This philosophy class is a sinking ship. I guess the teacher is pissed cause no one goes to class. And everyone is pissed because the class sucks. I think some philosophizing on the subject should take place.
But I don't have the energy for that.
Walking back to my car I took a series of crosswalks that ended up stranding me on the sidewalk for some time, due to the unfortunate timing of the lights and signals. Man fuck that construction across the street. I'm sick of it.
And I did actually get to my car. And then I got stuck behind some slow ass. So I tried to go around but then another slow ass merged in front of me so I got stuck behind a sort of wall of two slow asses and I had to go back to the original slow ass shamed and defeated. And I was stuck behind her for a long time. She was magnetic.
I finally got on the freeway and I thought with elation: by god, I'm free. But no, I got stuck behind a slow ass in the fast lane. And so I tried to go around but got stuck behind another slow ass again, and thus, the same fuckin' thing happened just 5 minutes later, just on a larger scale.
This pattern continued all the way home, to the point where I wondered if I'd actually get home. It was exhausting. You wouldn't believe some of the things people did...in their cars...which can be several tons and considered weapons.
I thought about the pattern that emerged there. And then I thought about some other things. I thought about a wounded rat in a cage being poked with a stick. I thought about an upside-down 5.12-5.14 climb and the rabid, fatigued frustration that comes with the inability to get over a vertical overhang when completely exhausted. But those things were mainly about the exhaustion.
More importantly, I thought about something that resembled the design itself. The design this pattern took on that governed my journey home. I was working on a Sudoku puzzle a little while ago, and found that there was a point where I simply couldn't get anywhere. Later I found that there was an actual flaw in the puzzle: two 7's in the same row, and that the whole time I was straining to complete the puzzle in vain. I wondered if there was a similar flaw in the design in my path home, and that I was unfortunate to have entered into it, and become stuck inside a sort of impossible traffic obstacle, at least until I got to my destination.
But then we are talking about a human design flaw as opposed to a sort of natural or organic one.
I may be mixing the concepts up entirely. It happens.
It happens a lot.
Certainly a better time getting home than the guy I saw with a gas can walking back to his stranded BMW, with a sort of wincing smile, his pride hurt.
I'm tired.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
In The Animal Kingdom, Kingdom of Animals Pt. 2
It is a bright sunny day in the suburbs. Birds can be heard chirping and singing in every tree. A couple is standing in their front yard enjoying the sun and watching the birds:
"Look Honey! Look at the birds flying around tweeting! I wonder what's going on up there? Maybe they're playing!"
Up above in the blue skies is a cluster of fluttering birds broken from formation.
There are two birds in particular that are especially animated, an Elder and The Deviant:
"Fuck the Formation! I hate flying with you assholes! I am so gone."
"What treason is this? You watch your mouth now goddammit."
"I'm tired of being the end-point. I don't want it anymore. I hate you all!"
"Why you obtuse...impudent...little shit. The end-point is the most important position in the Formation, it is a great honor!"
"Yeah that's why I hate it! I don't want your fake, lousy honor!"
"I'll, I'll kill you! I'll rip you of your feathers. I'll break your scraggly little neck! You will crash to the ground with that treason!"
"You can kiss my ass. I'm outta here."
They dive down into the greens and browns of the world below at great velocity, locked in a high stakes chase worth their lives and their honor. The Deviant is crying out with glee at the excitement.
"Haha yeaaaaaaa!"
The Elder is infuriated beyond comprehension. His tongue darts like mad out of his twisted beak. His age-frosted eyes are wild and spasmodic. He imagines with perverse pleasure the cracking of the bastard's brittle bones between his mandibles. Oh, how will it all end, this horrible spectacle?
Down below the couple are tiring of what they see as simple bird aerobatics. They will never understand:
"Wow just look at 'em go, Honey-buns. Look at 'em go! I bet they're having fun. It's hot out. Let's go inside and make some orange juice."
The couple's backs are turned when the Elder scores a hit, sending some of the Deviant's torn feathers floating down to the earth below. But the Deviant is far from done. He has yet to unveil his ultimate weapon...
"Look Honey! Look at the birds flying around tweeting! I wonder what's going on up there? Maybe they're playing!"
Up above in the blue skies is a cluster of fluttering birds broken from formation.
There are two birds in particular that are especially animated, an Elder and The Deviant:
"Fuck the Formation! I hate flying with you assholes! I am so gone."
"What treason is this? You watch your mouth now goddammit."
"I'm tired of being the end-point. I don't want it anymore. I hate you all!"
"Why you obtuse...impudent...little shit. The end-point is the most important position in the Formation, it is a great honor!"
"Yeah that's why I hate it! I don't want your fake, lousy honor!"
