemical high, but lasting for the rest of your life. Maybe that is perfection, and maybe that is an impossibility. This could be so, but at least there will be those highest peaks, however rare they actualize, to enjoy and to savor, and to re-energize and relieve, until that next drop into the darkest depths.
Perhaps an abstract form of loneliness, be it as it will.
I was lost inside myself again. But this time the poles were reversed. It was only an hour ago when my body had buckled yet again under the evergrowing weight of my own hopelessness, a now natural and regular interval in thought. But after this low was an incredible peak, an almost instantaneous reversal of such rareity that I was taken aback. I was lost in reverence for everything around me; there was complete admiration in me for the passing cities, darkened and asleep under the cold drizzle of the November night. Shimmering shavings of beautiful noise surged all round my head. This vessel was drifting in an endless lightstream, homebound.
I realized how badly I wanted to achieve permanent reverence, or what the ancient Greeks called ataraxia: complete tranquility, ease of mind, and unfailing happiness. Philosophers like Aristotle believed ataraxia to be the highest good, the peak of individual achievement. This is the highest natural high possible, as pleasurable as a chemical high, but lasting for the rest of your life. Maybe that is perfection, and maybe that is an impossibility. This could be so, but at least there will be those highest peaks, however rare they actualize, to enjoy and to savor, and to re-energize and relieve, until that next drop into the darkest depths.
Perhaps an abstract form of loneliness, be it as it will.
The Infamous Rant Pt. 3
I have a short little thing to say about AMG. The All Music Guide. I guess its not much of a rant. But I guess it qualifies.
AMG used to be cool, man. I used to agree with alot of the reviews and be all happy with them and stuff. They still have good networking and reference I guess. But they have changed! I think assholes have infiltrated their ranks, and added their little mainstream opinions to everything. Ratings have been changed, and now crap is getting praised to the stars and gold is being thrown to the wolves. This is my opinion of course. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm not. Should I care about little stars? No. But it is the principle! It is the commodification of music! Bad music is spreading and conquering! And the critics are reflecting this! You know, it is more a commodification of the entire framework. AMG is alot more popular now, I think, so they are going to want to reflect what the public wants, to enjoy a high user rating. You got to look to the underdogs to tell the truth. The truuuuuth!
Now, I have alot of pull around here. Don't be surprised if starting tomorrow at 5 sharp, AMG starts firing people left and right. People know me.
AMG used to be cool, man. I used to agree with alot of the reviews and be all happy with them and stuff. They still have good networking and reference I guess. But they have changed! I think assholes have infiltrated their ranks, and added their little mainstream opinions to everything. Ratings have been changed, and now crap is getting praised to the stars and gold is being thrown to the wolves. This is my opinion of course. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm not. Should I care about little stars? No. But it is the principle! It is the commodification of music! Bad music is spreading and conquering! And the critics are reflecting this! You know, it is more a commodification of the entire framework. AMG is alot more popular now, I think, so they are going to want to reflect what the public wants, to enjoy a high user rating. You got to look to the underdogs to tell the truth. The truuuuuth!
Now, I have alot of pull around here. Don't be surprised if starting tomorrow at 5 sharp, AMG starts firing people left and right. People know me.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Running Low
Try to write everyday they say. But I wonder if it is possible to use up all of your creative juice. I wonder if saving it all up and then just letting it burst out when you feel like it is something to try. Perhaps it is even preferrable. But then if learning to write is like working out a muscle, then maybe writing everyday is good for you. Ah well. I'm lazy.
I have two quotes to share. Two random quotes that I picked up from things. I really like them. I hope you do too.
"The thing I find most disturbing about dolls is they refuse to take responsibility for the fires they start."
And
"A critic is someone who comes onto the battlefield after the battle is over and shoots the wounded."
I sold someone a pen today in philosophy. For a dollar. I am now a dollar richer. I will sign autographs tomorrow at noon. But I will only do so much. I get tired.
I have two quotes to share. Two random quotes that I picked up from things. I really like them. I hope you do too.
"The thing I find most disturbing about dolls is they refuse to take responsibility for the fires they start."
-Emile from Amped 3
And
"A critic is someone who comes onto the battlefield after the battle is over and shoots the wounded."
