A Wolf In Human's Clothing

Just write this essay, finish this paper, ace this test, pass this quarter, then the next, another 2 years, and then a career, maybe, maybe not.

Smile, remain civil, try to blend in. Dress like them, walk like them, talk like them.

Do what you're told, try, try, try to blend in. Cannot stress this enough. Play the charade. Jump through the hoops.

Try to understand these rational thoughts broadcasting. Suppress the animal for now, it is not appropriate.

Then maybe you get a taste. Maybe not.

Not easy, whatever the case.

The Kill

The mountain air is cold and fresh, a pleasure to inhale. It is probably more pleasurable than sucking on a mint throat lozenge and then inhaling the air through that pocket, that filter of cool. In fact, that is probably cheating, to try and get to the sensation of inhaling mountain air.

You can hear the wind approaching before it blows past your ears. It blows through the trees and sounds like a roaring dry river coming up the mountain.

The failing light is a soft glowing blue that silhouettes the dark swaying trees. You realize you are standing within a vast forest sprawl, that continues seemingly into infinity beyond the darkness, full of trees slowly swaying from the cold, pure mountain air that blows through them.
Bad vibes are drifting up-slope. Noise starts to rise, noise beyond the roaring wind, being carried in the cold. A barking, and then a snarling, and then there is a great many snarls, all growing in volume, growing more savage, in rage, in fear, in anger, in...what is this? Mistaken, this is in ecstasy, in lust, in pleasure. Screams now, primal screams, growing louder, closer, a wall, a wave of screams, twisted primal bellows in the sheer delight of the cold blooded kill, a pleasure that only the most animalistic, primally descended human being could ever understand.

And then you imagine yourself as the animal they are tearing apart somewhere out there in the cold darkness. The paralytic fear becoming your very existence, as you are being torn back and forth by gnashing vices of teeth, surrounded by incredible, cascading predatory screams. And the only way to make it to death without full cerebral incineration is to go mad and live those last few seconds far away from that place.

Sure man has conquered his domain, but in a sense, he has not mastered it. As the average civilized man could never understand the forest in which he stands.

Well

I wrote a post, and then changed my mind, and then cut it, and pasted it into a word document, where it will sit on my hard drive for some time, before being rediscovered again, and reappraised.

But it wasn't a good post anyway.

Not that this one is any better, if not worse.

Why am I still writing? Why do I not backspace right now? Only a few buttons away.

Why can't I stop staring at nothing? Thinking of things that will never help? Shouldn't I finish this assignment and get to sleep?

What is going on in there? And I thought I knew.

How long?

What does it take for a cave-in, a full collapse?

Excerpts From a Time Long Past Pt. 2

Here is some more left over.

• Trademark the ocean, living your dreams. (I cannot remember why I wrote this. I still can't figure it out.)

• On Vegas: Unlighted Vegas looked so ugly under that grey winter sky, with its steel constructor monsters towering and baying as part of the skyline, always building, building, the opposite of what a great steel monster should do: destroy and destroy. The surrounding housing is designed for sheer numbers and is of the ugliest I've seen. Vegas itself is an eternally hungry monster, a creature that has tasted wealth and hungers for it as it expands and spreads, devouring what it desires with a conscious-less greed (like any creature gaining great amounts of power). It is an entity, an organism, fueled unknowingly by the people, who upon entering the city convert into the tycoon-wealth-absorbing pragmatists that define the Vegas entity's very nature. It is a monster hidden by the illusion of a discourse. (Please take note that I do not dislike Vegas, as I am completely fascinated by it and strive to understand one of the most architecturally diverse, sensory-overloading places I have ever seen. It is alive. The people are its cells, its blood. The casinos and hotels its organs. It spreads on the desert floor with a single, collective mind.)

• The sky looks like a sea of burning ships, the smoke dispersed into unrecognizable streaks that are trying to keep the fire within. The fire is departing, something huge is leaving us, taking the colors with it.
  

• A volcano explodes suddenly, after being passively gazed at from inside a car. The pyroclastic flows swallow up the headlights of the fleeing vehicle.
  

