Saturday, March 31, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
The Cure For Barking
I awake with a sour affliction in my throat. Who knows what that is. The morning is bright blue and green and there is a cool air coming through the window and it is carrying pleasant bird calls. Other than the sourness the beginning of this day is good.
But that is all shattered with a cacophony of raging dogs, first barking, and then howling.
"Shut up you goddamn sons of bitches! Shut up you bastards! Shut up!"
And now the neighbors have had a good morning as well. I am sure.
But they do shut up. The dogs. And they are happy to see me awake. So happy they rear up and put their paws on my chest, and scratch me to hell.
Their affection is a double-edged sword.
But that is all shattered with a cacophony of raging dogs, first barking, and then howling.
"Shut up you goddamn sons of bitches! Shut up you bastards! Shut up!"
And now the neighbors have had a good morning as well. I am sure.
But they do shut up. The dogs. And they are happy to see me awake. So happy they rear up and put their paws on my chest, and scratch me to hell.
Their affection is a double-edged sword.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Yeerrwweehhh
Kix are children-tested. They're tested on children. And the mothers approve of this. They're tested on children and the mothers approve of this. This is right on the box. Does anybody know about this? I am eating them right now.
I am a willing patron to great evil and baseness. Does this have anything to do with Kidz Kreamz? Is there some extended circle of debauchery that enjoys a stranglehold on the food industry?
I'm surprised this issue has not been picked up sooner. I'm very surprised. Surprised that something like this can go unseen or unaccounted for...for such a long time. There must be...
Yeah just a little bored at the moment. It is ok.
I am a willing patron to great evil and baseness. Does this have anything to do with Kidz Kreamz? Is there some extended circle of debauchery that enjoys a stranglehold on the food industry?
I'm surprised this issue has not been picked up sooner. I'm very surprised. Surprised that something like this can go unseen or unaccounted for...for such a long time. There must be...
Yeah just a little bored at the moment. It is ok.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
(Sub)Healthy Spring Fusion
I'm sleeping a hundred broken sleeps. I don't know where this begins or where this begins or where it ends. The early morning sky is a luminescent orange-purple, on the darker side, like midnight with a distant mass fire lighting the horizon. There are always dogs. Sometimes I have nowhere to sleep, and my legs are stretched painfully every which way to accommodate them. Doesn't really matter as I am half-conscious and drifting from one dream to the next, always in some transient state of mind, vague and non-existing worries taking my head back and forth from one trip to the next. I become one of them in sleep, kicking my legs, mumbling one thing or another, switching from one awkward position to the next, understanding what is there, and not understanding it, always in different ways each time. Where is my goddamn cat? She sleeps curled in a ball next to my head and rarely disturbs my sleep. But not tonight. Tonight are the large dogs with their large displacements.
The night is a like a midnight car drive through a tunnel cut into a mountain, the amber lights illuminating the interior in intervals, rapid, but broken.
The black one is like some large, lupine child. He exclaims wordless things in a voice of his own, and he flops into my arms in the middle of the night, heavy and attention-hungry. I only playfully wonder if he maybe thinks of this comfort he has, and what it might have been like had she not picked him up off of the mean LA streets.
I've come out of the tunnel for a brief moment of clarity out there with the soft blaze sky. Now to go back in...into the oscillating lights, the oscillating illuminations of here, and somewhere else.
The night is a like a midnight car drive through a tunnel cut into a mountain, the amber lights illuminating the interior in intervals, rapid, but broken.
The black one is like some large, lupine child. He exclaims wordless things in a voice of his own, and he flops into my arms in the middle of the night, heavy and attention-hungry. I only playfully wonder if he maybe thinks of this comfort he has, and what it might have been like had she not picked him up off of the mean LA streets.
I've come out of the tunnel for a brief moment of clarity out there with the soft blaze sky. Now to go back in...into the oscillating lights, the oscillating illuminations of here, and somewhere else.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Metaloceanic
There is an ocean of metal that surges in a place most haven't seen. It is silver and black and it is viscous so that it flows and laps, but it is also sharp and its surfaces grate against each other and it is the loudest thing you have ever heard. When the sun hits it you cannot see anything, and staring into it is like staring into the sun itself. The heat coming off it is almost unbearable.
When you can actually look at it and hear it and experience it without one of your sense organs being in danger of disintegrating, it is quite beautiful.
When you can actually look at it and hear it and experience it without one of your sense organs being in danger of disintegrating, it is quite beautiful.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Gotta Get Off The Substance D
I feel like ants are all over me. I know ants are all over me I just know it. But when I feel for them they are not here.
