Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Il Faut pt. 1

Sometimes it all seems so simple. Often these are the times when my hands are busy tilling some metaphorical soil or filling the blanks with word bank answers. Other times, often when the division of labor which has created such a convience for us all, has left me with nothing to do but attempt to fill my mind with that unending 21st century desire for something new i find myself increasinly unsatisfied with the world at hand. I find myself unsatisfied with the balance of chemicals in my head. The media machine might be telling me im amused, but i assure you i am not amused. Even since i was young i prefered the chemical satisfaction. That satisfaction you can only get when theres an influx of the right compentents in your brain, often following something our primal anchestors would have found to be quite an accomplishment for their day. When each day brings the threat of survival its very easy to be satisfied, and its very easy to not worry about how others will survive. It's a shame we left that world so long ago.
We all want our story on paper. The story of our life. That fanciful narritive that explains who we are and how we became to be. That story that really shows the inner beauty and the complexities of our character. So i guess in that respect i am not unlike anyone else, i am obsessed with my self image, with this imponderable creation called "me." Id like to say that everyone else is to, but i can not say that with any certainty. Already im disgusted with myself, trying to put to paper what ive thought a thousand times before, so obsessed with the idea that others will read this and either patronize me or just laugh to themselves. Im afraid others wont see this complicated narritive of "me" and see the depth and beauty and complexities. True humor stems from their being an incongruency in the real world and the percieved world. Perhaps this is why my fear exists, because i know that there is no beautiful narritive, not for me and not for anyone else. This is the dialoge of the isolation of the true self from the real world.
In a world of increased communication, where even now, i find that i can talk to anyone i choose to in many different mediums in a matter of seconds and yet i find this extreme sense of isolationism. Perhaps its the methods we use, these impersonal tools of communication that allow us to speak without having to take that mininmal risk of facing someone. One does not even have to face the enemy anymore, we can bait them from a safe distance, forever antagonizing ourselves as that we are all the enemy to someone else.
These are the circular dialoges that only come about when im lowering my sense of spatial reality in the undying quest to find god. The fractal images played infront of my cornea only add accent to the multimedia thoughts. That sense of purpose or reason that our neo-cortex could utilize to explain all the suffering we feel and somehow die with a sense that justice was served. I think back to anatomy, trying to remeber the location of the common carotid artery and explore the various theorized locations with a knifepoint in a recreation of a suicide attempt that i never attempted. The irony strikes me as i recall i never took anatomy. Maybe it was just a page of Grey's pasted in a dark stylish manner in a dorm room, or back bedroom somewhere. It's almost exasperating how this cycle takes place, not just the delusion, the search from god, but the repression as i find myself in these dramatic thoughts and yet i will never act, not now at least. I dont trust myself to act on any radical idea, yet somehow they seem like the most sane and rational thoughts. Revolutions, revolutions being waged inside my grey matter and yet i dont believe them at all, the bloodshed is a consequence of gods love and ill be damed if im open to change. I wipe my face with my sleeve, thinking somehow that this actors gesture of of clearing my mind will somehow have some placebo effect on me. I quiet the thoughts and breathe deep, sigh, and stand up. Knowing that tonight will not be the night the gunfire stops.
Inside, i find that fortune is on my side and drink down the cool confidence, the false sense of security and my failed sleep aid. Something which undoubtly causes me just as much trouble as the faith i put into it. But for know, im just enjoying the company, the peace you only find when your mind is filled with idle chatter and good company. Im either returning to baseline or becoming accustomed to my new reality and sink into another night of mindless peace.
The light hits my eyes, meaning it can only be 10 am. My thoughts are still scattered but at least at a functioning level now and i begin a routine which is centered around taking care of myself rather than simply whatever tangent entertains me the most. Theres a subtle desire that springs up as i pour boiling water in my morning ritual, perhaps triggered by the idea of the stimulation im about to enjoy perhaps triggered by nothing at all. Most days are just like any other day for most people i imagine. Routine seems to be comforting, it might explain why people prefer repitition. I conclude with something slightly different, although not all that different from anything else i did that day, but go out and take in the silence and birdsong. In this day, you dont find totally silence, the tranquility of nature, but you find peace in distance or even nearby cars passing, the wind moving over them is almost as soothing as water splashing on rocks in a shallow creek if you listen to it in the right way. Its all a matter of perspective, and these dusky walks often are a matter of remidning myself of what perspective it is i choose to have for the person i chose to be today. Its almost astounding how many choices we make without conciously bringing them to our thoughts each day. This morning i decided what i was going to be today. Althought i had many choices, i usually opt between what disgusts myself, yet somehow i sleep better at night, and that which i might feel is a more accurate description. Only in later years do i realize the latter choice was merely a product of many small deciosions i made each day and some very ill imformed advice, (either way it turned out to be an outright lie). Of course, it can only be an outright lie in the reflective sense, because at that time, that day, it was very real.
Reality hits me like only a rush of endorphines can. Superpowered emotions have become my driving force. How can you say the junkie doesnt have a high emotional intelligence? They spend their whole lives feeling emotions most people can never imagine. Either way, right now, ive convinecd myself that i may not be helpless, but it was that rushed mindlessness that so easy to do, routine makes it simpler. The finances are just too simple, i cant turn down a deal, maybe its something my mother taught me. I write my name in the powder, just because i can, i feel so rediculously apathetic i can almost confuse it for confidence. So apathetic i lick up a thumb sized pile just to prove to myself it means nothing to me. I almost laugh because i know it proves nothing. The apathy is absurd, and confidence is fleeting. Given a few hours ill be reduced to a paranoid mess. Twitichy and wish for only the comfort of sleep, but too scared to come down. Untill youve felt it, you have no way of even imaging how it feels. Most people have had comedowns, letdowns, crashes, whatever you want to call it, chemically or emotionally induced. But Byron himself couldnt describe the irrational justification for the behavior that will ultimatly calcify iinto a skeleton by morning. It hasnt even begun yet, but i know its coming, i knew right after that first line. I throw a bag against the wall, it stays closed and gives a mildly statisfying thud. The climax comes, and i pick up the bag, ill need it later.
The morning comes and im half a zombie, my mucles contract moving the lactic acid, or what i assume is lactic acid. But i start to settle into the routine, the first night is always the hardest, but routine comes and makes it easier. The body is amazingly adaptable, once we had to endure extreme cold, starvation, heat waves, and droughts, now thats the last thing we worried about, but our bodies still maintain much of that same inate ability to survive and adjust. The hardest adjustment is always to the guilt when you hand someone that bag and take the money they either worked hard for or stole. Im handing them nothing and get exactly what i want in return, thats capitalism. Whats even more amazing is that no one seems to notice you. Your always invisible, but youd think that the dramatic emotions would show in your face or someone would notice the twiching, sweating, nervous behavior, constant rummaging in your pockets or the not so slights of hand in oddly placed handshakes. But in reality no one knows, no matter what you do, your still invisible. The longer lasting effects of the industrial revolution can still be felt on the city streets. Seven generations have walked them so the subtle nuances have long since been looked over like the spitstains on the sidewalk. Its as if when you can feel the diffusion of responsibility, the diffusion of hospitality gets overlooked. Only in these concrete jungles can one find no room to breate from the congestion of exhausted carbon yet feel completely isolated.
Its day five and im cleaned out. I have a decent return on the principle investment and feel hollow. Theres no sense of satisfaction really, not at these margins.The tolerance to margin is synomous with the chemical tolerances, no slowly fading away in my head. At first any profit fills you with a sense of pride and accomplishment, soon though you grow accustomed to it and only when you find yourself mulitplying the principle do you really feel that satisfaction. I suppose tolerance is what makes us feel so unsatified, why we are all "suffering." Even though this is unimportant now, because the task at hand is what begrieves me most. A blank white screen. Glowing like an open invitation and im too intimidated to RSVP. My tolerance to my own words has grown too much to even bother putting them on the screen, in hopes one of the few critics i acually care about will read my work perhaps boost my self esteem or feed into my delusion hope of future romance. In concious thought the decision weighs in. Questioning my own motivations i close the screen. The night air cools my skin but not my mind, the last week has left my thoughts simmering and now on the verge of coming to a boil the frustions mount for a full frontal assualt. No flanks nessesary, we have the numbers and in numbers we show no fear. Im back inside staring at the mirror, questioning motivations, questioning identity, knowing full well that if that phantom were to ever cross the silver divide that i would show no remorse and no fear in taking his life. In all this, its not really what i want, its not what anyone wants. But our desires are products of our perceptions, and with the skewd double vision I walk a straight line, enforcing the premisis. Narcissim, repressed into guilt, into shame, shame to fear of showing weakness and right now the voice in my head is screaming at me. The hobgoblin, created by my own unsatisfaction, my motivator and worst enemy tells me im weak and usless, and soft. The phantom in the mirror agrees, showing me the pudge left around my hips from my forever changing metabolism, the fear in my eyes shows and i know everyone can see it. Prove yourself, it says to me, show them they are all wrong to laugh, show them you are what you have chosen to be.

