The Backs of My Eyelids

My cyclopean eye is clouded,
but if I could just be like Jack
and climb to the apex of a shrouded mountain,
only the burden of tin pots on my back,
my eye might see if I could be celibate from society,
its goals for my existence,
and opinions of how to live piously--
nearer consciousness?
I don't know.
A fast from mirrors and screens would do,
as I am so fake, dolled up,
hypocritical shrew.
I know damn well that I've sold myself
to the Bank, thus the Devil,
all around the lost and dishevled souls pull me so far way.
In them My Eye sees neither consciousness,
nor subsistence.
Keep digressing from this needed day,
and so I must accept penance.
Inside flies and flustered air bubbles press converging to benign tumors and minds, pounce and zag, the whole place sags and reeks of excuses, gusto gusts from here like air, transparent, disappears...
into pockets of thieves to their getaway Car, couldn't peeve a burning star of gassy combustion, they get high from the suction and seize the day away eye lids vacant nothing left, the soul inside his body bereft of any place to express itself, except for Space or Hell, down the Hole again (does it disappear?)
Then it reappeared...there. In your burningly vacant eyes I see and now don't see blue and electrifying, you think death by freak accident is mystifying, but what did you expect WHEN IT IS ABSOLUTE?
I suspect the solution won't ever come to be
and that this is the one True case where we lost energy.

26 July 2009

Kind of an experiment.

written 24 July 2009 just before sunset

I think of you ALWAYS and especially lately. It isn't 2 1/2 glasses of wine and a car ride in the back seat. I feel it all in my chest and abdomen-- anxiety.

2 more weeks til I see you. I want to hold you and cry and look deep into the river water of what never was and never will be and melt like ice into your beating heart. You act like you don't like anything nothing brings you pleaure, you can keep on pretending for the rest of your life, but let it be known here and now that I know that it's mutual and that you're anxious for it too.

I've done this before. Seems like every second of every day.

Never was and never will be but nevertheless special because it's lived in my heart for [how many?] years now and before that you were prince charming, my dream boy and after that and always my love for you is eternal (possibly self-mutilating, foolish, and to a degree unrequited).

You don't want anyone to make observations (permanent and with conviction) about you because you think you'll lose you you want to own you.

Thinking of you turns me into a star-- disconnected, dead, admired by billions, acknowledging none.

Everyday is hard not to think about the past
And I think about the day when it’s no longer part of me,
deep sleep of nothingness, no more attachment to it,
when it stops caring about me.

The sorrow is stubborn,
Caused by brain chemistry.

Synchronicities sometimes are the only way to remember that I am part of something that is bigger than all this
Remember: the last time all my hinges fell loose, and I spun and fucked the Universe until I was whole and no longer existed and I saw the Truth, no one else could see it or take it,
but the last time I thought I’d lost it—which was the goal-- the energy put in was lost in the reaction so the product almost matched the reactant,
I wanted the whole fucking compound to reform to something different.

Something inside of me grows,
I must have swallowed a seed.

The place deep inside the chest, right in the center, under the bone, electrocuting some organ
Is a violent heart attack manifesting itself, makes me breathe shallow.

Really
All the tears I could ever need to cry have been cried, but they keep surfacing—
Dry, invisible—
But the fish keeps floating at the top of the fishbowl and the bugs keep crawling inside of the window and the mirror on the wall is swept up daily and the weeds in the garden make my hands feel scaly (soft, her hands),

I would like to destroy with brute force the rhythmic Center of the pendulum.

Now I don’t have friends,
Because I fucked them all.
I have inanimate, unchanging snapshots of time: books,
my dirty whores, I in myself a gang of unending hungry rapists,
read once as quickly as possible,
discard,
rarely think about them,
move on.

I don’t want to die,
but the monotony is sucking me dry.

The Sun and all Time
took all the moisture from my eyes and I wonder how long it is until I’ll die,
sink back into nothing, not even nothingness, blank absence of consciousness,
unless It happens to be the compulsive astral need to Fuck,
like it was on Speed, in dreams. Not moving or still but stuck as a puppet.

The speed of seeds is very slow,
but if you let them,
they will grow.

They will likely birth more seeds,
in the end all plants will die.

The Serpent, My Self

Inner dilemma of sentient beings
is a product of the needs
of the plurality of voices:
The needs of one Self
undermined by needs of another.

Starved (tibi, for you) in my soul
your eye and the “good times”,
joyful reminiscence of sunshine,
followed by bowling ball cloud of coughing dust
& early onset heart attack.

Selves inside this onyx shell,
shed skin of snakes,
transposed on one another, dueling,
until fullness and adaptation can settle.
Selves want to remember
you, fat cat whining for more kibble.