The Violet On The Wall And Ceiling
It is 3 o clock in the morning. I knew before that alcohol sometimes does strange things to me when I go to sleep with it in my system (usually these things are terrifying, sometimes hallucinations, but not this time). Well now I am wide awake with a dream in my head like no other before; it felt as real as I am sitting here now typing this, just in another time.
What was so striking about it was the complete parallel it shared with this reality. I was out in the living room talking to people online, a perfectly recreated living room that I can remember so vividly, and the conversations were vibrant and had a logical progression. The whole sequence had a logical progression unbroken like a conscious experience. I guess for some reason I went to the TV unit to look for something and suddenly a drawer below me opens on its own, and out comes a pair of headphones hanging by their chord and they are danced out to the middle of the room by something unseen, invisible. I was transfixed in utter fascination, and my dad came out into the living room and saw them out there dancing back and forth and exclaimed, "Oh! I love things like this!" with a hint of nostalgia, as if he had seen it as a boy. Soon my step mom was out there marveling as well. I began to cry, and I felt hot tears, and I thought to myself that I am doing this, that I cannot be dreaming, that all this is all too real.
The headphones were still dancing when outside we could hear the creaking up and down of some distant wheelbarrow, and the opening and closing of a nearby fence. Violins were playing as well. "There is more of them outside!", someone said. These things were referred to as "Descartesians" for a reason I'll never know. Soon sounds were drifting up outside from all directions as the creatures got louder and louder with their poltergeistic expressions. We turned off the lights to listen and experience them, and there was a violet glow all over the room. We were all so moved. Why? Because I believed I was really there experiencing this. Imagine experiencing something like that.
I awoke with a less benign feeling that something was in the room. It took me a little bit to roll over on the bed and cast a quick glance over the room, and then to turn on the light and fire up the computer. I had to write before it was gone. But I have a feeling it will never be gone. I have a feeling it will become a part of my memory like some of my other more vibrant dreams. Recalling the dream still brings me on the verge of tears. I woke up with tears, and now my nose is just clearing up. The imagery. And what does it all mean? Why was it so moving in such a strange, primal way that I might not be able to understand?
The birds are well into their song. It is almost 3:30 now. The first light will be coming in a few hours. I don't know if I can get back to sleep. I'm still expecting these Descartesians to come back, to start lighting up the room with violet and toying with objects like a poltergeist would. I am expecting to see something in the mirror. I am waiting. My eyes burn. My head slightly aches.
I still do not completely understand.
What was so striking about it was the complete parallel it shared with this reality. I was out in the living room talking to people online, a perfectly recreated living room that I can remember so vividly, and the conversations were vibrant and had a logical progression. The whole sequence had a logical progression unbroken like a conscious experience. I guess for some reason I went to the TV unit to look for something and suddenly a drawer below me opens on its own, and out comes a pair of headphones hanging by their chord and they are danced out to the middle of the room by something unseen, invisible. I was transfixed in utter fascination, and my dad came out into the living room and saw them out there dancing back and forth and exclaimed, "Oh! I love things like this!" with a hint of nostalgia, as if he had seen it as a boy. Soon my step mom was out there marveling as well. I began to cry, and I felt hot tears, and I thought to myself that I am doing this, that I cannot be dreaming, that all this is all too real.
The headphones were still dancing when outside we could hear the creaking up and down of some distant wheelbarrow, and the opening and closing of a nearby fence. Violins were playing as well. "There is more of them outside!", someone said. These things were referred to as "Descartesians" for a reason I'll never know. Soon sounds were drifting up outside from all directions as the creatures got louder and louder with their poltergeistic expressions. We turned off the lights to listen and experience them, and there was a violet glow all over the room. We were all so moved. Why? Because I believed I was really there experiencing this. Imagine experiencing something like that.
I awoke with a less benign feeling that something was in the room. It took me a little bit to roll over on the bed and cast a quick glance over the room, and then to turn on the light and fire up the computer. I had to write before it was gone. But I have a feeling it will never be gone. I have a feeling it will become a part of my memory like some of my other more vibrant dreams. Recalling the dream still brings me on the verge of tears. I woke up with tears, and now my nose is just clearing up. The imagery. And what does it all mean? Why was it so moving in such a strange, primal way that I might not be able to understand?
The birds are well into their song. It is almost 3:30 now. The first light will be coming in a few hours. I don't know if I can get back to sleep. I'm still expecting these Descartesians to come back, to start lighting up the room with violet and toying with objects like a poltergeist would. I am expecting to see something in the mirror. I am waiting. My eyes burn. My head slightly aches.
I still do not completely understand.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Let The Cherry Blossoms In
They're driving like shit.
The clouds are dirty.
The road is dirty.
The ground and sky
are dirty.
Everything is dirty.
"Shut the engine off before it dies. Can't you hear it choking? It is dying. Shut it off."