- ??? This was in Lamott's enjoyable book on writing. She didn't have the source.
I sold someone a pen today in philosophy. For a dollar. I am now a dollar richer. I will sign autographs tomorrow at noon. But I will only do so much. I get tired.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Announcement
This is................MY 100th POST.
To commemorate 100 posts (or 99) of introspective nightmares and obscure attempts at satirizing pop culture and our world view, and maybe just plain lazy attempts at fillers that I think could pass for something somewhat useful, I would like to say the following:
GOD-DAAAAAAMMIT!
That is all.
To commemorate 100 posts (or 99) of introspective nightmares and obscure attempts at satirizing pop culture and our world view, and maybe just plain lazy attempts at fillers that I think could pass for something somewhat useful, I would like to say the following:
GOD-DAAAAAAMMIT!
That is all.
Gidday
I woke up from a nap this afternoon to find myself in an elaborate delusion in which I had three identities, and somehow these identities could not cross each other at any given point in their paths, and so had to remain parallel to each other and somehow wind up at the end of some time warp or I don't know, shit. It took me half an hour to wake up, and when I got up to get a snack I felt like a different person in that I was having different thoughts than I usually do, or there was an absence of other thoughts. Man, I still can't put my finger on it. This afternoon was weird.
Do you ever wake up with your mind reeling with strange logical (or illogical) nonsense? Maybe you can't move, but can only think alien things that you have no idea about? I've heard of sleep paralysis and such, but I don't know if this is the same thing. Usually you can't remember any of it. It's like a spilling over of the subconscious or something. Man! I don't know.
Do you ever wake up with your mind reeling with strange logical (or illogical) nonsense? Maybe you can't move, but can only think alien things that you have no idea about? I've heard of sleep paralysis and such, but I don't know if this is the same thing. Usually you can't remember any of it. It's like a spilling over of the subconscious or something. Man! I don't know.
Question Mark
I wrote a rant about the talk about a reinstated draft here in the US, but it came across as way more fiery and political than I had originally planned. Besides, I think we all feel pretty much the same way about the connotations of the term "draft", as used in a political sense. Surely it does not suggest a sweet longing, or a profound yearning or any other such sentiments...of any sort. Redundant. I think we can leave it at that. Maybe it is forgiveable that my rant was so fiery and political. Fiery I can be, but political...maybe not. Besides, I'm only 20 years old and I still don't know shit about shit. Right?
On a lighter note...there is a feast on the horizon. One of mashed potatoes and turkey and gravy. Yes! Thanksgiving! There was a funny quote in this book I'm reading from Anne Lamott. It is concerning disallusionment and it involves a little boy learning about Thanksgiving in school, with all the settlers and natives and everything, and becoming very excited with the whole story and all. And then there is an older boy who has learned a little more on the matter, and this older boy wonders if the younger boy knows about the blankets infected with small pox. So maybe not all of us know the whole story, or maybe we do and choose not to acknowledge it. Maybe it is easier to acknowledge those cute little paper cut-outs of pilgrims and indians in a healthy relationship; not one of deceit and trickery and disease. Well, I guess that wasn't much of a lighter note. But Thanksgiving still kicks ass, because you get to eat alot of good food, and rather shamelessly. So I hope everyone who celebrates enjoys theirs.
I mean, maybe I should feel a little guilt in celebrating this holiday. But alot of holidays are like that. That's history. Its not always pretty. When does it come to the point when you become the catcher in the rye?
Great now I'm stuck between a rock of insensitive bastard and a hard place of heart-bleeding.
On a lighter note...there is a feast on the horizon. One of mashed potatoes and turkey and gravy. Yes! Thanksgiving! There was a funny quote in this book I'm reading from Anne Lamott. It is concerning disallusionment and it involves a little boy learning about Thanksgiving in school, with all the settlers and natives and everything, and becoming very excited with the whole story and all. And then there is an older boy who has learned a little more on the matter, and this older boy wonders if the younger boy knows about the blankets infected with small pox. So maybe not all of us know the whole story, or maybe we do and choose not to acknowledge it. Maybe it is easier to acknowledge those cute little paper cut-outs of pilgrims and indians in a healthy relationship; not one of deceit and trickery and disease. Well, I guess that wasn't much of a lighter note. But Thanksgiving still kicks ass, because you get to eat alot of good food, and rather shamelessly. So I hope everyone who celebrates enjoys theirs.