"I'll, I'll kill you! I'll rip you of your feathers. I'll break your scraggly little neck! You will crash to the ground with that treason!"
"You can kiss my ass. I'm outta here."
They dive down into the greens and browns of the world below at great velocity, locked in a high stakes chase worth their lives and their honor. The Deviant is crying out with glee at the excitement.
"Haha yeaaaaaaa!"
The Elder is infuriated beyond comprehension. His tongue darts like mad out of his twisted beak. His age-frosted eyes are wild and spasmodic. He imagines with perverse pleasure the cracking of the bastard's brittle bones between his mandibles. Oh, how will it all end, this horrible spectacle?
Down below the couple are tiring of what they see as simple bird aerobatics. They will never understand:
"Wow just look at 'em go, Honey-buns. Look at 'em go! I bet they're having fun. It's hot out. Let's go inside and make some orange juice."
The couple's backs are turned when the Elder scores a hit, sending some of the Deviant's torn feathers floating down to the earth below. But the Deviant is far from done. He has yet to unveil his ultimate weapon...
Gray (Tuesday)
The gas needle never quite reaches full. It gets to about 3/4 and it doesn't go much further.
I can't remember anything about this morning, despite the fact that I drove through morning commuter traffic to get to class and sat through an hour and twenty minutes and then drove back.
The only thing I can remember is the gray sky that seemed so low in the morning, and the current break in the clouds and the sun is doing nothing for me right now, when it usually should.
Maybe I vaguely remember being cut-off and tail-gated in the California buzz here and there, and thinking to these people, why even try?
An instance a little while ago comes to mind, where we put up a garage sale sign. And we were standing on the corner to advertise it. And some guy comes up right in front of us and tears our sign down and puts up his. All this work and effort for his little piece of shit garage sale down the street that is so utterly insignificant in the scheme of things.
Needless to say, we tore his sign down. And the one further down the street that lead the way to his piece of shit house.
I better stop writing before this bitterness starts to melt holes in the keyboard.
I can't remember anything about this morning, despite the fact that I drove through morning commuter traffic to get to class and sat through an hour and twenty minutes and then drove back.
The only thing I can remember is the gray sky that seemed so low in the morning, and the current break in the clouds and the sun is doing nothing for me right now, when it usually should.
Maybe I vaguely remember being cut-off and tail-gated in the California buzz here and there, and thinking to these people, why even try?
An instance a little while ago comes to mind, where we put up a garage sale sign. And we were standing on the corner to advertise it. And some guy comes up right in front of us and tears our sign down and puts up his. All this work and effort for his little piece of shit garage sale down the street that is so utterly insignificant in the scheme of things.
Needless to say, we tore his sign down. And the one further down the street that lead the way to his piece of shit house.
I better stop writing before this bitterness starts to melt holes in the keyboard.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Constant
It's funny...watching these updated blogs flash by. There's a good amount every minute. Every minute someone is publishing a post, sitting somewhere...their house, their friend's house, a hotel, a motel, an office maybe, all typing and clicking and filling their little text boxes with all their ideas and commentary. There's a constant flow of them. It is hard to comprehend, with this single mind. It is hard to comprehend that there will always be someone typing something at any given minute. But then you toy with the imagination and think about that vast mass of humanity, how much of us there really is, and then it seems pretty possible, for this constant river of information and text noise to surge without cease.
I don't actually explore any of these changing names. Just watching the flickers is enough (oh, there goes a daily xxx movie blog, too late). A vast amount of mirrors, just flickering and sensing and reflecting all of humanity, all out there in the electronic sea, ceaseless.
I think about the individuals and wonder if they have thoughts like embedded trenches into mountains of distraction, and if they can easily tap into that trench and think clearly when they sit down. Of course they can. But I wonder nevertheless. I wonder if when the hurtful thoughts come at them like spears, they can wrap them in plastic and tip them with rubber so that the thought spears do not hurt as much.
I wonder if these mirrors bend the light a little bit, and if the totality of the bended light comes out to what we really are.
I'm one of the mirrors. In just one click I will be part of that ceaseless river of information. And I wonder what role my mirror plays, reflecting the contemplation of the very structure it is a part of. I wonder what sort of role that is.
I'm glad for birds, and the sounds they make. I'm going to go outside and watch the descending sun and listen to the birds and watch the swaying grass and the nodding trees golden green in the light for a while.
I don't actually explore any of these changing names. Just watching the flickers is enough (oh, there goes a daily xxx movie blog, too late). A vast amount of mirrors, just flickering and sensing and reflecting all of humanity, all out there in the electronic sea, ceaseless.