"Turn the key. Shut it off. You drive too slow. Too slow."
The engine keeps chugging, no more willing to die than the occupants inside.
There are cherry blossoms dancing in the air all along the street. They float past the windshield.
"Roll the windows down. Let the cherry blossoms in."
"No, that is just fuzz. It is just fuzz floating around. Those aren't cherry blossoms. You're going to crash if you take that notebook out and start writing."
These people are driving like shit.
They are swerving like shit.
They are thinking like shit.
"You're shit", I say to them. They don't listen.
The clouds are dirty.
The road is dirty.
The ground and sky
are dirty.
Everything is dirty.
"Shut the engine off before it dies. Can't you hear it choking? It is dying. Shut it off."
"Turn the key. Shut it off. You drive too slow. Too slow."
The engine keeps chugging, no more willing to die than the occupants inside.
There are cherry blossoms dancing in the air all along the street. They float past the windshield.
"Roll the windows down. Let the cherry blossoms in."
"No, that is just fuzz. It is just fuzz floating around. Those aren't cherry blossoms. You're going to crash if you take that notebook out and start writing."
These people are driving like shit.
They are swerving like shit.
They are thinking like shit.
"You're shit", I say to them. They don't listen.
Still On The Subject (Of Jack Thompson)
I'm not sure if this is totally legit. But they said it hasn't been modified, and that he wrote it. I don't like to give the guy attention. Because that is what he is thriving on. But this is a negative energy, and not a positive. And he is a fool.
Background: Our buddy Jack has sued Take Two for games that have not come out yet, on the pretense that they are detrimental to society. So Take Two has hit back and is suing him, for suing them for something that hasn't even happened yet. Nice.
Dear Gamers and Gamer Publications on the Internet and Elsewhere:
I have been praying, literally, that Take-Two and its lawyers would do something so stupid, so arrogant, so dumb, even dumber than what they have to date done, that such a misstep would enable me to destroy Take-Two. With the filing of this SLAPP lawsuit last week, my prayers are finally answered.
This lawsuit, filed in US District Court for the Southern District of Florida, is, without a doubt, the single dumbest thing I have ever seen any lawyers do in my thirty years of practicing law -- while in continuous good standing to do so with The Florida Bar, I might add, the shock radio and video game industry's efforts notwithstanding.
I encourage folks to read Psalm 35, a Psalm of David, which is brilliant in its entirety (since God Himself wrote it), but for those who don't own a Bible or who think their hands will catch on fire if they touch one, here is the salient portion that applies to this lawsuit:
7 For without cause have they hid for me their net in a pit, which without cause they have digged for my soul.
8 Let destruction come upon him at unawares; and let his net that he hath hid catch himself: into that very destruction let him fall.
9 And my soul shall be joyful in the LORD: it shall rejoice in his salvation.
The pit Take-Two has dug for itself will be patently clear next week when I strike back. Oh, and by the way, the entire Take-Two management and board will be gone on March 23, so this pit-digging comes at a very bad time indeed.
Amen, and Praise be to God Almighty, maker of Heaven, Earth, and yes, the maker even video games.
Jack Thompson
Well, he is pretty old too. He'll probably die soon. Broken hip. Or something. Its ok.
Nevertheless. I want to be like him when I grow up. I want to BE HIM.
Background: Our buddy Jack has sued Take Two for games that have not come out yet, on the pretense that they are detrimental to society. So Take Two has hit back and is suing him, for suing them for something that hasn't even happened yet. Nice.
Dear Gamers and Gamer Publications on the Internet and Elsewhere:
I have been praying, literally, that Take-Two and its lawyers would do something so stupid, so arrogant, so dumb, even dumber than what they have to date done, that such a misstep would enable me to destroy Take-Two. With the filing of this SLAPP lawsuit last week, my prayers are finally answered.
This lawsuit, filed in US District Court for the Southern District of Florida, is, without a doubt, the single dumbest thing I have ever seen any lawyers do in my thirty years of practicing law -- while in continuous good standing to do so with The Florida Bar, I might add, the shock radio and video game industry's efforts notwithstanding.
I encourage folks to read Psalm 35, a Psalm of David, which is brilliant in its entirety (since God Himself wrote it), but for those who don't own a Bible or who think their hands will catch on fire if they touch one, here is the salient portion that applies to this lawsuit:
7 For without cause have they hid for me their net in a pit, which without cause they have digged for my soul.
8 Let destruction come upon him at unawares; and let his net that he hath hid catch himself: into that very destruction let him fall.
9 And my soul shall be joyful in the LORD: it shall rejoice in his salvation.
The pit Take-Two has dug for itself will be patently clear next week when I strike back. Oh, and by the way, the entire Take-Two management and board will be gone on March 23, so this pit-digging comes at a very bad time indeed.
