I Know

I uh, these are connected somehow. Don't remember why. Don't care to try...to figure it out. Just goin' with the old instinct.

My Job

You know, with my disorder, and the environment I work in, and the resulting nerve bomb cocktail, I could only fancy that it is akin to an acrophobiac working the cash register on top of a telephone pole.

Ouch (What Does It Mean)

Oh, this twisting leviathan deep in my chest; to think over the moon and the stars and the dust and what the structures of math tell us and god this tearing that's so foreign in the face of this cold machine and what the hell is life, this duality of calculated mechanism and incomprehensible life force. And this feeling is a thousand years old at least, or more. Fear and pain in animal eyes, it has been with us so long, and where is the origin? Where is the consciousness threshold in which a creature submits to these permeating burdens?

Is there a sadness in the fish as he probes the sides of his tank?

What does sadness feel like to a chemical?

Is there a sadness among the cells when an adjacent cell dies?

I want to know the origin of sadness.

Come back to me.

My Sofa Bed

Many nights I sleep on a couch. Many times I don't even bother to convert it to the bed it is designed to become. Just lay a sheet over the top and off the side and sleep on the couch as you would. Sometimes I do convert it, sometimes on those nights when I've had some to drink and I think maybe I will want to toss and turn in the morning when I have a pounding headache. Those nights when under the influence you have the vague notion that you are winning something profound and then the next day you only feel that hazy guilt that clears up in the afternoon sun. Maybe you feel that the sense of winning was all an illusion and maybe a bit silly, and that the day's reality is heavier and harder to bear than before. But the aggregate pleasure received from the whole thing seems to weigh in at a favorable heft. Perhaps that is why I return to it every so often.

Accompanying this vague notion of winning is this dissolution of the ego into the collective human conscious. I personally feel a part of that mass of humanity that I so loathe during the day and it happens to be a pleasant feeling, like reconciling after a quarrel with a loved one.

I contemplate this and many other things when I lay down on my sofa bed. It almost inevitably happens whenever my head hits the pillow and I gaze up into the mini-lanterns that surround my room. They cast the most intriguing shadows with their little mesh casings all over the wine-red walls and I can't help but fall into the deepest contemplation that usually results in a sort of hazy melancholy, usually due to the persistent resignation from general mankind and its current culture.

I never imagined I'd be writing this much this summer. Which means I have too much to think about this summer and that even my vacations will soon cease to be very therapeutic, probably due to work and the running out of money. And then my thoughts turn sourly to money and the institutions built around it and this whole complicated, cumbersome philosophy of living we have constructed for ourselves. And the thought of tomorrow's work sends a less than subtle shudder through my stomach.

I'm pretty sure I was meant to be incarnated as a cat. To lay around and think, "Ah fuck, there is no what is, it just is." Turned out to be a distressing mistake. Full of conflict. Contradictions. All the like.

Maybe it is time for some more goddamn pictures.

The Fog

We came into the garage and it was full of smoke. We were already altered and so we could not stop laughing, because we thought someone had actually filled the garage with herb smoke to a density where you could not see for more than 4 feet ahead. We wondered: who has the money to purchase so much? Who has the recklessness to take in that much smoke? You would be completely dissociated for the entire night. These thoughts made us laugh even harder.

"Wh...what the fuuu...", we came in laughing, barely able to speak.

"Yeah quick get in we're hotboxing. Get in close the door."

"What the...what the...fhahaha."

"Ok just kidding. We're filling the garage with fog. Look see it's a fog machine."

They showed us the machine and pressed the small attached remote, and the machine sprayed out fog with a hiss. One of them would work the machine every 5 minutes, to assure maximum density and fillage.

We sat on the couch, and turning around, noticed that the only thing you can make out in the garage is the burning fluorescent light that glowed yellow in the distance like a fog light. We could hear the door open and close now and then. Someone coming in and out of the garage, maybe to get drinks. It was impossible to tell who had entered the garage, or if they were even coming and going, and suddenly a dark figure would come out of the fog, a face with a dash of alcohol red.



We would run back and forth in the murk, throwing things out into the void. Water bottles. Lint. Socks. Whatever we could find. Every once in a while we could hear a "Fuck you!" somewhere in the distance.

Despite the strange smell and mustiness experienced with sitting in commercial fog, it felt too surreal. Music was coming from somewhere. Couldn't be sure. Why were we doing this? Who's idea was it? Does it matter? These things came to my mind later, during a reminisce. But it seemed like a good idea and everyone agreed on it and the people who joined were unconditionally overjoyed and all minds moved through the fog without burrs or friction, and that was the point.

I thought of these things when the garage was opened to be aired, and I stood outside watching the smoke rise and plume out; standing in the darkness watching the rectangle of light, and the figures moving in front of it, once again I was alone with my thoughts, and the burrs and friction started to creep back into the head.





Yeah, so what. Presently its the crushing weight of reality, something like finances and responsibilities, those burrs and surfaces of friction.

That's life they say. But there are two exposures here. One of survivalist acceptance and one of a great remorse and despair even, and they are constantly splitting off from each other and pulling towards opposite poles. And it seems like the only thing that pulls them back together is a certain kind of carelessness.

For me anyway.

I'd Jump Too