Why must you meddle
in my Forest, my possession?
What you do most often,
is how you are.
What you think most often,
is who you are.
New voices in my head every day,

Drink deep the waters of the paradigm shift.
Voices funnier than any comedian on T.V.,
Writing poetry in matrices,
Art produced using scientific method,
Science on a Potter’s wheel,
Religion is the Forest,
in tact (not chopped down,
carved into a cross by a carpenter).

Deny government, politics, movements, activism:
I’m swallowing down the dust,
vomiting my own fecundity,
back at them,
who believe I can’t be a woman or a Free Spirit
without it,
the Flag Almighty, legal strawman, & children pouring out of my argumentative cunt,
one after another, single file.

All tied to nothing real or True, in perspective,
but selfish motives of Humans.
Busy as bees, but less beneficial to the whole.
Take and rape,excuse our Selves
from the Elephant in the room who demands answers & change.

Mammary glands reject the malicious intent
of Supposedly Supernatural
Christians performing Cuniligus on Mother Mary.
Et benedíctus frúctus véntris túi: Third Eye, Right Tit, Failed Heart,
all the while I’ve got 2 fingers sliding inside feeling the fleshy and flaky Self.

March-May 2009

Vocation by the River

I.
O thoughtless mind,
spit forth declarations from your limp, worn-out neurons,
and tales of imaginary lands where vapor seeps out of pores in the streets, remnants of a prolonged combustion,
coal-fired trains powered by mechanical shovellers.
Massage the data out of the Temporal Cock,
the number of possibilities varies
depending on how Blitzkreiged you feel & understand (then say) yourself to be.

My lips wrapped around
your cock
in mouth
fingers in hair.

If & Only If every vibration of this Space directly correlates (in equilibrium »» no energy is ever lost, only converted) to a vibration in the Spiritual Realm,

II.
O God, then the duality, bipolar magnetism is comical!
What is all this—
do we attribute more to “the gods”? more to the gods we think we are? -delusions, absurd, always regressing to randomness, or divine-orderly-structured
serving our(selves or gods).
We can never know truth, even if we think we can, truth is relative to what we feel & understand (then say) it to be, circular patterns,
discriminations tick marking an expanding Universe,
Conquer the Universe and so yourself,
The River of Contradictions flows freely in our Egos’ bodies.

III.
O thoughtless, the ghost inside corporal suit,
a layer of concentrated absolute bliss fed through feeding tubes,
concatenated to Universe,
Her golden power is the Source,
the suit’s disposition secondary to Desire of Spirit.
Breathed in, the cup was filled.
It took one breath.
I was once a fetal parasite, cells multiplying, whose choice was it?
My cells keep multiplying uncontrollably,
creating skin & blood,
the systems’ Thoughtless Mind
reaps creation & destruction,
(Is it my choice?)
symbolic knowledge in the nucleus of all cells
and braided into expanding, flattening universe.
Inside the tiniest building blocks,
chaos can be seen,
within them, recorded lightyears of rock & ash,
absent from the night time sky.
One reaction sets off a chain reaction,
birthing ambient pain we feel trapped in,
frozen in space & time,
clogging feeding tubes with hatred,
reactionary sadness, excuses
always caused by something else,
twisted around the key to existence
yet septillions of units away,
projections larger on the screen than
What Truly Is.

IIII.
O Reckless Desire to change it all,
but it’s hard to blame you
for doing what you knew was Right.
Investigate morality and see everything I once couldn’t see,
wonder if right now, looking back in However Long,
had I changed my mind or life?...
The Mind changed our choices,
The Bipolar sickness-magnet is absurd,
what is all this-
our consciousness expanding and smearing over
Earth, as bread, spread thin,
another layer crusted onto bloodstained panties,
peeling back the skin,
in the Bird’s Eye View, I see.
How trivial it was back then!
(What will I think in 50 years?)
All the strips of my different selves sliced long and thin,
bound together absolutely,
My cunt wants that throbbing violet vegetable.
My soul wants the world.
Detail-oriented, a papery glass doily,
tap on the ice and fall through to freezing water.
Or,
Eternal essence as forceful as an imaginary brick wall,
sucking faster than the Ideal Vacuum.

V.
O thoughtless universal mind, your choruses of sirens that have eternally demanded the question & quest that follows it:
Fear of rejection old enough to buy cigarettes in state of Indiana,
Tragedy, we cannot communicate via inaudible language like cats,
“I know the next thing I’m excited for,” says I, “& it ain’t now.”
An aura of fire asphyxiating me,
need out of this shell,
mind full of theories,
body a bag of sand,
soul exhausted,
clean hands.