Amen, and Praise be to God Almighty, maker of Heaven, Earth, and yes, the maker even video games.
Jack Thompson
Well, he is pretty old too. He'll probably die soon. Broken hip. Or something. Its ok.
Nevertheless. I want to be like him when I grow up. I want to BE HIM.
In The Morning
Birds sing outside my window. The freeway roars constant and just a little louder like it should in the morning. Hammers knock on construction just across the street. The day has just begun.
And all I can think about is what it would be like if someone tried to force their way into the house, ripping through the screen, tearing the door off its hinges, splintering it with horrible blows, cursing, sweating, raving stark mad with the most wild eyes, me retreating to the back room, loading the 44, calling 911, and then putting a huge burning slug in his shoulder, where he would fall wheezing and lay on the tile floor bleeding and screaming hysterical death threats until the police and the paramedics arrived.
And all I can think about is what it would be like if someone tried to force their way into the house, ripping through the screen, tearing the door off its hinges, splintering it with horrible blows, cursing, sweating, raving stark mad with the most wild eyes, me retreating to the back room, loading the 44, calling 911, and then putting a huge burning slug in his shoulder, where he would fall wheezing and lay on the tile floor bleeding and screaming hysterical death threats until the police and the paramedics arrived.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Done (With Metaphysics Anyway)
I have finished my final essay just now. It was long and I felt very restless and squirmy throughout. Very squirmy. That feeling when you are working on something and you know that you have such a long way to go and there is no way out and you start to go slightly crazy. Maybe it is remotely similar to what a prisoner feels when he is serving his time and he gazes ahead in his temporal concerns and realizes how long he has before he is out. And he goes slightly crazy.
Oh how I longed for human contact. Anything. Anything. But I knew it would be my ruin if I wanted to get done at a decent time. So I locked up and typed away. Again, similar to the prisoner maybe, but not nearly as agonizing.
I know sort of why analytical writing is the pits for me. It is just the way I think. I have a creational slant to things. That is all. I write something to create it, and after I have given it the life I want to give it, I let it go free to live a life of its own (aha we must check my ego and consider whether this thing really has that much of a life ahead of it). But anyways. I let these things go, and they do not get so tangled, because they recycle and I stay relatively clean (unless it is a larger creational project that has a longer life before it is set free, then that becomes heavy and tangled itself, but still manageable).
But analytical writing requires a certain balance of a large mass of information, something that may never have a life of its own, but is extending off of other creations and information flows. There is an accumulation of weight and complication, and this mass has to be constantly nursed and lifted by the analytical writer to retain coherency and consistency. Sometimes I have these skills, especially for things I know a lot about and even more so about things that I love. But for day to day information juggling like this, things like this essay and other things such and such and such, I just don't have it. I can admit that. Hats off to the analysts and the critics and the professors on that one.
I think that maybe my analytical essays are alright, but after I am done with them I myself cannot completely understand them, because this mass that I have sustained cannot be set free, and therefore I have to know it as an extension of me in a larger network or extensions. And then I lose confidence in what I have created because I don't entirely understand it.
And I should just stop, because soon I'm not even going to be sure what I'm talking about.
FUCK.
I need to take a break. I need to go watch people compete at eating, or go work a massive erection, or something. Or maybe just play some videogames.
Right friends?
Oh how I longed for human contact. Anything. Anything. But I knew it would be my ruin if I wanted to get done at a decent time. So I locked up and typed away. Again, similar to the prisoner maybe, but not nearly as agonizing.
I know sort of why analytical writing is the pits for me. It is just the way I think. I have a creational slant to things. That is all. I write something to create it, and after I have given it the life I want to give it, I let it go free to live a life of its own (aha we must check my ego and consider whether this thing really has that much of a life ahead of it). But anyways. I let these things go, and they do not get so tangled, because they recycle and I stay relatively clean (unless it is a larger creational project that has a longer life before it is set free, then that becomes heavy and tangled itself, but still manageable).
But analytical writing requires a certain balance of a large mass of information, something that may never have a life of its own, but is extending off of other creations and information flows. There is an accumulation of weight and complication, and this mass has to be constantly nursed and lifted by the analytical writer to retain coherency and consistency. Sometimes I have these skills, especially for things I know a lot about and even more so about things that I love. But for day to day information juggling like this, things like this essay and other things such and such and such, I just don't have it. I can admit that. Hats off to the analysts and the critics and the professors on that one.
I think that maybe my analytical essays are alright, but after I am done with them I myself cannot completely understand them, because this mass that I have sustained cannot be set free, and therefore I have to know it as an extension of me in a larger network or extensions. And then I lose confidence in what I have created because I don't entirely understand it.