I mean, maybe I should feel a little guilt in celebrating this holiday. But alot of holidays are like that. That's history. Its not always pretty. When does it come to the point when you become the catcher in the rye?
Great now I'm stuck between a rock of insensitive bastard and a hard place of heart-bleeding.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
The Infamous Rant Pt. 2
You know, I try not to look at forums, because they infuriate me so, but sometimes I just can't look away, like looking at some grotesque abberration that has the irrisistable magnetism of a work of art. Everywhere you look, it doesn't matter how specific the interest (since you'd think a specific interest would bring people together), there's people fighting, arguing over the most goddamn petty things you can think of. Sure, people are always arguing everywhere, completely certain that their opinion is the last true thing on Earth, but the real bozos come right out of the woodwork when it comes to the internet. Never have I seen so much arguing, so much disagreement...so much...discord. What kind of self-righteous moron does it take to stir that much shit up? I probably shouldn't even be complaining about this sort of thing, since its completely beyond my scope of understanding. I'd probably be an idiot in there.
Me, uhhhh, CharlieHorse666
Hey guys, stop arguing, you don't need to, really.
And then, Mr. Peepers
Hey shut up, CharlieHorse666. Hey, that's actually a stupid name.
DelgadoFatBeard
No its not Mr. Peepers, your name is even wrse.
Mr. Peepers
Hey DelgadoFatBeard, you can't even spell, so don't argue with me.
AtomicBlackShadow
Spelling doesn't matter, its the argument we are focused on.
miercoles
No atomic, spelling does matter. DelgadoFatBeard, you can't spell, and CharlieHorse666 is a dumb name.
craxxxY----GaMeRxxxxX
HEY MIERCOLES, YOU'RE FART. AND I BET YOUR MOM IS RETARD AND YOU TOO.
CharlieHorse666
I thought we were talking about Star Wars.
There has got to be more opinions on the internet than dust particles in the universe. And everyone will fight to the bitter end to see theirs on top. Well then fight to the bitter end you primates! And when the dust clears, I will walk among your fallen corpses! And every once in a while I will crush a brittle, yellow skull with my boot heel!
This statement marks the end of another profound, incredibly utilitarian rant.
Me, uhhhh, CharlieHorse666
Hey guys, stop arguing, you don't need to, really.
And then, Mr. Peepers
Hey shut up, CharlieHorse666. Hey, that's actually a stupid name.
DelgadoFatBeard
No its not Mr. Peepers, your name is even wrse.
Mr. Peepers
Hey DelgadoFatBeard, you can't even spell, so don't argue with me.
AtomicBlackShadow
Spelling doesn't matter, its the argument we are focused on.
miercoles
No atomic, spelling does matter. DelgadoFatBeard, you can't spell, and CharlieHorse666 is a dumb name.
craxxxY----GaMeRxxxxX
HEY MIERCOLES, YOU'RE FART. AND I BET YOUR MOM IS RETARD AND YOU TOO.
CharlieHorse666
I thought we were talking about Star Wars.
There has got to be more opinions on the internet than dust particles in the universe. And everyone will fight to the bitter end to see theirs on top. Well then fight to the bitter end you primates! And when the dust clears, I will walk among your fallen corpses! And every once in a while I will crush a brittle, yellow skull with my boot heel!
This statement marks the end of another profound, incredibly utilitarian rant.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
More on Critters and Life
They continue their assault of the attic quarters. They remain quiet during the day, but sometimes I can hear them scuttle back and forth, their little claws scraping the thin surface above. How did they get in there? Up the trees? Across to the roof maybe? In through the cracks? What is it to be a rat? What is pleasure? What is pain? What is his end in life? To reach the promised roof? To sack it and loot its many edible treasures?
I fear the scrapes and shuffles sure, but what I fear even more than that is the snap of a trap, and the thudding of a struggling body. And then silence. Yes, there are traps set up there. Right above my room. Beautiful.