• Above the clouds on a mountain peak is the view of a vast alien wasteland.
  

• On dancing: Self-consciousness Pockets. (What did I mean?)

• On the ice road: "No sudden moves eh?" the driver says. He then sneezes. A slide. A crash. "Goddammit."

• Recent: Chord progression. The sounds reach out to touch me.
  

Yeah. And so life grinds on. And sometimes finds itself inked into a book.

Tentative Intro for Metaphysics Essay

What is metaphysics? And what are the categories in relation to metaphysics?



Well...ehhhh...like...if someone farts really loud, and you say, "Gee that is a loud fart", I guess you could say that it has been predicated from that individual made up of the primary substance and that this predicated item of what the individual has isisfisf is this fart and that it is owned by the individual and that the fart itself has a quallity of being loud and otherwise obnoxious, which gives way to a sort of telescoping categorization of the entire construct. And well that is where the cats come in and that...er...life is but a fart?


I think I need to revise.

Awwww I don't like this essay.

Excerpts From a Time Long Past Pt. 1

These are things I wrote down off and on, here and there. Some I can't remember writing, and some I can't even understand. What was I thinking? Oh well.

Oh, and this is a little bit longer for a post.

• On trap doors: I think people would be somewhat put-off by me coming out of a trapdoor or a manhole cover like some wayward ninja turtle.

• Past Vegas is an endless desert made beautiful by its singular vastness and huge open stretches. The clouds are dark and stretching. The distant haze gives the mountains a blue hue that brings out their contrast and sets them on the yellow plains that are divided by the long black road. A wasteland beauty, a road-way beauty, if nothing else.

• A single white snowflake darted past the windshield like a baby squid dashing back and forth in the inky darkness of the ocean, glowing white. A precursor to a great storm.

• The center of the Great Ripple is the birth of new ideas.

• Inside a roadside, red neon-lit motel: The pungent smell of gasoline lingers in the winter air. There is a gas station right across the street. A small rest-outpost on a great plane. A train whistle blows outside; it cuts right through the walls. I wonder what else could cut through these walls. What writhes below these paper-thin floor boards?

• Maybe I appeared as an old burned-out Russian special forces soldier pursuing his life-long retirement dream: skiing the slopes and photographing the magnificent views. A hint of longing sadness under that ice-caked balaclava for something that once was.
  

• The road's scars and debris told countless stories of terrible crashes, horrible strandings, and great tragedy that could only be recreated by a fictional mind staring out of a snow-caked window of a passing car.
  

• These notes are sloppy and smeared, the result of trying to write awkwardly in a notebook while sitting in a moving, rumbling vehicle. Constant vibrations. No support.
  

• There is truth in what every single person has to say, whether direct or indirect, for good or ill.
  

• Dreaming in Idaho: In a room with people. An industrial over-office. Bad vibes outside. There is a latin chant coming from me. Me? Wolves, Hellhounds, coming in through the windows, latching onto people. I throw them off and out of the windows. Become a fire god. The wolves are hatching out of blue spheres. I crush the spheres before they spawn.
  

• Looking back: With that long trip came a mind trip, a mind trip that could only happen on a long lonely road like this.
  

There is more. Maybe another time. Soon. Later. Much later. Who knows.

Goodbye for now.

The Serpent

Slightly drunk. Tipped at a certain angle, not quite gone. The room is transformed. There is a strange crackling sound warbling down the hall. Is it real? My phone.

What could have set me into such a strange, surreal, distorted state of mind? Certainly not the alcohol. Alcohol doesn't do these things. Not as far as I know. Tip that cart and it will certainly roll.

Telepathic pattern recognition. I can't explain it any other way, it is too far above. Something is going through. Possessive abstraction. Extensions, seeping power, and I happen to be the next flash within the pop of a strobe. Who's face is this in the candle-lit mirror? This ever-present death has to be a delusion. If not, what then?

Coming down now. Soon I will have to explain myself. Maybe look back upon this written madness in confusion and embarrassment. Maybe not. There is a soft, ringing sorrow in it all. Or maybe just utter detachment, interchangeable, one mistaken for the other. Where does it end? What does it lead to?