And I should just stop, because soon I'm not even going to be sure what I'm talking about.
FUCK.
I need to take a break. I need to go watch people compete at eating, or go work a massive erection, or something. Or maybe just play some videogames.
Right friends?
Chilling? (Not Quite The Word)
A teapot will start screaming if you don't take it off of the fire.
Also, I had something great to write last night. Now I forget what it was.
Maybe it is lost forever. Who knows.
P.S. I have a massive essay to do today. I think I'll continue my usual custom: I don't waaaaaannaaaaaa dooooooo this esssaaaaaaaayyyyy. I'll probably be waiting until the last minute. Probably.
Also, I had something great to write last night. Now I forget what it was.
Maybe it is lost forever. Who knows.
P.S. I have a massive essay to do today. I think I'll continue my usual custom: I don't waaaaaannaaaaaa dooooooo this esssaaaaaaaayyyyy. I'll probably be waiting until the last minute. Probably.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Extra-Linguistic
This day...that went by wordless...in another conscious dimension...I couldn't tell you how it felt...I couldn't begin to tell you why I couldn't tell you...I am in a place that uses a different set of symbols to communicate, a different set of electrical signals to feel... all this squinting into the hazy light of the afternoon sun, the breeze blowing through the wind chimes, making a sound that is always different, always beautiful, always taking everything away into that afternoon sun on a breeze that I could never tell you...
...how it felt.
...how it felt.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Heat Dumping (Or Something Like That)
There is a room in the black space beyond the glow of the computer screen. I can't see it, but I know it is there.
I've been lying awake. Unable to go to sleep. Too much nothing floating around in there that I might be able to get out here, that could become something. Or maybe not.
The nights are getting warmer, and I am shifting back and forth on top of these heated sheets, too warm in these pajama bottoms, too warm on this bed, in this stuffy room. Time to turn on the fan.
Cool air now, but it can't blow away these other things. This heaviness, this ache. Why do these woes cause this ache? Why do our bodies work this way? I thought pain was a diagnostic. I don't need to diagnose these woes. I know what they are. Why do we have to lie around with hurting chests? Squirming on these hot, uncomfortable sheets like worms?
My melancholy is bleeding into the room now, wherever I cast my gaze. I am extending myself out into space, or my chest anyway. I'm pouring it all into the lamp fixture above. The more I look at the lamp, the more it pours out, into the room, into the lamp. But I'll never run out of stuff to pour. And the lamp can hold all I have to pour. It gazes back, and pours back what I gave it.
It is just the hum of the fan now. Two fans. One above, one in the computer. Two hums, layered over one another, creating the same soft background noise. The ceiling fan is on low. If it was on high or even medium it would be making the most terrible racket, like it wanted to tear itself from the ceiling and throw itself upon me and slap me with its terrible wooden blades until it ran out of its kinetic spin. Running water. Someone must have used the restroom just now. Now there are three layered sounds. Two hums and one dull roar. The roar has shut off now.
I think I am thinking enough nonsense now to be able to go to sleep. Nonsense is a little more soft and doesn't irritate the attention as much, while the more bothersome sense or meaning is slightly more edged or serrated and irritates the attention and keeps one awake until they figure out a way to sand of its edges, maybe with a little writing or some reading or music or anything else that can do such things.
Heat extentia nonsense and all the like. Thanks.
I've been lying awake. Unable to go to sleep. Too much nothing floating around in there that I might be able to get out here, that could become something. Or maybe not.
The nights are getting warmer, and I am shifting back and forth on top of these heated sheets, too warm in these pajama bottoms, too warm on this bed, in this stuffy room. Time to turn on the fan.
Cool air now, but it can't blow away these other things. This heaviness, this ache. Why do these woes cause this ache? Why do our bodies work this way? I thought pain was a diagnostic. I don't need to diagnose these woes. I know what they are. Why do we have to lie around with hurting chests? Squirming on these hot, uncomfortable sheets like worms?
My melancholy is bleeding into the room now, wherever I cast my gaze. I am extending myself out into space, or my chest anyway. I'm pouring it all into the lamp fixture above. The more I look at the lamp, the more it pours out, into the room, into the lamp. But I'll never run out of stuff to pour. And the lamp can hold all I have to pour. It gazes back, and pours back what I gave it.
It is just the hum of the fan now. Two fans. One above, one in the computer. Two hums, layered over one another, creating the same soft background noise. The ceiling fan is on low. If it was on high or even medium it would be making the most terrible racket, like it wanted to tear itself from the ceiling and throw itself upon me and slap me with its terrible wooden blades until it ran out of its kinetic spin. Running water. Someone must have used the restroom just now. Now there are three layered sounds. Two hums and one dull roar. The roar has shut off now.