Humans can't co-exist with rats. There is too much destruction. But I hate to know anything is dying right now. Maybe that's partly why I don't watch the news. Or maybe its why I leave spiders to their own devices, even when they give me the creeps, or why I let the ants go about their business in those little ordered lines of theirs, or why I save bees and beetles and flys from drowning in our pool. Why the insects? The creatures no one cares about? The creatures we naturally loathe...for some reason? Perhaps my shell is still a few degrees too soft. And what will happen when something else that is truly important to me dies? What then? I try not to think about it.
I finally got around to cleaning the dust off of my ceiling-fan blades. Have you seen those things? The older ones? That dust just piles up on there; the blades grab it right out of the air and it just sticks. I kept looking up and seeing that dust, and I kept doing nothing about it...
I fear the scrapes and shuffles sure, but what I fear even more than that is the snap of a trap, and the thudding of a struggling body. And then silence. Yes, there are traps set up there. Right above my room. Beautiful.
Humans can't co-exist with rats. There is too much destruction. But I hate to know anything is dying right now. Maybe that's partly why I don't watch the news. Or maybe its why I leave spiders to their own devices, even when they give me the creeps, or why I let the ants go about their business in those little ordered lines of theirs, or why I save bees and beetles and flys from drowning in our pool. Why the insects? The creatures no one cares about? The creatures we naturally loathe...for some reason? Perhaps my shell is still a few degrees too soft. And what will happen when something else that is truly important to me dies? What then? I try not to think about it.
I finally got around to cleaning the dust off of my ceiling-fan blades. Have you seen those things? The older ones? That dust just piles up on there; the blades grab it right out of the air and it just sticks. I kept looking up and seeing that dust, and I kept doing nothing about it...
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Willaaaaard!
Every morning around 5 am I wake up with that terrible sensation of having to go to the bathroom, but not wanting to get out of bed; what's more, I can hear the relentless scratching of rats above...in the attic. I just lay there, listening, horrified that one of them will eventually nibble through the ceiling and crumble through and land on my face.
Or maybe I will be laying there in the darkness, and I'll hear the pitter patter of one across the carpet. And the sound gets closer, closer, closer, until I can feel the sheets of my bed being pulled by the rat clawing his way to the top.
Maybe they are nibbling away at the infrastructure. At the electrical cords or the phone lines or the internet cables (though I doubt the latter two would be wired up there, but just pretend for suspense). Maybe they are planning on severing all communication and light, so that they can finally sack the house and live out their wildest ratty dreams.
Finally, I get up and go to the bathroom, and then try to go to sleep. I try to forget about the scratching above.
P.S. (While on the subject of critters)
What's worse than sharing the shower with a spider? (I don't have the heart to kill the suckers) How about sharing the shower with two spiders, both one on top of the other, in a clump, like they are having sex or something? I mean, what is weirder than spider sex? Honestly.
Or maybe I will be laying there in the darkness, and I'll hear the pitter patter of one across the carpet. And the sound gets closer, closer, closer, until I can feel the sheets of my bed being pulled by the rat clawing his way to the top.
Maybe they are nibbling away at the infrastructure. At the electrical cords or the phone lines or the internet cables (though I doubt the latter two would be wired up there, but just pretend for suspense). Maybe they are planning on severing all communication and light, so that they can finally sack the house and live out their wildest ratty dreams.
Finally, I get up and go to the bathroom, and then try to go to sleep. I try to forget about the scratching above.
P.S. (While on the subject of critters)
What's worse than sharing the shower with a spider? (I don't have the heart to kill the suckers) How about sharing the shower with two spiders, both one on top of the other, in a clump, like they are having sex or something? I mean, what is weirder than spider sex? Honestly.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Raw Data
While under the influence of Purple K, or in other words, a type of pure medical marijuana, I tried to write a few things down. Well, it was pretty difficult, because I was thinking in photographs, instead of film. Don't ask me how I arrived at that metaphor, because the imagery is so goddamn abstract that I would never be able to explain. So anyways, here is what I wrote. Unedited. Don't expect any semantics or anything to make sense for that matter. Why even bother? Man I don't know!