I think about the individuals and wonder if they have thoughts like embedded trenches into mountains of distraction, and if they can easily tap into that trench and think clearly when they sit down. Of course they can. But I wonder nevertheless. I wonder if when the hurtful thoughts come at them like spears, they can wrap them in plastic and tip them with rubber so that the thought spears do not hurt as much.
I wonder if these mirrors bend the light a little bit, and if the totality of the bended light comes out to what we really are.
I'm one of the mirrors. In just one click I will be part of that ceaseless river of information. And I wonder what role my mirror plays, reflecting the contemplation of the very structure it is a part of. I wonder what sort of role that is.
I'm glad for birds, and the sounds they make. I'm going to go outside and watch the descending sun and listen to the birds and watch the swaying grass and the nodding trees golden green in the light for a while.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Something
He's digging in the can for a piece of trash to chew on. That's his Friday night. And for him it is good. Apart from an old, simplistic anxiety of being separated from mother, or perceived maternal figure anyway, and that passes as soon as it arises in his simple dog mind.
Me, I get to sit in a dimly lit room on the verge of catatonia, trying to figure out what to do between strange, blank gaps in thought. The mind starts to wander of course, in a dark room with nothing to do, no one or nothing to take its attention, and I find myself thinking undesirable things. There seems to be a dividing line somewhere between the happy and unhappy, and when you start to think too much it augments either side that you happen to be on.
I wonder if I should have a drink and forget about it. Or some herb. But that's no longer much of an option without people to enjoy it with. It all comes back to the social core when you are a solitary figure. And I'm burning through these phases like layered elements are burning through their colors, and I wonder which color is left, or if there is another layer under it all, and not simply the end of the kindle.
Each new color seems to be a new solution, a new hope, but it burns itself out and its gone with the others, still there and an option but charred and marred and part of the pool of last resorts. There are some elements that last through the consumption maybe. Love, the hunger for knowledge, the blind wonder in the face of life that never seems to die, the naked instinct to survive that seems innate in all life, to name a few. I suppose these things keep the weary living, and when those fail, extinguishment of course.
But amidst all that I can't help but think of school. Of the work that's due next week, of the school to be attended next month, next year, next two years, and what of a career? And I think about those managers and administrators and vp's and presidents and all the people racing in their shiny cars with their big houses and maybe the part of me that's still civilized (in a modern, material sense) wants that, but even more of me doesn't want it. Because I can't figure out why. Where all this is going. I don't think anybody knows, but most don't have to ask why, and maybe most are wired to somehow understand on a subconscious level, and that's where I fail.
All the media I envelop myself in, all the stories of others, I think part of it is the separation from reality and those anxieties, yeah, but I think another part is to enhance that understanding of why. And then maybe most like to escape the reality, but enrich and encourage what they already understand and don't question in the first place. But still, that's something. I think there's people out there that just aren't sure about it all. I think I know some people like that as a matter of fact and care very much about them and that's something too. There's bindings here and there. That's something.
I'm being very imprecise, very general, I know. It's one of my problems, sure. Flaw, defense mechanism, stylistic pet peeve, call it what you will. But then this isn't an essay either. Writing like this is something. Writing is something. I think I've gotten weary of the whole blog thing, but then I forget just to write for myself and blow off some steam and try to convert this negativity into thoughtful...neutrality at least.
I feel like this is some sort of confession. And then I think, heh, that's not the beginning of it.
Me, I get to sit in a dimly lit room on the verge of catatonia, trying to figure out what to do between strange, blank gaps in thought. The mind starts to wander of course, in a dark room with nothing to do, no one or nothing to take its attention, and I find myself thinking undesirable things. There seems to be a dividing line somewhere between the happy and unhappy, and when you start to think too much it augments either side that you happen to be on.
I wonder if I should have a drink and forget about it. Or some herb. But that's no longer much of an option without people to enjoy it with. It all comes back to the social core when you are a solitary figure. And I'm burning through these phases like layered elements are burning through their colors, and I wonder which color is left, or if there is another layer under it all, and not simply the end of the kindle.
Each new color seems to be a new solution, a new hope, but it burns itself out and its gone with the others, still there and an option but charred and marred and part of the pool of last resorts. There are some elements that last through the consumption maybe. Love, the hunger for knowledge, the blind wonder in the face of life that never seems to die, the naked instinct to survive that seems innate in all life, to name a few. I suppose these things keep the weary living, and when those fail, extinguishment of course.
But amidst all that I can't help but think of school. Of the work that's due next week, of the school to be attended next month, next year, next two years, and what of a career? And I think about those managers and administrators and vp's and presidents and all the people racing in their shiny cars with their big houses and maybe the part of me that's still civilized (in a modern, material sense) wants that, but even more of me doesn't want it. Because I can't figure out why. Where all this is going. I don't think anybody knows, but most don't have to ask why, and maybe most are wired to somehow understand on a subconscious level, and that's where I fail.