February-March 2009

The Illusion of Intention

I.
Under fluorescent lights in the morning:
some “place”, some “point” “in” “time”---
why am I even here,
because what is the "I" that was written?
Is it a means, an end, a Void,
am I just a competition?
They aren’t talking to the spirit writing this,
they’re talking to my outer shell;
they think that’s me,
they think think think think think,
don’t know that I am a Void,
a future Buddha (“Jack” was “right” this “Time”).
II.
Who is really Right?
How do I not listen?
Is it better to listen (mock) INTENTly
Or to Realize that I am a Void, while
They’re acting
[ACTING! ACTING!]
As though I’m a sport, a ludus
Ludicrous means to their ends?

The Way Out

He’s still like back
fucking F. Scott, you’re
Zen and the Art.
You’re Zen
And he’s just fucking
the wind and the clouds.
Drunk, I’m so drunk
I want to try to remember,
(We teleport
to the past and to the future.
I remember every single time…
I’m inhibriated, feel this sense of
longing for a figure I’ve seen in this state.
The figure is the form of You.)
but my inhibitions are
still thick as
a swamp;
distractions.
Too many to shed, send
bleeding—the lining of my uterus is now.
I don’t know the moon phase,
haven’t seen the moon in days,
but somehow, beneath the hours
beaten into me,
I know it’s full, it’s new.
The brand,
grand newness
of an egg I found in a nest,
built of gravel, broken brick, and ash,
lightly upon a sand-castle of snow,
floating on ice.
I wanted to smash it open on the ice,
envisioning
all of my childhood traumas,
and all the Hell of Life.
But I knew
that thoughts are never the right thing
your intellect is wrong
and your instincts are wrong
and the only Way Out of this
maze is
Up:
to transcend
but not die.
I guard my eyes, while looking high Up into the sky--
On journey searching for The Truth,
I was somewhere on the way,
caged in a Venus Fly Trap
in the living power of the
throbbing violet things.
Somewhere… the tractor stopped
and I rolled out of the Stack of Hay,
rolled over a prairie of Sheep.
There was a Shepherd
looking into the attic window of a huge Victorian house,
broken down in San Francisco.
In the window He sees another window
of a pink Victorian doll house—
little home “less” Ragetty Annes and Andies
littered along the cracks of the floorboards—
with a colony of ants Living inside,
burrowing a well in the ground to their
supply of Hidden rubber Strings.
Their description
cannot say what I want to say,
and Their definitions
are even more vague:
Television rings in, I just need a
fucking moment of
Silence.
You go play in the bedroom,
slamming the door and
fucking around—
Where is the Center?
Where’ll I Live?
Their Boundaries are clouded,
this isn’t going to work out,
my first instinct is
TRY TO FIND A WAY OUT.

Strings, Boxes, Doors

I came upon the Oracle,
the android dream machine
out of one side
and in one side
in-through-out-unchanged.
The fragments of ideas
keep changing
perpetuating themselves into a sticky ball
that I can’t get rid of--I’m stuck in quicksand,
tracing shapes into Floam with my fingers,
shapes that will outlive me.
The Serpent Mound I’ve made,
you’ll see Not so cordially,
in accordance with some broken code
that didn’t work the first time
(won’t work this time).
Every day
I don’t write a thousand words
on the page, it’s empty
strings of words, beads
strung together
the cord(iality) holding them together
snaps
lashing back
to what where how it was Before Beads,
in Principio.
“I have this obsession with beginnings and ends.
Birth and death,
Overshadow life and decay,
Every second to die
To be reborn.”
We’ve spoken this monologue
Since the very beginning.
How could this be so linear, and how could I be so separate from here?
Where will we be if we keep going forward, turned around walking backwards?
(Not for the sake of rhetoric. Earnestly, how could there be an end?)
Through a tear in perception:
Om patterns of light
852
852
transferred, Om in the Center.
Down the Middle
of the Earth and Grounded
dissipating soul back into moths or feathers,
fairy dust, glittering specks
of light dissociate.
Where are they going?
What will they be, are they (and is there such a thing as) me?
The questions have always been more im porta nt than the answers.
Cradled spooning god, curled up into the fetal position,
eyes wide open, staring out curiously, earnestly
as a tabula rasa,
ramblings inside from the heart of Om.
What I do
Does not affirm “my” identity.
What is just as transitory as is,
and this ever was.
A millions specks welded together
to form my soul--
my identity can’t be something owned
by anyone.
Writing “my” only tells you which million specks
clustered together, over Time.
I don’t own my body,
the shell I am renting,
I can only affect
my actions, thought--Do I own them? Will I own them?
We think
(this matters so much).
We think, think, think
We’re looking and searching
for knives, daggers, patterns, similarities,
some way to divide the Whole Place up,
into neat little boxes;
searching for things
whose molecules are stubborn, stuffed together.
Where are the answers
that don’t matter
to the questions
that we Always wanted
Semper
Always
to be made Out of It.