Rants like fluid, like expulsions, generated from somewhere we could never reach, but there, nevertheless.

This is The Question

To be...or uh...not to...fuck shit ass goddammit.

First Day Back (And It Doesn't Feel That Good)

Back on that bleached freeway. It is that long stretch on the 405 that just opens up and I almost feel like I am free from it, whatever it is. Hints of sadness as I glance in the rearview mirror. I am being pursued by caricatures. A woman in a red mustang convertible. Fashionable Cali-esque shades. Cell phone extended. Zipping in and out of traffic. Trying to get somewhere in so little time. Every few seconds she risks her life just a little bit...for what? For a few more seconds. Those few more precious seconds. Is it worth it? I brood on this as I cruise, realizing that I am risking my own, just a little bit. Dangerous state of mind on these crowded roads. Spacey music. I am not in my head right now. And these thoughts! Damn these thoughts! Not right now. Can't this wait?

The sharks are circling the parking reef. The first week is shark season. And every corner I round, there is someone flashing their blinker, getting so lucky with a person leaving. Keep moving. You'll get lucky soon. The nerves are running bare. The music is barely getting me through. How many more rounds? How much longer? Oh yes! A white Jetta. I felt bad for the poor S.O.B. behind me, watching me put on my blinker. But I had to survive, and there was a kill right in front of me.

Logic class is in the ever-so-beautiful Rowland Hall, which is currently under heavy construction. The room itself is nestled in a maze of halls and detours, the main routes blocked off by construction equipment. The actual room is a glaring white claustrophobic flourescent sardine can nightmare. The students are shoulder to shoulder, some sitting on the floor. Is this ceiling too low? Are these seats too narrow? Someone turn down the lights. What is this? Coffee spilled on the floor? This place smells like the inside of an airplane. I should balance this backpack on my shoe so as not to get it soaked. An hour grinds by.

Only 5 people go to this school, and their form has been duplicated over and over again and the campus is populated with these clones to throw me off. Look, there is that one kid. Woah! There he is again! Or was it him? Do they use an algorithm to simulate what students should do? The paranoia is setting in!

Obsessions. Multiple thoughts. Shake it off. Drop this petty shit. The complaints are minuscule. Think...of Africa.

Perhaps...an alcoholic beverage. But not tonight! It is too late. Strange things could happen. Strange panic...strange visions...dreams...hallucinations...whatever they are.

Playing The Part of God With a .44 Magnum

There is a special kind of rush that accompanies firing a large caliber weapon. Handheld fate, as it were. This is something that almost inevitably has to be done when traveling in a part of the country where they worship the Gun.

I think it is a regional thing. I think it is OK to restrict guns in California because of the population density and the sheer number of those goddamn nutcases. But then it is the nutcases that get their hands on the guns anyways, independent of laws, so I dunno. At least it is harder to get the guns...maybe that amounts to something.

Montana on the other hand is a pretty sparsely populated region, and guns become a sort of subject of recreation, because you can fire the biggest goddamn calibers you can find into the hills and there is no one around to tell you otherwise. But I can't help but wonder if all that lead going into the ground is bad for the long run. I guess we'll see.

When you wake up in the morning you can hear the hunters' gunfire echo through the valley; it sounds like muffled little pops. I like firing guns at shit. I do. But not living shit, unless I was starving. So thus I do not believe in hunting as a recreation. Well, scratch that, hunting humans is pretty fun. I'm OK with hunting humans. But deer? They're just so cute.



I am in Idaho right now, under an A-frame, looking over the luminous snow fields that lay quiet under the white haze. The sun is going down beyond the haze, but I cannot see it.

Everything is starting to run together now. A daze. A dream of sorts. It all follows from that great black stream of road, and all of our adventures branch out from that road like fluid forking tendrils, and then suck right back into it when we return to the Great Stream. Looking back, it has been a good trip...however homesick I may be at this point in time. We take the long trip back tomorrow, we return to the Stream, and inside the car I will lose myself yet again in this continual dream. It will be good to get back.



And now 2007 eh? 2006 was a decent year, for me anyway.