All the media I envelop myself in, all the stories of others, I think part of it is the separation from reality and those anxieties, yeah, but I think another part is to enhance that understanding of why. And then maybe most like to escape the reality, but enrich and encourage what they already understand and don't question in the first place. But still, that's something. I think there's people out there that just aren't sure about it all. I think I know some people like that as a matter of fact and care very much about them and that's something too. There's bindings here and there. That's something.
I'm being very imprecise, very general, I know. It's one of my problems, sure. Flaw, defense mechanism, stylistic pet peeve, call it what you will. But then this isn't an essay either. Writing like this is something. Writing is something. I think I've gotten weary of the whole blog thing, but then I forget just to write for myself and blow off some steam and try to convert this negativity into thoughtful...neutrality at least.
I feel like this is some sort of confession. And then I think, heh, that's not the beginning of it.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Inverted Derobing
On top is a suit that makes the person look like they are naked. Take that off to reveal an underwear suit. Take that off to reveal a pants suit, and then take that off to reveal a pants and a shirt suit, and finally, take that off to reveal an actual business suit...suit.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Writer's Block Pt. 1
I have been sitting here for 20 minutes and I haven't written a thing. Last night I wrote 8 different drafts and saved them to be private, and in a way I didn't get anywhere then either, because I ended up neglecting to study for my midterm and I only started my paper with a sentence or two. It worked out. I did everything in the morning.
But still, here I am trying to drum up something to say, and I'm just spent. Maybe it was all used up in those drafts. Or maybe my mind is being siphoned by a dimension-hopping mega fiend, which would explain the shadow I keep seeing in the inside lens of my glasses, but when I turn to look he's not there. Too fast.
I suppose writing about writer's block offers some sort of stimulation. But nothing useful I don't think.
Maybe all of my thoughts are so feverishly wrapped up together, not a single one can get free at the moment. Like gridlock. I hope.
All I could think of was if I was to write a science fiction piece, and I had to make a new language, it would sound something like a water hose with excess discharge. The aliens would say, "Blarsschhh a blaarssschh a blaaahhchhh golosh golosh sssscchlloooope."
Or something like that.
But still, here I am trying to drum up something to say, and I'm just spent. Maybe it was all used up in those drafts. Or maybe my mind is being siphoned by a dimension-hopping mega fiend, which would explain the shadow I keep seeing in the inside lens of my glasses, but when I turn to look he's not there. Too fast.
I suppose writing about writer's block offers some sort of stimulation. But nothing useful I don't think.
Maybe all of my thoughts are so feverishly wrapped up together, not a single one can get free at the moment. Like gridlock. I hope.
All I could think of was if I was to write a science fiction piece, and I had to make a new language, it would sound something like a water hose with excess discharge. The aliens would say, "Blarsschhh a blaarssschh a blaaahhchhh golosh golosh sssscchlloooope."
Or something like that.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
The Most Joyously Celebrated Fuckin' Asshole Day
In a place where all one can see are car bumpers, there is that instinctual, insatiable hunger for the open road that can bring a man to pursue even the slightest opening, or air pocket in a traffic jam, regardless of whether that new lane is moving any faster, or for that matter, slower, and whether the person behind him will be shat upon or not.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Amidst The Cool Colors, The Cool Night Air Drifting Through The Screen Is Not Enough
There's no sleep to be had at this time on a Friday night in a house like this. They're constantly coming and going, talking and yelling at the top of their voices in the middle of the darkened suburban streets. I am amazed that the police have not been here. Who are these neighbors? Either they all have exceptional tolerance or they are all asleep, those heavy sleepers. Or a combination of both.
Maybe my hearing is just too good. Yeah. Right.
One would wish for earplugs. Block out the sound and drift into a deep sleep until the morrow. These are earplugs that do not exist at this current time. Not at this current time. Too bad.
I like to be at the beach during the after-fade, where the ocean surges always dependable and constant. Somewhere serene elemental. Speaking in abstraction. I imagine the mountains would be a good place too, but I have not been in the mountains since winter. I do miss them. I miss them and the wall of trees that acts as an instrument in its arrangement and the wind plays it and the sound separates me from myself for just a moment. This is good for I do tire of myself and my own thoughts.
Dusk is especially moving when you are standing amidst forest in the mountains. You can see the glowing horizon as it melts from orange to magenta to finally a blued white, broken through the many trees and so it hovers over an endless black where at the border you can make out up-stretched and curling tree fingers reaching for the failing light, swaying and roaring with a music of their own. Elemental. Simplicity.