Remember Flag Donut Shape Truck.
Fear Pyramid Scavenger Perforations.
Oh yea. I cannot process this area of transit Black Shape Mirror most trust must sky shimmer heat like a gear shore rise you are me dog.
Funny Ray Fight split two fold bird door.
Cannot burn dome perfect light scatter. Phantom shift burn vibrate hiss water heat good feeling so great Aroc of reflex shaking earth drum monkey on the board.
Senses like wave wave fragments in aperture fade mist Tower like an engine of warmth swim bridge slow fast neck wear Explosion wall pierce running time missing black primal echoes speed up here we go.
Rollercoaster grid ooooooh.
Eyes suffocating chain mail stars frosty poke I can feel my everything cavernous raybound dreams to feel like you mean what you corn funny all one nothing sorry evil reproduce into not existant feel too good to be alive with weight falling loop periods back light bolt of free electrons into roots of branch death wall hit into this way bomb too
At this point, I got to the end of the paper, but I had to keep writing, so I started to write off to the side on the margin, and continued with the following:
much wrong side paranoid points of beams to be suffocating possessed now into vast space lake craze limbur into my arms grizzled smell of doctor visits in exploto carts recurring back into my head through the rine through all operating onion levels never know my clarity here is small into and out of doors and chimneys sky fire popped up in atmosphere close to the eagles dark surges read fail red stream sea foam with rich lifts dappled holes you can't read this alive ooooh No worry again.
As I copied down these words, I recreated specific moments in the experience that I thought were gone forever, these lost moments like designs in the sand smoothed over by harsh winds. Maybe it was a collection of words that brought back an entire image or structure that was supposed to be so temporary. Some of these experiences smooth over and pile up and sometimes you can remember the most distinct of moments, and then the rest goes piling on top of each other to be locked away or shot to pieces. Much like conscious memory I guess. I don't know how this works. I wish I did. I wish science was this far, unrestrained by taboo.
It is the abnormalies that teach us so much more about ourselves than any conceivable normality.
Remember Flag Donut Shape Truck.
Fear Pyramid Scavenger Perforations.
Oh yea. I cannot process this area of transit Black Shape Mirror most trust must sky shimmer heat like a gear shore rise you are me dog.
Funny Ray Fight split two fold bird door.
Cannot burn dome perfect light scatter. Phantom shift burn vibrate hiss water heat good feeling so great Aroc of reflex shaking earth drum monkey on the board.
Senses like wave wave fragments in aperture fade mist Tower like an engine of warmth swim bridge slow fast neck wear Explosion wall pierce running time missing black primal echoes speed up here we go.
Rollercoaster grid ooooooh.
Eyes suffocating chain mail stars frosty poke I can feel my everything cavernous raybound dreams to feel like you mean what you corn funny all one nothing sorry evil reproduce into not existant feel too good to be alive with weight falling loop periods back light bolt of free electrons into roots of branch death wall hit into this way bomb too
At this point, I got to the end of the paper, but I had to keep writing, so I started to write off to the side on the margin, and continued with the following:
much wrong side paranoid points of beams to be suffocating possessed now into vast space lake craze limbur into my arms grizzled smell of doctor visits in exploto carts recurring back into my head through the rine through all operating onion levels never know my clarity here is small into and out of doors and chimneys sky fire popped up in atmosphere close to the eagles dark surges read fail red stream sea foam with rich lifts dappled holes you can't read this alive ooooh No worry again.
As I copied down these words, I recreated specific moments in the experience that I thought were gone forever, these lost moments like designs in the sand smoothed over by harsh winds. Maybe it was a collection of words that brought back an entire image or structure that was supposed to be so temporary. Some of these experiences smooth over and pile up and sometimes you can remember the most distinct of moments, and then the rest goes piling on top of each other to be locked away or shot to pieces. Much like conscious memory I guess. I don't know how this works. I wish I did. I wish science was this far, unrestrained by taboo.
It is the abnormalies that teach us so much more about ourselves than any conceivable normality.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Waking this Morning
When you wake up a little too early, and you dose in and out of the morning, sometimes you can experience the most incredible, vibrant, fantastic dreams.