Diu

I'm in the basement of H.G. Wells library
(or is it H.B.?)
waiting for my teacher to show up
so I can take an exam,
the last and Final exam of this semester.
On the white-painted cement brick wall
is a poster for a movie,
Hustle & Flow
in a thin black frame
with the exact words
"Everybody gotta have a dream."
The poster is tacky,
with airbrushed black people,
fake eyelashes and silver teeth,
but we must all have a dream.
This semester was a dream,
and I flew past it,
the background repeating and repeating,
as I felt stationary.
The noises, people, glowing yellow lights, and dotted flat grey carpet
were all the same as they always are,
but in my mind in this dream
all that disappeared and left me alone,
translating sentences.
In the sentences I found
that our language has grown to a monstrous size,
but it doesn't make us more precise.
Our brains are more cluttered with distractions from the common associations we would be able to make.
Our dreams might be more cluttered, too.
But, in nature, they are all the same as they were
a long time ago.
As they will be diu,
for a long time.

ctrlaltdel

Read the whole thing. I promise, it's really amusing at the end.



The goal to the Density of Pennies lab experiment was to find the density of groups of pennies, sorted by year. With the densities of pennies, the goal was then to find the changes in the metals that the pennies were made up of over time, and to ultimately find the year that the pennies changed from a structure of mostly the element copper to a structure containing another, unknown metal.
For the procedure, the pennies were weighed, and then their volumes were measured using 50 milliliter graduated cylinders. The densities were then calculated in groups in a chart. For accuracy, a collaborative chart of all densities calculated was then created, and the mean of all densities was found. Then each density was subtracted from the mean to find how far it was from the average. For precision, the standard deviation of the collaborated densities could have been found. Finally, since the degrees of both accuracy and precision were known, the uncertainty associated with the glassware and scales was then known. Therefore, more precise hypothesis could be made as to what the true value of the pennies’ volumes and masses would need to be in order to satisfy the requirements that the pennies changed in elemental composition between the years 1980-1984 and that the pennies were composed of 2.5% Copper and of 97.5% another, unknown metal. This set of years was known because all measurements of the pennies’ densities and masses showed similar fluctuation in that time frame: an average of 1.4 grams per milliliter, according to the average of two trials. Finally the equation (97.5%)x + (.2235)=y was used, where densities for the most likely metals, Tin and Zinc, were x, and y was the density of a penny in the case of the metal’s density substituted for the x variable. Using the given equation, Tin had the density closest to the required density.
However, according to the U.S. Mint, Zinc was the metal that replaced Copper as the most abundant metal in the penny (Mint). The original hypothesis was proven wrong, and so the entire experiment underwent a review process in order to more accurately determine the composition of the penny in a future experiment. The following conclusions were made in the process of review. First, more accurate instruments for measuring volumes of pennies would be used. Secondly, the number of pennies would be increased and decreased to find the number that best represented each time frame. Then the experiment could be done more accurately.
The goal of this experiment, in conclusion, was to determine the unknown metal in pennies and when the pennies changed in composition from mostly Copper to mostly the unknown metal. However, the faulty weighing and measuring procedures for the experiment were too imprecise and inaccurate for a knowledgeable conclusion to be reached. Therefore, the experiment was a failure.

second declension masculine

us o um i o e us o um i o e us o um i o e us o um i o e us o um i o e i is os orum is i i is os orum is i i is os orum is i i is os orum is i us o um i o e i is os orum is i os o um i o e

n d ac g abl v
us o um i o e
never date a generous able vaccume
us o um i o e
nominative dative accusative genitive ablative vocative
us o um i o e
us o um i o e
us o um i o e
i is os orum is i
n d a g a v
n d a g a v
i is os orum is i
nom never i us the
dat date is o to for ind object
acc a um orum the dir object
gen generous orum i of
abl able o is w/preposition by with from
voc vaccume i e

us o um i o e
i is os orum is i
us o um i o e
i is os orum is i
us singular o singular um singular i singular o singular e singular
i plural is plural os plural orum plural is plural i plural

Organic

Nihil, nothing, none.
Panthae, everything, everyone.
Neither is set in stone,
in its effect;
often,
choosers choose in a
box-like way,
left in their boxes, they beg.
Reminiscence,
memories are fragments;
actions incomplete,
no growing, no learning:
repeat, repeat, repeat.
Over & Over
first time: burning shards of ice
tearing through the rebelling
mind.
second: flounder-ing around,
the Fish seems to be choking
(she doesn’t drown).
third-
ride so hard up the steep trail,
but the steeple on the corner
seems stagnantly to prevail.
“No Worries,”
Four, breathe steadily, concentrate.
“So easy?”
So easy.