I think I am thinking enough nonsense now to be able to go to sleep. Nonsense is a little more soft and doesn't irritate the attention as much, while the more bothersome sense or meaning is slightly more edged or serrated and irritates the attention and keeps one awake until they figure out a way to sand of its edges, maybe with a little writing or some reading or music or anything else that can do such things.
Heat extentia nonsense and all the like. Thanks.
..., ..., Well, ...
Another class gone by. Another class of interesting people, interesting ideas, interesting things being said. Me not saying a word. I know I'm going to regret this in the long run. I know I already regret it now. But all that is going on is I am leaving without saying a word. And it sucks. It is becoming a problem. It has been a problem. It is a problem. From many perspectives it may seem that this is an easy problem to fix. Just get in there and do something. To this I respond with silence.
On another note, maybe not lighter, but certainly less self-deprecating, is in regards to activities on the UCI campus. I guess it has become fashionable for certain people to bring their little toy dogs to school (by toy I mean those small dogs that usually serve as a sort of status symbol), and show them off and revel in attention and this and that. Of course, I could be wrong. I'm sure if you confront these people with these issues, they'll say something like, "I love my dog! That is why I bring him to school!" I would be less inclined to believe such bubbly, hollow answers. But again, I could be wrong. I am a sourpuss after all. Nevertheless, to these people I say: You're not that cute, dipshits.
There was a police officer breaking up a group of guys who were putting up a banner on a freeway over-pass on the 405. I was disappointed I did not to see the sign. Several over-passes up, however, was another sign, of the same type (I did see a corner of the last one and recognized the lettering), and on it said: Withdrawal only. There was something else too. I believe it was in regards to the war. Anyway, I thought, "right on".
And finally, an unexpected friend. In the bathroom is a spider that has a web in the window-sill. Curiously, every once in a while, when I come in to go to the bathroom, he comes out on his web (which extends to the blinds) and rests himself on the edge of one of the blind-blades and watches me. I wish he could talk. Because then maybe we could have wonderful conversations every time I come in to go to the bathroom, and then I would go on with my life, and he would go on with his, in his little window-sill where he catches flys. And then when I come in again, he comes back out, and another conversation would take place.
Curious. No doubt.
On another note, maybe not lighter, but certainly less self-deprecating, is in regards to activities on the UCI campus. I guess it has become fashionable for certain people to bring their little toy dogs to school (by toy I mean those small dogs that usually serve as a sort of status symbol), and show them off and revel in attention and this and that. Of course, I could be wrong. I'm sure if you confront these people with these issues, they'll say something like, "I love my dog! That is why I bring him to school!" I would be less inclined to believe such bubbly, hollow answers. But again, I could be wrong. I am a sourpuss after all. Nevertheless, to these people I say: You're not that cute, dipshits.
There was a police officer breaking up a group of guys who were putting up a banner on a freeway over-pass on the 405. I was disappointed I did not to see the sign. Several over-passes up, however, was another sign, of the same type (I did see a corner of the last one and recognized the lettering), and on it said: Withdrawal only. There was something else too. I believe it was in regards to the war. Anyway, I thought, "right on".
And finally, an unexpected friend. In the bathroom is a spider that has a web in the window-sill. Curiously, every once in a while, when I come in to go to the bathroom, he comes out on his web (which extends to the blinds) and rests himself on the edge of one of the blind-blades and watches me. I wish he could talk. Because then maybe we could have wonderful conversations every time I come in to go to the bathroom, and then I would go on with my life, and he would go on with his, in his little window-sill where he catches flys. And then when I come in again, he comes back out, and another conversation would take place.
Curious. No doubt.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Ummmm
I have this LED flashlight that I mess with every once in a while. Like, it is really really bright. Those LEDs, heh. Yeeeeep. Pretty bright. Gosh, you know, technology these days. LEDs.
To be honest I don't really have anything to write about.
I was going to post this silly picture, because I wanted to test Picasa. It was funny how it worked out. Cause I posted the picture, and in the post, I talked about how user-friendly the program was, ease of use, simplicity, whatever. And then when I actually posted the picture, it wouldn't show up, and I couldn't get it to work, so I scrapped the post.
Kind of ironic.
To be honest I don't really have anything to write about.
I was going to post this silly picture, because I wanted to test Picasa. It was funny how it worked out. Cause I posted the picture, and in the post, I talked about how user-friendly the program was, ease of use, simplicity, whatever. And then when I actually posted the picture, it wouldn't show up, and I couldn't get it to work, so I scrapped the post.
Kind of ironic.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Stupid Beast. Too Hot.