I tell you, the colors are still intact. So are the thoughts and feelings, and the people too. I think Captain Jack Sparrow was there.
The first scene was in Africa. Maybe the Congo. A paramilitary general executed an innocent woman with a huge revolver. I stood and watched. They turned the children to face the walls so that they could not watch. Where is this broadcasting from?
These same paramilitary forces are in transit. They have gathered on a swinging white bridge that is suspended from a crane on the largest cargo ship I have ever seen. Someone is firing on the paramilitaries. Not me, they are right next to me though, I do not know who they are. The paramilitaries are being shot and falling off this bridge, sprawled out and plunging toward the glowing turqoise ocean below. There is also a sunbleached village far below, right on the coast. When I watch them fall, I wonder what it is like to fall that far and die. Maybe it is like a dream. You accept your fate in the weightless silence and then all becomes black. Or are they dead before they fall? From the bullets?
I am on the swinging bridge now, hanging from the top. I didn't question how I got there, only that the view below was breathtaking. I could see the glowing white of the village below, and then the bright turqoise waters of a tropical ocean. I was not aware of the danger I was in.
I was in the sea now, below the bridge and next to the ship, in the harbor. There were great waves, people were diving in these waves. They're crazy. I didn't feel as if I was in any danger.
I awoke not puzzled, but refreshed. Then I wonder about quantum theory.
I tell you, the colors are still intact. So are the thoughts and feelings, and the people too. I think Captain Jack Sparrow was there.
The first scene was in Africa. Maybe the Congo. A paramilitary general executed an innocent woman with a huge revolver. I stood and watched. They turned the children to face the walls so that they could not watch. Where is this broadcasting from?
These same paramilitary forces are in transit. They have gathered on a swinging white bridge that is suspended from a crane on the largest cargo ship I have ever seen. Someone is firing on the paramilitaries. Not me, they are right next to me though, I do not know who they are. The paramilitaries are being shot and falling off this bridge, sprawled out and plunging toward the glowing turqoise ocean below. There is also a sunbleached village far below, right on the coast. When I watch them fall, I wonder what it is like to fall that far and die. Maybe it is like a dream. You accept your fate in the weightless silence and then all becomes black. Or are they dead before they fall? From the bullets?
I am on the swinging bridge now, hanging from the top. I didn't question how I got there, only that the view below was breathtaking. I could see the glowing white of the village below, and then the bright turqoise waters of a tropical ocean. I was not aware of the danger I was in.
I was in the sea now, below the bridge and next to the ship, in the harbor. There were great waves, people were diving in these waves. They're crazy. I didn't feel as if I was in any danger.
I awoke not puzzled, but refreshed. Then I wonder about quantum theory.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Ice Breaker
Such seriousness! Such tension! I know the cure for such things:
Dee da dee da doo dah dah dah deedley dum a doo a dee a dee a doop.
Yes! Step forward! Embrace life with open arms!
Dee da dee da doo dah dah dah deedley dum a doo a dee a dee a doop.
Yes! Step forward! Embrace life with open arms!
Monday, November 06, 2006
Imagine
There was a full moon last night, and I couldn't help but think of werewolves. And then when I thought of werewolves, I decided to look them up. I read some things.
One of the first accounts of a werewolf was in the Medieval period. It was of a man who supposedly prowled the forests, mutilating animals, then humans...women and children included. When they finally got their hands on him, they strapped him to a torture wheel, tore off his skin with hot pockers, amputated his arms and legs, and finally decapitated him.
They call it Lycanthropy. Supposedly there are still cases of it today, those being clinical cases. Science says it can be a combination of many things, namely Psychosis with any sort of acute hallucinations and much more. This is just off the top of my head of course. The actual explanation is much more comprehensive. There are types of hallucinations in which a person actually feels like parts of their body are transforming, and due to their beliefs, make this out to be a werewolf transformation. Some report demonic visions (again, beliefs) and actually start to behave as they would believe a werewolf would behave. And all this is as real to the person as their own hands and feet. Could you imagine the terror? The pure madness of living such an ordeal?
