the fool’s back pocket…

This will be a night soon forgotten, if only because of the boredom combined with the sinking sensation of a wasted Friday night.  As per usual, events conspired to spiral out of control, despite a short burst of activity.  Well, comme ci, comme ca, insert random adjective here. 

Back when my relationship to _____ ended, I moved back to Blacksburg with no money, and no real plan of what the fuck I was doing it for.  I was fairly certain I had to escape the clutches of NoVa, and while Blacksburg was hardly my locale of choice, it was a comfortable environment, and comfort was what I was craving at the time.  Mortgage the future, enjoy the present.  Fuck it, in so many words, one of those poorly thought out moves that resonated well with my sense of wanderlust.  Being able to load my life into a car, truck it down to the Burg and just trust providence and my good buddy Cash was one of those indescretions that worked out pretty well.  The second degree was sort of pointless, but doesn’t reflect badly, at least not that I can divine.

So, on a night that seems extraneous, certainly there is something better than mental masturbation and self-flagellation to pass the time.  To this faceless crowd, riding in circles and staring, waiting for some sort of demarcation to humor me with the knowledge that all of this isn’t screaming into the padded room, I can say only what’s on my mind.  Trouble is, being a space cadet such as myself, some kind of frequent modulations seems to occur.  Such is the trouble iwth anything of average capacity.  The only thing we know for certain is that 97% of people will fall 3 standard deviations from the mean.  We also know that I am too piss ass blind that what that means completely escapes me.

The fact that anyone reads this type of drivel of a journal fascinates me.  Stream of consciousness depends on so much more than the petty words and elaborate aphorisms that I can so readily provide.  The only way any type of narrative could be constructed would be to dissemble each individual sentence and recombine them to form new paragraphs.  You probobly don’t notice this because change is so slow, but we can do more with relativity and contextual representation than we can with any other medium.  Fucking A, lost my train of thought.  Ain’t that about a bitch?

Interesting notes of the day/curious comments…what’s in a name?  (Motherfucker, back to Shakespeare.  Worry not, the quote won’t follow.  It’s kinda fucking retarded.)  What’s the difference between a name and a title?  You can’t tell me, and I don’t know.  (ed. note – Does that mean we’re both fucked?)  Also, in theory, if you have what you want, is happiness an afterthought or a necesity?  I suppose it would be too much trouble to get a reply on that ne.  But, if you happen to know, then pass it on.  My curiousity is killing me on that one.

I should go pretend to sleep for a while, but not before indulging in a cigarette.  Fucking A, I love those little pleasure sticks.

—back in five minutes—-

Since there’s always more to say, and yours truly is such a wordy bastard, perhaps a brief respite is, if not earned, at least awarded, and that in and of itself is a reason to apply equal stress to all parts (that’s what Jimmy Buffetts’ dad called a nap).  Well, that and my brains area bout as fried as I can get them with the available accoutremounts.  Son of a whore I hate looking at it like that.  Que lastima!  How dare we insult ourselves with this type of noxious repartee? 

“And since you know you cannot see yourself,
so well as by reflection, I, your glass,
will modestly discover to yourself,
that of yourself which you yet know not of.”

you know who by now….

I’m home; but confused. There seems to be something small that I’m forgetting, that last little bit hindrance before an otherwise entrancing evening. Somebody keeps mumbling something in a small voice, just loud enough to be heard but too soft to make out. It might be just a series of electrical impulses bridging randomly across my synapses. It might just be some kind of mind trick, Vulcan style. I don’t know, I’m not an expert in such things, but I do admit it is both peculiar and, oddly enough, relaxing.

Now, the preface to this is something that nobody will ever really figure out, but I have mentioned it before. Consider the assembly of tiles, each representing the sensory ideal impressed upon the senses. But I digress, and it isn’t really that important. At any rate, just after walking through the double doors of itemized agression, retention, and healing, a motherfucking freezer fell on me. Not all the way of course, the goddamn thing weighed 900 pounds, and that would have crushed me. But most of it fell on me, and while waiting for the assemblymen to come and save my dumb ass from getting crushed, there was a moment of total calm, the likes of which I hadn’t experienced in a very long time.

In that moment of calm came the realization that for all of the post-idolotry and existentialism, there really isn’t much to ask for right now. Certainly, there are those elemental needs, the kind of thing satisfied more by chasing than by catching. Highways, my own pseudo-scientific approach to vaguely imbecilic processes, and a sound strategy for the conquering of invisible obstacles. No affiliations. Deriving a sense of self from the lack of registration. Just say no to group think. (Incidentally, let me say that sloganeering is a vile profession, filled to the brim with scum and villains. It is to the field of thought what McDonalds is to cuisine.)

So, the establishment of an ideal is difficult, if not impossible by those standards. Without the ideal, there is no real way to demarcate opinions except to rationalize them as emotional reactions. There is no opposition to this establishment of quarantined logic, but there are concerns. It is a weltanshauung that revels in the moment. Forced marches across broken territory aside, it is an existence inside of an existence. Somehow, that seems a remarkably prescient fate. It is, as the saying goes, pulling the wagon before the horse….but then that also seems fitting.

