Filed under: the lost children of the bokonists
Obsessive screaming in empty rooms, waiting for something approximating the payment of dues. That elusive gradualism is no match for the situation at hand, a venal sacrifice that baffles those outside looking in. Some platonic admirer staring intently, sitting Indian style on the ground, the crossed legs saying something that no lips ever could. Can’t somebody see what it is I see in the momentary inhibition of durability? The underlying agreement sanctioning the lack of sleep, the lack of the goodness in spirits that wander before tiring, only to stand again as if commanded by some unseen impulse to force the issue a little farther, a little harder, a little more.
The old mixture of extreme fright and joy at seeing reflections in the mirror, to be comforted by the thought that a reflection implies fullness overcoming recidivist tendencies and apocalyptic visions. There are the old questions, old experiences satisfying some deeper search for meaning beyond stylized elements that mystify observers. The bare knock against something that feels like wet cement, first welcoming, then unable to let go and realize the living dreams are just that; dreams. Maybe the exhaustion binds the receptors; welcoming what stands marginalized and awry, but never letting loose or even acknowledging the acute minority capable of true freedom. Replaying various moments, reaching for some supported conclusion that tracks and confirms the sensation of mere mortality placed in the mind of participants, but never shared. The panic induced isn’t any more real than the supposed live recordings mixed in a studio, with backing provided by the generous members of an all inclusive club.
Something akin to benig struck repeatedly with a hammer, more unsolicited advice aggressivly applied, poetry in movement but just garbage words, pity and loathing marching hand in hand, ready at all times to confront the inrushing tides. We are building snadcastles on the floor, mixing a thin paste to keep the various loose ends together, and dare I say it, functioning on a level plane. Triplicate images bide time, leaving me to guess as to whether or not my eyes are as capable of lying as any other part of my crudely drawn skeleton. Fragments of data reach analysis, but any conclusions are revisited the very moment they become accepted wisdom. Nobody knows anything, and even the shadows are wont to spill the secrets of friends and enemies alike. But the terminology bothers me, not in the relative quotient of expectations and unambiguous theories, but in the most basic ways, like an itch that can’t be scratched by anything less than a chainsaw.
Amidst the swirling embers fleeing the sanity of the flames, handshakes, mosquito netting encumber the mind and clothe the body. The maze seems to have no solution, just hierarchical questions wrestling to exert dominance over the eyes and ears of witnesses and participants across the globe. The more fortune smiles and legs move to the rhythm of music playing quietly is the obtrusive reality. We lack the words, but not the symbols, and walking in the footsteps of giants does not grant us their size, nor the acumen to diagnose another bout of oscillations between points. Names that bring to mind vague hints and recollections turn inward and hide from a mind limited to probing and comparison. Mallets and hammers, applied as delicately as possible under the circumstances. Senses all fail at once, blinking out in the same manner as a television that transmits black simplicity across the great distances as if it were a real neat trick. Eyes closed, the taste of something long lost on lips that want to talk in a language that has yet to be invented with people yet to be reborn. Dreams built from small blocks of wet reality, soothing a conscious still trying to understand the intermediate movements of birds and heroes. It suddenly occurs to me that lodged within the recessions of what was is the still photograph of momentary unity masquerading as a revision of what is, but never what will be.
I.
Don’t.
Know.
There is comfort in rationalization. After this kind of time commitment, the payoff must be suitably sized. Nobody holds themselves hostage to something that might have happened, but the again might not have yet occured. Written in the sand is an image of a flamingo looking backward, honking, maybe as a warning, maybe as an admonition not to stop. Greater men would at least pause to consider the wisdom involved in such archaic and chaotic moments, but my reservations are few when it comes to pushing harder on apostasy. If we stop moving, we will surely lose our progress, a tradgedy when the price has already been partially paid. Is there anybody out there? Just as I thought.
—farther into the evening—
Mishapen acolytes insist on the cumbersome process of judgement and identification. No matter the depth and commitment of my protest against such an asinine process, the short answer remains the same. It goes without saying that I would slash my throat before amending my own ideals for the agrandizement of others. Combat, vitriol, smasmodic movements, all the same hue and cry over the shoes, hair, and physical appearance, social grace, etc. To be blunt, there is tacit admittance that I make no requirements of those willing to bend my ear, or letting me bend theirs. The forces beating against the front door and bloodying various segments of the world at large are more than enough to fight without being stabbed in the back by those who smile in the front. There is nothing I ask of you except time and attention. I’d respectfully await some reply, but anyone within screaming distance knows none shall be forthcoming. The tail end of a very funny joke played on unsuspecting fool by some malicious and unfeeling jurist left me laughing, even as I eventually realized the joke was on me. Trust the masochist in me…I know I do. A few more hours until blissful sleep, but no countdown to confrontation tonight. Whats left is too fucking tired, and too fucking excorciated to naively believe in the words of long dead poets or intellectuals. Finite feels so right tonight. You dream for me, no caveat or promises required. Hysteria has no place here, and for the time being, neither does purity.