I am very afraid of any kind of Psychosis. The word itself carries a most unbearable connotation when I mouth it on my lips, and think of it in my head. In other words, I fear the living hell that would be existing in a nightmare that cannot be escaped, that carries with it all of the bodily pains and fears of living in consciousness. I say, the mind is an incredible force that when turned against itself can bring more destruction to the victim than any bad dream. It is your own personal black hole. Inescapable.
The problem with me is that when I read history, especially such grisly history as this, I cannot help but place myself directly in the reading and begin to live it as far as my imagination goes, and it sometimes proves unsettling.
I mean, what is going on out there anyway?
One of the first accounts of a werewolf was in the Medieval period. It was of a man who supposedly prowled the forests, mutilating animals, then humans...women and children included. When they finally got their hands on him, they strapped him to a torture wheel, tore off his skin with hot pockers, amputated his arms and legs, and finally decapitated him.
They call it Lycanthropy. Supposedly there are still cases of it today, those being clinical cases. Science says it can be a combination of many things, namely Psychosis with any sort of acute hallucinations and much more. This is just off the top of my head of course. The actual explanation is much more comprehensive. There are types of hallucinations in which a person actually feels like parts of their body are transforming, and due to their beliefs, make this out to be a werewolf transformation. Some report demonic visions (again, beliefs) and actually start to behave as they would believe a werewolf would behave. And all this is as real to the person as their own hands and feet. Could you imagine the terror? The pure madness of living such an ordeal?
I am very afraid of any kind of Psychosis. The word itself carries a most unbearable connotation when I mouth it on my lips, and think of it in my head. In other words, I fear the living hell that would be existing in a nightmare that cannot be escaped, that carries with it all of the bodily pains and fears of living in consciousness. I say, the mind is an incredible force that when turned against itself can bring more destruction to the victim than any bad dream. It is your own personal black hole. Inescapable.
The problem with me is that when I read history, especially such grisly history as this, I cannot help but place myself directly in the reading and begin to live it as far as my imagination goes, and it sometimes proves unsettling.
I mean, what is going on out there anyway?
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
The City of Sharp Angles
This dream is still very vivid in my head. The colors, the sights, the recreation of an entire city of sharp angles. Sidewalks that extended into the sky as obtuse triangles. A central skyscraper of dizzying height, a greenish brown color. The city is by the ocean, a perfect blue ocean that is the horizon.
We went to the skyscraper to get a view of the city. After the lobby was a strange zigzagging catwalk that led up to the elevator floor. We were dripping wet for some reason. The guard wouldnt let us past. In fact, he threw a friend over the catwalk rail, who landed on his head. I was terrified that he was killed, and in me was born a burning animosity for this guard, this unjust monster. The friend was spitting teeth and blood, in between vomiting. But at least he was alive. We were in a lobby that was plastered with obscene pictures. Someone offered to get back inside the skyscraper and kill the guard. The guard was assassinated. We walked out to the streets, the vast streets. I had to keep taking in the sights. I lost my friends, they crossed the street and disappeared into the city. Strange angles everywhere. The streets, the sidewalk.
I ascended one of the great slabs of sidewalk that was an obtuse triangle that rose into the sky. From there I could see a market place, and the perfect blue ocean. My friends were somewhere out there.
I awoke feeling like I was living another life. I had been there before. Several times.
We went to the skyscraper to get a view of the city. After the lobby was a strange zigzagging catwalk that led up to the elevator floor. We were dripping wet for some reason. The guard wouldnt let us past. In fact, he threw a friend over the catwalk rail, who landed on his head. I was terrified that he was killed, and in me was born a burning animosity for this guard, this unjust monster. The friend was spitting teeth and blood, in between vomiting. But at least he was alive. We were in a lobby that was plastered with obscene pictures. Someone offered to get back inside the skyscraper and kill the guard. The guard was assassinated. We walked out to the streets, the vast streets. I had to keep taking in the sights. I lost my friends, they crossed the street and disappeared into the city. Strange angles everywhere. The streets, the sidewalk.
I ascended one of the great slabs of sidewalk that was an obtuse triangle that rose into the sky. From there I could see a market place, and the perfect blue ocean. My friends were somewhere out there.
I awoke feeling like I was living another life. I had been there before. Several times.
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