Monday, February 12, 2007


Its a cold hard day when even I fall to my knees and pray
I dont know what god i prayed to and i dont really care
I just want to hear my own words in the air

Watch over him, he a good man
Give him the same chances you or fate gave me

I love my friend, till the bitter end

Sunday, February 11, 2007


Tighten the skins
Play the beats to summon the sons
The suns that comes every time we drum
the beat plays on the reach the sum

the beat plays on and summons the sons

Slaves, tracer lines draw out our skies
The sons of the holy son stolen away
Never submiting but reaching the apex
of the blue lines that draw the segways

crossfaded and spun, backbeat and won
vortex rainbow, reverse helix and its done

I stole the sun with the beat of my drum
and the sons dance in the new reality
the enlightened love of a god, undone

this is because GOD comes everytime we drum
and we summon under a new sun
drawn and redrawn each day forgotten

this is the new order, of the tracer sun

Wednesday, February 07, 2007

Bare Bones

I dont know why i havent been doing this, its not for lack of things to say. But i suppose the desire to express my whims and realizations to the world has waned, maybe because of a lack of an audience, maybe simply because its absolutly pointless except to give me something to read over when im drunk and feeling nostaligic wishing to inflate my already artificial ego.

I feel like my mind and body are working double normal effeciency, of course i did pretext college with a nice month of absoutly no intellectual stimulation and minimal physical, so it could just be a contrast, but i wouldnt account all of it to so.

That doesnt help the CRUSHING lonliness and bordem, which you think would make good fodder for the artistic cannon, but thankfully coping mechanism, that arent substance related have pleasantly corked that weapon of war.