Cigarettes, and that peculiar breeze that tells me something is coming towards us from the dark. I love those moments of discovery. What the fuck are we going to do with me?
cough cough…
Filed under: Music
Food for later tonight. 3 days. No sleep. The vultures are circling again, and I am reaching for the small white tablets. There is so much to say, and I’m seeing double. I have ancient eyes and a mournful soul, stolen reserves and the desire to destroy something beautiful in a fit of passionless seething. Lovely lady Mona, to the ends of the earth, with song, and the realization of a thousand bleeding tongues. Nobody’s coming to save you, except me. I’m the last friend you have. I’ll be the mirror. Much more tonight.
Filed under: Philosophy
I have waited patiently for this time of night to meet with the random madness of perfectly applied substances. Aside from the subtle diffusion of many other sympaticos, it is another self contained era sealed off from the supposedly rigid progression of time. Still, entropy coninues in fits and starts. If anyone else has noticed, they haven’t mentioned their concerns to me, so the most obvious diagnosis would be one of self-immolation, like the penatent man’s search for meaning in concrete steps. This statement I accept with minimal concern, matched with neutrality towards the implications contained therein. Once more, with feeling.
It isn’t anger, not in the more nominal sense of the term, that keeps me laughing tonight. That long conversation supplied so much of my own conception of how the gears of the world function. The sweeping movements and ability to consolidate long disances between causes and effects echo a certain crazy logic to the assumptions I make on a regular basis. Progress is always made when the underlying assumptions themselves become the object of derison and questions. Experience shows that this moment cannot be forced. Perhaps idealistically, I’ve often wondered whether this might be evidence in and of itself that psychiatry is a contradiction, like enforced reality. Still, whatever helps. Any port in a storm is a very common strategy amongst the searcher community.
At any rate, life in the zombie farm continues as always. Observations have been going well, and while most opinions are in a state of flux, my position is actually pretty good, relative my expectations. My ability to create marginal value out of any combination of links and guesses has served me well. Never one to waste time with continuity or self-flaggelation (for the most part…exceptions apply…) the recent events have sparked a communitywide reappraisal of once unquestionable values. That is progress that will never be given its rightful place as major turning points in species history, but it is the question itself that forces movement. Whether the search is successful or not in providing an answer is immaterial. The more that this topic is addressed, the more I finally step back and see billions of random and casual events locking distance and time into seemingly unrelated sets of circumstance. Everything from the actuarial tables stating the percentage of fatalities in one car crashes one one lane roads to the lastest discovery of changing solar magnetism fits not by the hand of a creator, but by the processes of possibility and probability.
A whole host of caveats rushes to mind, but the general thrust is so elegeant, so appealing, so calming. Any chosen context is only a rough approximation of an infinite number of pre and post requisite possibilities. Thinking about the long string of implications could destroy a mind;s connection to the wider world. Fucking A. The problem of departmental responsibility might just be the major obstacle to understanding humanity. Did our shared species fuck that one up? What is the long term benefit of evolving conscience? Theory says there must be some answer to that question. While underlying cause may be more widely pondered, the devil is in the details. To a most fundamental degree, we pursue such a flawed strategy for finding any answer to THE BIG QUESTIONS by assuming that amidst an existence of constant change, the key to unlocking it is a motionless and eternal truth.
It is with this in mind that one final thought occured to my daydreaming eyes. It could be argued that true invention is immpossible, given that the task is a term for creating something that did not exist previously the moment of actualiztion. However, it would seem more realistic to interpret the task of the inventor as one who assembles available possibilities and connects them in a previously undiscovered way. Like all other attributes given grave respect and willing adulation, everyone is at base assembling a reality that answers to questions rising from an inherited tendency toward self awareness.
Discovering new connections in all of this swirling madness of events, reactions, decisions, etc., is the end result of a wrecking ball of experience, recognition, and priorities. By now, this should come as no surprise to any confidante or simpatico. Spurious though it may be, the urge to continually expand my material universe is slight in comparison with the urge to enjoy the ironic realization that amidst a total lack of understanding lies easy living and sunny skies. When the age of unsustainable consumption ends, things are bound to get more difficult. Smile, this is the golden age. Any minute now, the Jets and Sharks are going to break out in song. No, they probobly won’t, but something will happen, just give it a minute.
And there it goes.
Filed under: Huey Lewis
So, maybe a quick laugh, because we have no liturgy at all today. I’ve got the brightest stars singing any song that I can think of, and light reflecting from the very center of the room to a point close to, but not touching, a spot roughly parralel to my eyes. Some shimmer or glint enhances everything I see, from the mail sitting on the couch to the black plastic outline of a silent television. The odd movement of light makes it impossible to tell if I am sitting near the edge of a magnificent and large room or just a tiny family room hemmed in by plaster and wood. Either way, for a few brief moments the opulence can be envisioned to any requisite specifications. That wonderful feeling of existence experienced without interaction, a place always worth the trip.
Some mongrel tug on my heel reminds me that there is a small proce to pay for all of this careless and often thoughtless ambivalence. Without resorting to something as crude as a scale, I will be wishing for smooth sailing and calm seas despite the ever present tremors and involuntary spasms. Where to go with all of this madness? Give it some thought. That is the plan for the moment. Why do I keep thinking there is something else? Silence is golden.