This computer is blazing hot. It is dumping heat everywhere. The fans are coughing out superheated blasts of air that have me warm as hell, maybe a few degrees away from scalded. Maybe more than a few degrees, well, pretty warm, you know. The room itself is being heated, it seems, by the computer alone.
There go the fans again. Kicking in. They sound like jet engines. I am half expecting this thing to explode. It is when the fans get going like this that I have to take out the cord. Or it will soon overheat. Then, after I take out the chord, the torched battery drains in about 2 minutes. And I have to plug in the chord again.
It is probably the equivalent of a crying, shitting, pissing baby. Well probably not as bad. Cause when I turn it off it stays off, and cools down, and doesn't give me any trouble until I turn it on again. Alright alright. I take it back. It isn't even that bad compared to other things.
Well, next time it overheats, I'm going to heave it out into the middle of the room and see if it melts down through the floor, like some makeshift thermite charge.
I mean, I may even be able to use this to my advantage.
There go the fans again. Kicking in. They sound like jet engines. I am half expecting this thing to explode. It is when the fans get going like this that I have to take out the cord. Or it will soon overheat. Then, after I take out the chord, the torched battery drains in about 2 minutes. And I have to plug in the chord again.
It is probably the equivalent of a crying, shitting, pissing baby. Well probably not as bad. Cause when I turn it off it stays off, and cools down, and doesn't give me any trouble until I turn it on again. Alright alright. I take it back. It isn't even that bad compared to other things.
Well, next time it overheats, I'm going to heave it out into the middle of the room and see if it melts down through the floor, like some makeshift thermite charge.
I mean, I may even be able to use this to my advantage.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
We Call It Spring (The Beginning)
Sunbathing. Yes.
It has been a long time.
I can feel the sun today.
It makes my entire body tingle.
I can feel the energy going back in.
It has all drained so much since then.
I'm immersed in soft sound, ambiance.
Something large is vibrating the air with a heavy buzz.
Thankfully it is a humming bird, and not a large insect.
Like something with a large stinger, or a large set of mandibles.
In between intervals are breezes that cool the sweat. Feels incredible.
I close my eyes for a long time, and just listen. Voices. The freeway. The birds.
When I open them again, the world shimmers in blue. White balance.
I could lay here for a very long time. If only I didn't have to be.
I come to. I am filled with warmth. It is time to go back inside.
Past the screen door, the brilliance fades, and I can see again.
The kitchen fades into view as my eyes adjust.
The burden of being fades in with it.
Seconds ago I was but a plant.
It was alright then.
And now...
It has been a long time.
I can feel the sun today.
It makes my entire body tingle.
I can feel the energy going back in.
It has all drained so much since then.
I'm immersed in soft sound, ambiance.
Something large is vibrating the air with a heavy buzz.
Thankfully it is a humming bird, and not a large insect.
Like something with a large stinger, or a large set of mandibles.
In between intervals are breezes that cool the sweat. Feels incredible.
I close my eyes for a long time, and just listen. Voices. The freeway. The birds.
When I open them again, the world shimmers in blue. White balance.
I could lay here for a very long time. If only I didn't have to be.
I come to. I am filled with warmth. It is time to go back inside.
Past the screen door, the brilliance fades, and I can see again.
The kitchen fades into view as my eyes adjust.
The burden of being fades in with it.
Seconds ago I was but a plant.
It was alright then.
And now...
Monday, March 05, 2007
Hard Evidence: The Investigator's Dilemna
owballsNeat: you need to get to his house and somehow check his shit
owballsNeat: thats the only way to know if hes a unicorn
seanwaefa: check it for marshmallows
seanwaefa: and then his mom comes in
seanwaefa: WHAT THE FUCK
seanwaefa: no no it's okay
seanwaefa: I'm checking for marshmallows
seanwaefa: and she whips me
owballsNeat: and all the kids are crying, and youre like, fuck you, i need to know
owballsNeat: your son may very well be a unicorn. this is the only way
seanwaefa: you don't understand!
owballsNeat: that would be a killer scene
owballsNeat: thats the only way to know if hes a unicorn
seanwaefa: check it for marshmallows
seanwaefa: and then his mom comes in
seanwaefa: WHAT THE FUCK
seanwaefa: no no it's okay
seanwaefa: I'm checking for marshmallows
seanwaefa: and she whips me
owballsNeat: and all the kids are crying, and youre like, fuck you, i need to know
owballsNeat: your son may very well be a unicorn. this is the only way
seanwaefa: you don't understand!
owballsNeat: that would be a killer scene
Just a Little Pepper: A Series of Kernel Posts
Barefoot outside, I avoid the dead bees. But with curiosity I consider stepping right on one to see what it would feel like.
Ask The Pilot
Sometimes I feel as if I am being controlled by some other creature whose nature I don't quite understand. A creature whose thoughts, or motives, or drives are separated from mine.