I can still hear them talking excitedly nearby. I may try for sleep again, but I doubt it will come this easily...in a place like this.
This place may not be the beach or the mountains. But it is good when there is a pleasant breeze and an absence of loud freaks outside.
Maybe my hearing is just too good. Yeah. Right.
One would wish for earplugs. Block out the sound and drift into a deep sleep until the morrow. These are earplugs that do not exist at this current time. Not at this current time. Too bad.
I like to be at the beach during the after-fade, where the ocean surges always dependable and constant. Somewhere serene elemental. Speaking in abstraction. I imagine the mountains would be a good place too, but I have not been in the mountains since winter. I do miss them. I miss them and the wall of trees that acts as an instrument in its arrangement and the wind plays it and the sound separates me from myself for just a moment. This is good for I do tire of myself and my own thoughts.
Dusk is especially moving when you are standing amidst forest in the mountains. You can see the glowing horizon as it melts from orange to magenta to finally a blued white, broken through the many trees and so it hovers over an endless black where at the border you can make out up-stretched and curling tree fingers reaching for the failing light, swaying and roaring with a music of their own. Elemental. Simplicity.
I can still hear them talking excitedly nearby. I may try for sleep again, but I doubt it will come this easily...in a place like this.
This place may not be the beach or the mountains. But it is good when there is a pleasant breeze and an absence of loud freaks outside.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
In The Animal Kingdom, Kingdom of Animals Pt. 1
Up above, in the attic, in the darkness, scratching and sniffing, a rat:
"I hope I can survive the summer in this cool hollow. It is a good break from the scorching sun. There must be food here. I can smell it. Wait, what is this? A root? Oh sweet sweet root, from thee, thy nutrients so sweet in my stomach."
He bites into one of the various wires that span the attic of the house. Through the copper coating. Vital things. Could be the TV. Could be electricity itself. Could be anything.
"Oh, what is this? It tastes of blood. My god, what have I done! I have broken The Pact! This place is but a nightmare."
Down below, in a middle-class American suburban house, built in the 60's:
"We have rats in the attic. I hear them sometimes. Those rats must go. They chew into the wires. We can't have that."
"Alright I'll set traps this weekend."
Up above:
"I should leave this place. Oh, but I must stay here. There is nowhere else to go. I can't stand the heat."
Down below:
"Did you set those rat traps yet? I can hear them moving around. It is creeping me out."
"Yes I did. I wouldn't worry about it."
Up above:
"What is it I smell? Oh! Cheese! I am saved!"
*****************SNAP*****************************
"Ohhhhhhh, I'm in a group hug with...a maaachine"
"I can't feel my ba...anything. I wish I could breathe."
Only darkness now.
Down below:
"Wait! Listen! I think I heard one of the traps go off!"
"I hope I can survive the summer in this cool hollow. It is a good break from the scorching sun. There must be food here. I can smell it. Wait, what is this? A root? Oh sweet sweet root, from thee, thy nutrients so sweet in my stomach."
He bites into one of the various wires that span the attic of the house. Through the copper coating. Vital things. Could be the TV. Could be electricity itself. Could be anything.
"Oh, what is this? It tastes of blood. My god, what have I done! I have broken The Pact! This place is but a nightmare."
Down below, in a middle-class American suburban house, built in the 60's:
"We have rats in the attic. I hear them sometimes. Those rats must go. They chew into the wires. We can't have that."
"Alright I'll set traps this weekend."
Up above:
"I should leave this place. Oh, but I must stay here. There is nowhere else to go. I can't stand the heat."
Down below:
"Did you set those rat traps yet? I can hear them moving around. It is creeping me out."
"Yes I did. I wouldn't worry about it."
Up above:
"What is it I smell? Oh! Cheese! I am saved!"
*****************SNAP*****************************
"Ohhhhhhh, I'm in a group hug with...a maaachine"
"I can't feel my ba...anything. I wish I could breathe."
Only darkness now.
Down below:
"Wait! Listen! I think I heard one of the traps go off!"
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
The Real Top 10 Manliest Video Game Characters Ever List
- Kratos
- Kratos
- Kratos
- Kratos
- Kratos
- Kratos
- Kratos
- Kratos
- Kratos
- Kratos
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility
Honestly I was expecting it to be a little bigger.
I thought it might have been wrist mounted when I saw it on the box. But no, it's...more like a...finger mount.
It is still pretty potent though.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Excerpts From a Time Long Past Pt. 4
Today is still Monday. Monday was not so bad. Pissing and moaning is more work than the work itself. But it is a dirty job...and someone must do it. And I have found more writings that I don't ever remember writing. It seems my memory is not as photographic as I wish it was.
Man Blogger's formatting software is like...like...ah man I'm not even gonna go there. It's free anyway.