Go deep into the murky waters.
Sink, breathing steadily,
concentrating
encompass
your Self; submerged in
the Nihil, none,
with spread arms,
ready for Everything.
Dive in,
soaring like a screw,
t h r o u g h
guppies, shining silvery fishes, patches
of speckled, sparkling mystery,
bubbles of bioluminescence
moving Spirits vibrating the
Pond,
Panthae, It is one with
Becoming-ness of Everything.
One with our choices.
Each action forms its
magnetic w/hole.

We’re like clouds
being pushed by the
wind.
“Are we puppets on strings?”
We’re of the same essence,
materials as they.
We
Were born here
Will die here.
Our bodies, comprised of 2/3 water
Will
precipitate,
evapotranspirate;
Will
become clouds.
ARE WE MORE
IMPORTANT
THAN THEM
???
No.
So the question is
:if we aren’t more important than them:
Do we have more
choice-option-patterns
???
Is our path more divine, more readily able to be acted upon for changing?
What I mean to say is
I feel one with Everything.

I am Everything.

restlessness

I
just don't
want to try
to have hope
try
to be happy-complacent?-
try
to understand anymore.
Because the restlessness
(Anxiety Boredom Tedium)
come when trying subsides-
read: they could not exist w/o trying in the first place.
Calm before storm.
Why not just dive in face first
ride into the night
thunderstorm
and face the blackness that
is in the tunnell.
Or else I might not
really be able to appreciate
the sunshine on my shoulders.
Light at end of tunnell.
The restlessness comes from
a feeling of obligation that I
draw out of myself by
expecting of myself
the hope, happiness, understanding
that I am trying
for.
When I sit down and feel obligated
(by myself)
to make something amazing,
the restlessness blankets
me and there is no possible
way
that anything beautiful
will ever make it out
Like a fire being suffocated,
these expectations
kill the beauty the gems
in the mine that I [could be, am trying
to shine.]
All of My Responsibilities
only exist
(Press down so hard on my chest on
my heart so hard)
because I am punishing
myself
for existing in the first place.
I "have to" because I exist and
I prevaricate really living within my existence
BECAUSE I "HAVE TO"...

Thoughts in Summer

Fragments:

1.

The potential energy.

Potential to move seas,

by wind

with driftwood.

You have the potential

to create

a universe

of ideas with nothing at hand

but your own two hands

and anythingness, nothingness.

~

Back then, when the grey vibrating,

we lived in for hours

fried our heads

melted our kidneys

the One Time,

I knew.

I know now

more intensely

more completely.

When the masks fall off

insecurity is lost,

it's almost time now.

You'll move oceans.

~

The same.

I can write poems for you and

know just know that I"d be

saying the same things to me.

Not deluded.

2.

Gems in your eyes.

If I could explore the hidden jungle

between icy thighs,

Alaska womyn in knotted

ropes & brick-a-brack,

she encapsules me in a

steaming smoke stack.

But if I go there,

what will the workers say if I want to return

to this circus parade.

We told you so.

I'd have to prove them wrong,

or my ego would dissolve,

but what would that solve?

3.

Slender, with eyes like mine.

It isn't time,

Hoola-Hoola

long dizzy shouts

black, inconspicuous.

Do we surround ourselves

with the things we hate,

or do the things we hate find us

& surround us?

or is it that they're

everywhere

at that is why we hate them?

Incessant moaning of a bored child.

The rattle of mufflerless cars.

Dejected plastic bottles,

cracked, disposable.