I come to with a start, and think, hoh who's gotten a hold of the reigns? I am certainly not doing these things. My thoughts are simply not connected to them. I can't have anything to do with this. Who is this?
At least its a good driver. Or I'd be dead by now.
I come to with a start, and think, hoh who's gotten a hold of the reigns? I am certainly not doing these things. My thoughts are simply not connected to them. I can't have anything to do with this. Who is this?
At least its a good driver. Or I'd be dead by now.
What In The Blazes
Something outside my window sounds like its trying to make concrete popcorn.
Alright, alright. I'm awake.
Alright, alright. I'm awake.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Gliding on Mind Altering Substance: To Crash Into The Cliffs Below?
I was in a restaurant, relatively drunk, engaged in an animated conversation with the likes of something I have never experienced sober.
The place looked amber. Everything was amber for some reason. Was it the alcohol? Was it the setting sun? The color scheme? Maybe a little of everything.
I was in a washing machine full of fuzzy hot water. But every word that was coming out felt so right. I suppose they do, then, don't they. Feel embarrassed about them later.
"You know, I'm starting to realize, what with this alcohol and all, when I drink enough, I actually feel like a real person."
I said the words with an air of playfulness, maybe just to say something. It happens when you feel alright like this. But then I started to think about it, and how true it was, and how fucking sad the implications of it all were. This isn't just about alcohol. This is anything that has that miraculous power to change experience.
Suddenly that washing machine stopped. All of the contents of my head lurched and settled into a pool on the bottom.
There was another voice telling me what I did not want to hear. The Ghost of Christmas Future, I suppose. Death himself maybe. Maybe.
"You can't stay there, you know. You can't glide all the way on that altering substance."
To crash into a wall of rocks. But what is better? Wallowing around in the shadow of a great cliff? Wondering what could have been? Or being up there for just a little bit. Would it be worth it? Would it be worth the crash? The ruin?
Maybe most would say no, its not worth it. But maybe I don't want what most people want, or maybe in the end, in a way, yes. Happiness? But what is that? Is it possible for someone like me? Is it a pipe dream? It is getting there that is the difference.
This tree branches, and the branches are not linear, by any means. No.
And now I don't feel very good.
The place looked amber. Everything was amber for some reason. Was it the alcohol? Was it the setting sun? The color scheme? Maybe a little of everything.
I was in a washing machine full of fuzzy hot water. But every word that was coming out felt so right. I suppose they do, then, don't they. Feel embarrassed about them later.
"You know, I'm starting to realize, what with this alcohol and all, when I drink enough, I actually feel like a real person."
I said the words with an air of playfulness, maybe just to say something. It happens when you feel alright like this. But then I started to think about it, and how true it was, and how fucking sad the implications of it all were. This isn't just about alcohol. This is anything that has that miraculous power to change experience.
Suddenly that washing machine stopped. All of the contents of my head lurched and settled into a pool on the bottom.
There was another voice telling me what I did not want to hear. The Ghost of Christmas Future, I suppose. Death himself maybe. Maybe.
"You can't stay there, you know. You can't glide all the way on that altering substance."
To crash into a wall of rocks. But what is better? Wallowing around in the shadow of a great cliff? Wondering what could have been? Or being up there for just a little bit. Would it be worth it? Would it be worth the crash? The ruin?
Maybe most would say no, its not worth it. But maybe I don't want what most people want, or maybe in the end, in a way, yes. Happiness? But what is that? Is it possible for someone like me? Is it a pipe dream? It is getting there that is the difference.
This tree branches, and the branches are not linear, by any means. No.
And now I don't feel very good.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Crush Me
And suddenly my brain, my entire skull became twice as heavy as it once was, increasing in weight with every passing second. There was a great pressure in my face and on my lower jaw, and everything wanted to collapse forward towards my chest. I had to tilt my head back a certain angle to balance the weight.
By now a crowd was gathering. Someone gained the courage to speak up.
"Why are you staring at the ceiling like that? There's nothing up there, we don't know what you're...what...what's wrong?"
"Nothings wrong".
"Oh ok."
"Nothings wrong."
"Alright."
"Nothings wrong. Nothings wrong. Nothings wrong. Nothings wrong. Nothings wrong..."
By now they were starting to back away.
By now a crowd was gathering. Someone gained the courage to speak up.
"Why are you staring at the ceiling like that? There's nothing up there, we don't know what you're...what...what's wrong?"
"Nothings wrong".
"Oh ok."
"Nothings wrong."
"Alright."
"Nothings wrong. Nothings wrong. Nothings wrong. Nothings wrong. Nothings wrong..."
By now they were starting to back away.
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