- "If I could launch my penis as a projectile, I would sacrifice it and fire it right through your eye." -Man I do not remember this, or whoever the target is for that matter
- He shits on everybody's heads in the same moment he is using the heads for stepping stones to further his own agenda which isn't even that remarkable. -Maybe that guy
- For a Bad Day: Make a list: 1. Fell out of bed 2. Stubbed my toe (all the way to) 10. Died -1,2,3...10 things that went wrong today. That translates to: "Fuck today".
- A beetle wanders the lonely gray stretch of my bed, stumbling over fuzz. His wings are broken, he is about to die. What a lonely, tragic end.
- Under a huge gray mass; jet-stream; river: To everyone passing me in the merge lane to the right: I hate you all.
- How do they make it sound like a crashing plane, a crashing melodic plane with engines burning a bright pink? The roar of the crash is making a music that is so sweet to my ears, so sweet when it takes me.
- Lost in thought driving. So dangerous. I'm not in the car for a minute, the road opens up and for a second I feel free, until I stop at the bottom at a light, and I am in it again. A moment's hesitation at a turn, then, a leap of faith, with cars like blunt, heavy spears, unable to control their own velocity, smash, smash right into me. Smash themselves to smash you, like a volley of bees.
Man Blogger's formatting software is like...like...ah man I'm not even gonna go there. It's free anyway.
Joy To The World
Today is Monday. Today is the day a paper is due that I didn't do, a midterm to write that I haven't studied for, and the last day before a due essay that I haven't started.
Cheers.
Cheers.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
+1 More Thing
This didn't really fit in , but I think, when I am released out into the deep blue, which carries down into the deep black in soft, yet ominous gradients, I will be swallowed alive by the first hungry fish that is only centimeters bigger than me.
But of course I'll have to stab my way out of his stomach.
But of course I'll have to stab my way out of his stomach.
Well, Yes, No, Alright Then, Great Thanks
I wrote some stuff and saved it as a draft. You can't regret something that was never there. Unless it could have been there and your well-being depended on it being there.
But that's another story entirely.
This room is slow in the depression heat. The fan helps the heat but the rhythm of the blades does little to create a sense of speed. The squeaks and drones of the fan report at a much slower rate than the actual revolution of the blades and when you gaze at the fan the motion of the blades is blurred into a single gray circle that does little for perception.
And so the presence of the fan only gives a strange metallic rhythm that is as slow as the room feels with a mood like this anyway.
Now the fan is drilling into my head as I am trying to figure out if I am going to do anything about tomorrow's work. Nope. I'm not. Not with a mood like this.
Motion sets the tempo here. A creature isn't alive to the naked eye until it moves. Rate of life proportionate to motion because motion in the passage of time is the life essence, down to the mere vibrations of those particles. Maybe this is what the mind models rate of living on. And so a warm room can feel slow due to mood even though the particles should be going faster.
We are going on the assumption that it is not all an illusion. Or less of a metaphysical assumption really, and more of a presupposition to this piece of rhetoric that I'm spinning up here.
If you can call it rhetoric. Some sort of hybrid monster. If I may.
Cause I'm no place to say whether all this is an illusion or not because the truth is beyond what we can say with language.
I'm no place? I'm not even going to fix that. I'm no place!
But back to the language. The truth is beyond...the language. Probably. Or not. Jeez. Thinking stings sometimes.
I've been tirrred, I've been tirrrred, I've been tiiiiirrrrreed...
For over 4 yeaaaaars.
Slo-mo Time. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.
But that's another story entirely.
This room is slow in the depression heat. The fan helps the heat but the rhythm of the blades does little to create a sense of speed. The squeaks and drones of the fan report at a much slower rate than the actual revolution of the blades and when you gaze at the fan the motion of the blades is blurred into a single gray circle that does little for perception.
And so the presence of the fan only gives a strange metallic rhythm that is as slow as the room feels with a mood like this anyway.
Now the fan is drilling into my head as I am trying to figure out if I am going to do anything about tomorrow's work. Nope. I'm not. Not with a mood like this.
Motion sets the tempo here. A creature isn't alive to the naked eye until it moves. Rate of life proportionate to motion because motion in the passage of time is the life essence, down to the mere vibrations of those particles. Maybe this is what the mind models rate of living on. And so a warm room can feel slow due to mood even though the particles should be going faster.
We are going on the assumption that it is not all an illusion. Or less of a metaphysical assumption really, and more of a presupposition to this piece of rhetoric that I'm spinning up here.
If you can call it rhetoric. Some sort of hybrid monster. If I may.
Cause I'm no place to say whether all this is an illusion or not because the truth is beyond what we can say with language.