Before this brief look into my ironic sensationalism (hey, in this book, I wrote my own damn part!) concludes, there are a few other things to elucidate from the randomness of the day. While my own calm was inspired by terror (obvious) those around me seemed almost hellbent on illuminating some sort of unknown distinctions on the finite nature of elasticity. It makes so little sense, but then, if someone could explain it then everyone would know the answer. What fucking fun would that be? Also, let me stress that despite the maze of intrinsic emotions and hibernated drive related sophistry, there remains the chance of a real artistic experience buried underneath the layers of the present. Nevertheless, there is time for more exploration of that fantasy later. For now, it will serve as a solvent for repatriating scattered thoughts and whispered notions. I saw a face in the crowd, and now all I can see is a crowd in the eyes. Maddening, I am in ecstasy over the loosely formed images.

Lost amidst ny rambling nature was the idea of simplicity.  It had been a long while since I was so confined, and I was forgetting the lessons that I had already learned.  What was probobly simple had seemed complex, the nagging feeling that there was a lot that nobody was telling me that might be of some use while I moved.  I know, I know, all prima facie evidence, imbibing the nebulous transmissions while actively chasing something that wasn’t there.  Thing is, there is no concurrent feeling of certainty, whereby it is declared that the slowly evaporating images definitively mean much of anything.

Let me explain.  Any kind of sensory data is assembled in the same way individual bricks are used to build a wall.  Each sensation is a tile in a neverending stream of moments that seem at first glance to be more than they really are.  The problem occurs as the tiles are constructed, whereby one image is contrasted against a scent, and a gesture of friendship is overlaid on a background of a memory.  It makes for fascinating comparitive ideas and interesting artistic thoughtsw, but it only represents reality as I can assemble it from what I take in.  Not surprisingly, this leads to a good many situations where I have not come to the socially acceptable conclusion.  Instead, a million imperfections clouds the mind and confuses the senses. 

In some ways, this is not so much a foible or flaw in my own makeup as a perspective on the world that keeps things interesting and occasionally comedicly sad or irresistably happy.  There’s a lot of middle ground to my life.  Like I said, it keeps things interesting.

There’s more to say on this point,m but it will have to wait.  Time to sleep, time to rest, time to think.  With a life that seems to be made of jello, I won’t belabor the obvious.  I would phrase it thusly;

There’s a good chance that tomrrow will be a lot like today, only we’ll call it by a different name.  Same with the next day, and the next after that.  However, these onrushing days also carry the idealization of hope.  In other words, it ain’t happened yet, but it still could, and that is all you can really ask for.

So it’s all the same questions, the same illustrations of chronic faith that exists somewhere between ragged breathing and the inability to sleep.  It doesn’t seem to do justice to even the smallest shred of dignity, but what the hell, she’s a caveat emptor type, so what the fuck?  It must be difficult to exist in that much packaging, let alone try to expand the very boundaries of exploration past the moment of decision.  There is no way to verify why this situation has lasted as long as it has when the obvious nature of Occam’s Razor explains all in succinct chorus.  In other words, the destructiveness doesn’t really bother me one way or the other.  What bothers me is the uncaring way in which she goes about it, like the natural order of life is zero minus one.

There may be a more subtle difference between tiring of the life of crime, leaving something past for the present, and leaving the present for the future.  Dispeptic in contortioned movement and ever spreading, like some deep rich stain on white carpet.  The color may fade but there will always be the quiet outline of the interloper, unable to establish a new status quo but unwilling to admit failure and leave.  How much do we owe to the better angel’s of our nature when the only recourse is beougois fantasy and a slick reply to an honest plea? 

All that said, the whole thing seems more focused on my verifiable shortcomings than simply walking into a life about which I know nothing.  This is a repeat performance, the morphology of disconcordial relations.  There isn’t a large target, nor even a walking path through this without some kind of help, and it owuld seem safe to say that the only help that will arrive will be irony and innuendo.  In other words, great gobs of bullshit wrapped up and sprayed with a fake scent.  This will throw off the pursuant, and probobly allow for an escape of one of the primary participants.  Lets play ghost and swear no one has to know.  It will be so much easier on everybody. 

Talking with the empress of allusion was a disaster.  Not in the “holy shit my house is gone” sort of disaster, but more “holy shit i’m dying of thirst while standing in a 4 foot pool of Aquafina.  That EoA was that willing to imply the more devious nature of things was so fucked up it almost sounded like the truth.  Strict rules, no potential for abuse, the whole “self-loathing” factor all metastasized on me at once, so no harm done, but damn it all to hell I’m sure you can guess how that train of thought moves.  Did somebody say something about a sand bag?  Maybe it was just me, there is always that point of relativism.  Even so, despite the accordian epithets and incorrectly worded gestures, the moment did make sense in a more fundamental way.  Fuck those bastards, all falling from the same damn tree. 

So, what’s left?  What’s the score here?  The home team seems hellbent on delivering, but why?  The last 50 or so days all seem to delve into a bitter reification of the present, where the reconfiguration was only visual.  But here the only connections are closed off archways, each tightly guarded and based on some folk story, something about large wooden shoes and the ones who have come and gone.  It is never to be in this sort of apostasy, every word painted up to walk like a hooker desiring one more trick.  Long live the beautiful Emily, and when her good friend Melissa asks the question of faith, let us hope the answer will be more than somnombulent allusion.  That, as always, is the bringer of the unverifiable “next.”