It's only when I learn to accept

their existence at all that

I'll be free from the vices,

free from the annoyance,

fast pulse.

~~~~~~

Fullness:

The answer to conquering fear of rejection is the acceptance of one's Selves.

When I become afraid of drawing off of the edges of the pages and when the birds whistle

people rustling

nernernerherner

and car doors slamming

slam!

the engine in the tire's squealing

the crow is calling calling calling.

A raven who I've quoted,

whispering the car whispers by

And the FBI

(watches whistling by).

Two bikes on Top.

I get AFRAID OF

driving off of

the pages into

MADNESS

insects

singing

tweeting.

The bugs inside us reply,

"to smoke ciiiiigaretteees,

(yes) (cigarettes)."

Thirsty in my humble heart.

The cat, Sylvia, gently stepping

by so as not to harm the creatures

underfoot.

Trying like hell to step

so lightly so gently as her [elegance]

but screaming at the cars driving by [arrogance].

And my hand squirms at the edge of the page,

so fear-full that it is going to fall off.

Protesting, making me write big as a goon.

~

The feeling that you got

grandmothers,

mothers...

I am getting now

from cats

a garden

that man-child.

"Mother"hood, however

does not conflict with education

travel

experience

personal growth

personal empowerment

self realization

self actualization

"soul searching"

(in my world).

THINK-WRITE-READ-THINK.

The River of Knowledge

continues with consideration.

With awareness of self and surroundings,

I can finally understand what a moment is.

I am flowing through the moment like a leaf

flows through space.

(gangster-sport-utility-vehicle)

Just one leaf-fractal on a tree

They tried to hide from me.

Just one leaf-fractal

am I in nothingness.

Nothingness [excluding the duality of self and surroundings

which I was aware of] existed.

Wailing Siren at the bottom of the page

is a distraction

(it's definitely a moped) is too

The Sound of Cicadas (trademark) is too.

And (m)(m) is too.

~~

Acceptance will mend most any hatred, I am convinced. Acceptance without loss of skepticism.

Scarcity

The grasses and soil

are sunburnt and dehydrated,

like this crunchy Nest on my head,

once saturated

with scented oils and perfumes,

double-knotted

with sprays of plumes.

Malnourished, the rivers have

dried to dirt.

Screaming, yet inert,

they're begging for reprieve

from the lawnmower seive--

It'll cut them off, bag them up,

vacuum package their meager--what?

-Simultaneously-

the land-scaping company

demands that -serendepity-

be our goal this fiscal quarter.

We're ground to powder in the mortar.

We snort mortality

off this Mirrored Reality.

Taken back and back again,

I can't help but procrastinate

in choosing who I wish to be

from being neither here, nor me.

Just like the clouds deny us rain:

repitition without results,

and dreadlocks are my Mane.

They're holding It by the nape of Its neck,

refusing Its escape:

from the cave nor off the deck,

"This ship stops here now,

it's the end of the line,

We'll pull this ship over,

and take your last Dime."

Your last Burning Dime!

And from epidemic apportionment--

he'll ration your time,

keep you luke-warm, in fermaldehyde,

swept up, off the cement,

He'll cut you off and strap you down,

and vacuum package you, Howling Hound.

Beware!

Howling is futile,

as you'd not be a man--

as men can not howl--

they're preserved and canned.

Crunch

The first few days here were really depressing. I had expectations of people. I had preconceived ideas in my head about what my "friends" here were doing and becoming, probably because I've watched myself change over the past months and I thought the changes they were undergoing would parellel my own. But sadly enough, I forgot one factor: Fort Wayne is a black hole. Not that it's an excuse for the stagnation and pretensiousness that all of these people have let themselves fall into. Drug addiction, lack of motivation... not that I should have expected them to be different. I could see it coming all along, and I avoided coming here for months because of it. I think next time, I'll just come to see my mom and forget those people that I once called "friends". It just doesn't seem to be worth it anymore. Ugh. But the bright side is that I have the rest of the summer to do what I want to do. I made a list the other day, which I'll continue adding to:

-sew a pouch for the stones and shells I've collected
-start a rough outline and sketches for my homocentrism project
-finish the last picture in my sketchbook
-finish this picture on watercolor paper that I started
-start learning how to identify birds and trees
-finish The Wild Trees
-read The Third Chimpanzee
-volunteer somewhere in B-town to plant trees
-Lothlorian in a few weeks
-go somewhere random on the train or Greyhound

And I keep thinking about this film, and dreaming up new ideas that I want to learn about before the Big Crunch.

-The core of mans' spirit comes from new experiences.
-Rather than love, than money, than faith, than fame, than fairness… give me truth.

Edit: Maybe I should not have used the wording "all of these people" but, instead, should have said, "Some of these people." Sorry for any annoyance/confusion/sadness that may have caused you (Carl).

tsunamis and earthquakes

vomit.Reply to allForwardReply by chatFilter messages like thisPrintAdd to Contacts listDelete this messageReport phishingReport not phishingShow originalShow in fixed width fontShow in variable width fontMessage text garbled?Why is this spam/nonspam?ME to Matt show details 9:43 AM (5 minutes ago) Reply