I'm no place? I'm not even going to fix that. I'm no place!
But back to the language. The truth is beyond...the language. Probably. Or not. Jeez. Thinking stings sometimes.
I've been tirrred, I've been tirrrred, I've been tiiiiirrrrreed...
For over 4 yeaaaaars.
Slo-mo Time. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Ca-Huh
It's funny how when somebody is coughing a hell of a lot you sometimes think, man shut up. Sometimes I'm coughing a lot and I think, man, they hate me.
Ca-huh, ca-huh, ca-huh.
Man, shut up.
Ca-huh, ca-huh, ca-huh.
Man, shut up.
Unmatched Intensity: Sleep Paralysis And The Haunted Aftermath
I just had one of the most intense sleeping experiences ever. It was cool and it sucked at the same time.
I rode a great lion. It gladly let me on its back. It was trained somehow and it loved to be patted on the head. At one point Piglet was towing the great lion. We were on a pilgrimage to somewhere I can't be sure of. My dad and brother are in the picture I know this, but I'm not sure where.
I got stuck in an old room of mine under thickets of thorns and spiked plants. I couldn't move my head forward it hurt too much. And then the room came alive in a drug frenzy and I realize yes, I had been tagged by a drugged dart. I was fading fast but still functioning. It was a wrangler of some sort, sent to to take me and my companions in by an evil old woman from the past. But the wrangler kept hitting me with darts. I could feel them in me and I keep trying to take them out. No goddammit, I tried to mutter, I will go in peaceably just stop hitting me with darts. They kept coming. The darts. I don't see why I was even darted. I was stuck anyway. I tried to succumb to the drugs so I wouldn't have to worry about the thorned room.
This is when it gets strange. Dicey. I can't be sure of anything now.
The old woman lives by the river. She wants something that we simply can't give. We get away.
A couple now, trying to make make love. But there are sounds. A baby crying. She checks the monitor while she is talking on the phone and sees the shadow of the old woman by the window in the next room. Terrible vibrations at this point. It is much too creepy now to recollect but I must go on. Something from the immediate dream-past is coming in on a draft through the window.
She walks to the corner room by the window where she saw the old woman's shadow. Something dark on her peripheral, she turns and oh god it is the old woman's cat. It hops up on the bed and stares into my eyes. Third person observation melts into first person and I am there now. I replace the woman and I look into the cat's eyes and realize that the cat is her vessel and she will be here any minute now to end us all.
I take the cat by the throat and I squeeze. I aim to throw it through the window. As much as I love cats this one is not natural it must go. But it hisses and I am paralyzed and the hiss masters me and then dogs start to bark and there is a hissing and a barking and a great terror and that is all there is now. I moan.
I awake on my back in bed in sweating terror I am paralyzed. One hand is over my chest and the other...over my groin? I really cannot move, it is incredible. I close my eyes and I see lights so I open them again and wait until the terror passes. They'll be here any minute. Who? This really is the famous sleep paralysis. It happens most to people on their backs. This is one of the explanations for the abduction phenomenon. I can see why.
I turn on the light and I go to write it all down. I doubt I'd forget that soon. But have to be sure. I wonder what happened? Maybe the scratch on my eye is getting irritated during REM? Maybe the alcohol from last night? Maybe both. Maybe not.
It has passed but recollecting it is uncomfortable and there is a lingering ring in my ears and I am thankful for the glowing electronic comfort of the laptop.
I dread going back to sleep.
I rode a great lion. It gladly let me on its back. It was trained somehow and it loved to be patted on the head. At one point Piglet was towing the great lion. We were on a pilgrimage to somewhere I can't be sure of. My dad and brother are in the picture I know this, but I'm not sure where.
I got stuck in an old room of mine under thickets of thorns and spiked plants. I couldn't move my head forward it hurt too much. And then the room came alive in a drug frenzy and I realize yes, I had been tagged by a drugged dart. I was fading fast but still functioning. It was a wrangler of some sort, sent to to take me and my companions in by an evil old woman from the past. But the wrangler kept hitting me with darts. I could feel them in me and I keep trying to take them out. No goddammit, I tried to mutter, I will go in peaceably just stop hitting me with darts. They kept coming. The darts. I don't see why I was even darted. I was stuck anyway. I tried to succumb to the drugs so I wouldn't have to worry about the thorned room.
This is when it gets strange. Dicey. I can't be sure of anything now.
The old woman lives by the river. She wants something that we simply can't give. We get away.
A couple now, trying to make make love. But there are sounds. A baby crying. She checks the monitor while she is talking on the phone and sees the shadow of the old woman by the window in the next room. Terrible vibrations at this point. It is much too creepy now to recollect but I must go on. Something from the immediate dream-past is coming in on a draft through the window.
She walks to the corner room by the window where she saw the old woman's shadow. Something dark on her peripheral, she turns and oh god it is the old woman's cat. It hops up on the bed and stares into my eyes. Third person observation melts into first person and I am there now. I replace the woman and I look into the cat's eyes and realize that the cat is her vessel and she will be here any minute now to end us all.
I take the cat by the throat and I squeeze. I aim to throw it through the window. As much as I love cats this one is not natural it must go. But it hisses and I am paralyzed and the hiss masters me and then dogs start to bark and there is a hissing and a barking and a great terror and that is all there is now. I moan.
I awake on my back in bed in sweating terror I am paralyzed. One hand is over my chest and the other...over my groin? I really cannot move, it is incredible. I close my eyes and I see lights so I open them again and wait until the terror passes. They'll be here any minute. Who? This really is the famous sleep paralysis. It happens most to people on their backs. This is one of the explanations for the abduction phenomenon. I can see why.
I turn on the light and I go to write it all down. I doubt I'd forget that soon. But have to be sure. I wonder what happened? Maybe the scratch on my eye is getting irritated during REM? Maybe the alcohol from last night? Maybe both. Maybe not.
It has passed but recollecting it is uncomfortable and there is a lingering ring in my ears and I am thankful for the glowing electronic comfort of the laptop.
I dread going back to sleep.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
The Sun Through The Trees Made Me Think Of Life As I Laid On A Bench Looking Up
I woke up in some strange delusion a few mornings ago and wrote down what was going on before it left my mind. With stuff like that...once it is gone...it is gone. All you can remember of that stuff is the feeling it gave you or the light touch of the impression it left.
Well I read over it again and it resembled something someone would write under the influence.
We ended discussion early today because nobody had anything to talk about and there was only about 6 or 7 people in the room anyway. She was trying to keep a discussion going but the room was dead silent in the end. I felt sorry for the TA. The room was almost clear and I was one of the last to leave and she was looking down at her papers when I passed and I did not have to meet her face. It wasn't her fault that there was something wrong with that class. The sun was warm and bright outside and the breeze was cool and just right and the sky was blue and the grass was green but I still felt sorry.
In a crummy old bathroom behind the discussion room I looked in the mirror and for the first time in a while I didn't feel a sense of shame. Maybe I'm getting somewhere. I flushed all the toilets in there with my boot because they were all filled with urine and other things. I guess everyone thinks since its a crappy bathroom they can act like a scumbag. Or maybe it is the type of people that go to that particular bathroom that make it look that way. Or maybe they are consciously trying to conserve water and I'm wrong about it all. Whatever the case, I'm a toilet flusher vigilante. I'm above the toilet law.
I almost tripped myself trying to run for the changing crosswalk light. I didn't make it. I think I hurt my foot.
I got in my car and sighed and was lost in the music as I drove down and out of the parking structure where people were still hunting for spots. Tuesdays and Thursdays are rough. Someone got my spot though. I'm sure they were grateful for a few seconds.
I'm trying to figure out what I'm genuinely good at. For a career. Moderation doesn't usually pay. No one wants to fork out the cash for someone who is just a Renaissance man.
I guess we'll see.
Well I read over it again and it resembled something someone would write under the influence.
We ended discussion early today because nobody had anything to talk about and there was only about 6 or 7 people in the room anyway. She was trying to keep a discussion going but the room was dead silent in the end. I felt sorry for the TA. The room was almost clear and I was one of the last to leave and she was looking down at her papers when I passed and I did not have to meet her face. It wasn't her fault that there was something wrong with that class. The sun was warm and bright outside and the breeze was cool and just right and the sky was blue and the grass was green but I still felt sorry.
In a crummy old bathroom behind the discussion room I looked in the mirror and for the first time in a while I didn't feel a sense of shame. Maybe I'm getting somewhere. I flushed all the toilets in there with my boot because they were all filled with urine and other things. I guess everyone thinks since its a crappy bathroom they can act like a scumbag. Or maybe it is the type of people that go to that particular bathroom that make it look that way. Or maybe they are consciously trying to conserve water and I'm wrong about it all. Whatever the case, I'm a toilet flusher vigilante. I'm above the toilet law.
I almost tripped myself trying to run for the changing crosswalk light. I didn't make it. I think I hurt my foot.
I got in my car and sighed and was lost in the music as I drove down and out of the parking structure where people were still hunting for spots. Tuesdays and Thursdays are rough. Someone got my spot though. I'm sure they were grateful for a few seconds.
I'm trying to figure out what I'm genuinely good at. For a career. Moderation doesn't usually pay. No one wants to fork out the cash for someone who is just a Renaissance man.
I guess we'll see.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)