Hey there... I have some time, so I thought I'd write you to let you know what is going on with me. I was really, really fucking sick last week. Like, I thought I was dying. Seriously. I'm worried that there might be something wrong with me health wise, because for the past year I have had some of the strangest exhaustion and these really wierd recurring liver pains. And then, the other day, it seemed like a cloud just moved in and right now I am intensely depressed. I don't really know how to explain it. I thought about suicide a few days ago, not in a "waah, I'm just going to kill myself" sort of way, but in a logical way, like, just being really honest with myself about the whole world situation that currently exists. It just seems pretty futile to keep flailing around trying to battle the world, humanity, and the man all at once. I'm not getting anywhere, and honestly, I don't know how much longer I can deal with the knowledge that I have gained in the past 6 months. You know, about how homocentrism (which is, human-centered lifestyles, ideals, and thoughts) is pretty much inevitably going to destroy everything. I don't know how much longer I can sit around and watch all of my friends breed and waste space, with no real intention of doing anything other than that. I don't know if I can continue procrastinating on realizing that my entire family is brainwashed and I feel like I am the only person left in existence that is really pursuing knowledge. I don't know how much longer. I've never really valued human existence or my own existence that much; even when I was a kid, suicide was at the back of my mind at all times. I'm not trying to throw a pity party here or anything, because I don't think it is a pity. I sort of wish that everyone would just forget my existence so that it could end, because dealing with this entire burden is really starting to weigh on me. If only an asteroid would just hit this sick sorry world and put humanity out of its misery and let the rest regenerate itself back to homeostasis. That's about it. That is what is going on with me. Just 3 days left until school is over and I am searching for some kind of way to motivate myself to finish it. As far as that goes also, what the fuck else is there to do? Sit around and smoke pot all day and expect the rest of the world to pick up the slack or go and have a mess of kids. Fuck that. I don't even know why I am writing this to you, so I'll just go now. Hope you're doing well. Keep on keepin on.

Water Brothers

We are Lions,
warm and purring in our Cave.
Fur and sandpaper tongues
in that place where we don't have to be people...
We are sticky, hot sweating,
melting together
Condensation from our heat making the Walls
of our Cave transpire.
We're in the place where no being
expects anything.

We're burning stars
that the Paw of God presses upon.
We're stardust,
fairydust,
Blackhole.
Blacking out all of the
war, power, jesus, money.
We're Blackbirds and a humming for honey.
We're six feet under the ground
buried deep in a place without sound,
Deep in the roots
Safely together.
In our Caccoon
You and Me, we're Bats
on the Ceiling of a spinning, thrusting flower petal.
Not dizzy and sick,
but dynamic and static,
drifting in Sunlight
bathing in a (Death) Sea of Halite.
In that Other Place,
just beyond Space,
in our Dreams...
we are Coffee at early hours,
electric, pulsing theta brain wave
we Grok in Fullness all of the Cave,
and the crystalline water flowing
through a Nave.

Back when we tra-veil through Time
to the Tree Grove,
we sought Shelter in a Cove
and there we were suspended
paralyzed
quietly
ceasing to Exist.
No longer captive
held in these bodies to
rot and die.
We are forever!
Looking through the Sky.
Forever winding double Helix
-entwined on its slide-
Capturing zeal
Capturing the elusive Felix,
twins of the paradise Fetus.
No longer mammals
and not primates;
Nonetheless, Dragons and Dinosaurs,
seagulls sedated, happily wandering.
And that feeling, post-Orgasmic,
(on the bottom of the inside)
of a Cervix.

bicycle

Today, Dan had to go pick up his new bicycle baskets and get them installed, and I went along and took my Specialized Expedition. I had the intention of trading it in for something a little more ride-able, a little more efficient, and a little more comfortable for commuting (as opposed to the granny ride-in-the-park type of comfort that I had with Lady Gray). I didn't think they would have anything for me, and if they did, I thought it would be out of my price range, because I'm trying to hoard money so that it'll get me through July. But I tried out a few bicycles anyway, and one ended up working out: an older model, scratched up Trek 330 with gear shifters on the body and even a little "flick stand". They were sort of hesitant at first, but they just traded it to me for the Expedition. They probably got the long end of the stick, but hell, that bike was such an energy hog that I couldn't go more than a mile without wanting to die, and sitting upright on it really put stress on my tailbone. From what I've read online about this model, it's a late '80s touring bike. It looks like this picture only it's red, it has different handle bars, and the paint is peeling off. So, in 2 weeks, after we get back from Seattle and the weekend before school is out, Charlie at the Bicycle Hospital will have changed the tires, put a new seat on, and made the necessary adjustments and I'll have a new (to me) bicycle to take on adventures this summer.

"love life"?

In my mind, I've been debating with myself about this question: What is this ideal of "loving life"?
I use the word ideal deliberately, because I'm seeing that it's almost impossible to love life. Saying the phrase only implies that it is something that the sayer isn't doing.

Do people who love life live in love with existence?
Life and existence differ because life consists of Earthly matters, as far as those who have determined (to our knowledge) what life entails know. Anything that is classified as "living" must reproduce; change, grow, or adapt; and metabolize nutrition. Most living things have mechanisms that they use to maintain homeostasis within their bodies. Is it possible to feel love for these processes?
-Feeling love is irrelevant when the necessity of life is realized.
-If the necessity of life isn't realized, then either death or the absense of life must occur.
Loving life is just an ideal, yes. But it's one that is so unnecessary that, in some ways, it defeats the purpose of the act of living. Feeling compassion and warmth towards necessary processes seems frivolous. People are attached not to life, but to events that happen which could not take place had they not been living. These events are created by humans, they're emotional, psychological, and physical structures. They are occurences people participate in, often to no end and for no purpose other than the act of doing them.
So I suppose that when people talk about loving life, they must be referring to loving the beginning process ("God") that made possible reproduction, adaptation, and metabolism and thus the activities they participate in. People only talk of loving the occurences, not the requirements of life.
Is love a state of being or an act? Could people act with love toward or upon these occurences? Can you execute a state of being toward or upon the occurences? For something to be a state-of-being it only has to exist. For something to exist, in an empirical sense, it only has to have matter. That's a given. So for love-the-state-of-being to exist, it would have to have matter. How could this state of being materialize? The occurences in themselves are abstract also- they have no matter. They are invisible and they only are whatever the humanoids make them out to be. They happen, so does that mean they are?

The side of my head that believes both love and life are trivial is winning. They're pretty much meaningless in any practical sense.

Turkey Vulture

I saw two of these http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turkey_Vulture today and it really disturbed me because I'm used to only canadian geese and ducks at the pond. They were eating some dead fish...I wasn't even aware that there were fish in that drainage hole.

bound

These are the books I have out of the library and am reading, have read, or am using for my term paper about human Extinction.


The end of the world : the science and ethics of human extinction
Leslie, John, 1940-
5/19/2008,23:59 --> -->
Human impact on the earth
Meyer, William B.
5/19/2008,23:59 --> -->
Gaia's revenge : climate change and humanity's loss
Liotta, P. H.
5/19/2008,23:59 --> -->
The global carbon cycle : integrating humans, climate, and the natural world
Field, Christopher B.
5/19/2008,23:59 --> -->
An ontology of trash : the disposable and its problematic nature
Kennedy, Greg, 1975-
5/19/2008,23:59 --> -->
Ignoring the apocalypse : why planning to prevent environmental catastrophe goes astray
Davis, David Howard.
5/19/2008,23:59 --> -->
Critical condition : human health and the environment
Chivian, Eric.
5/19/2008,23:59 --> -->
The three stigmata of Palmer Eldritch
Dick, Philip K.
5/19/2008,23:59 --> -->
The man in the high castle
Dick, Philip K.
5/19/2008,23:59 --> -->
We can remember it for you wholesale and other classic stories
Dick, Philip K.
5/19/2008,23:59 --> -->
An essay on the principle of population; and, A summary view of the principle of population
Malthus, T. R. (Thomas Robert), 1766-1834.
5/19/2008,23:59 --> -->
Counter-clock world
Dick, Philip K.
5/19/2008,23:59 --> -->
FutureNatural : nature, science, culture
Robertson, George, 1950-
5/19/2008,23:59 --> -->
Blue covenant : the global water crisis and the coming battle for the right to water
Barlow, Maude.
5/19/2008,23:59 --> -->
When the rivers run dry : what happens when our water runs out?
Pearce, Fred.
5/19/2008,23:59 --> -->
From Malthus to the Club of Rome and back : problems of limits to growth, population control, and migrations
Neurath, Paul.
5/19/2008,23:59 --> -->
Population growth, resource consumption, and the environment : seeking a common vision for a troubled world
Searle, D. Richard (Donald Richard), 1951-
5/19/2008,23:59 --> -->
The people problem; what you should know about growing population and vanishing resources
Fraser, Dean.
5/19/2008,23:59 --> -->

homocentrism vs. ecocentrism

Arguments for an ecocentric attitude:

Premise: Humanism=homocentrism. Humanism is almost never ecocentrism. There are exceptions, but I want to keep this as simple as possible.
Premise: Also, many of these arguments are anthropocentric in nature, but this is really meant to be debated with a homocentric thinker (e.g. almost every human alive.)

• Nature for the sake of itself- it's unnecessary for nature's existence and well-being to justify itself to humans.

• Humans depend on ecosystems for their livelihood, regardless of technology.

• Humans depend on nature for happiness (just think of "life" without trees, water, etc.)

• Nature is underrepresented.

• Nature supports all biomes, ecosystems, species, organisms- they have a right to live.

How do we know?

Many were here long before the homo sapien evolved.

• As we've seen, destruction of Earth's processes is often the direct cause of natural "disasters".

• A majority vote. There are more of them (as in- species that are not human) than there are of us. If they could speak, not that they need to, they would probably vote for a world that is safe for them to live in.

~*~

• What if entire races of people went extinct every hour?

Not that many world cultures haven't gone extinct. Languages die all the time. People are so ready and willing to hop on the boat to help other people but rarely to help other species, and even less frequenly will they donate their resources to preventing the destruction of major systems. Why? The reason can't be selfish, because it's blatantly obvious, even in our capitalist societies, that we can not exist without natural spaces and organisms.

People feel so much compassion and empathy for the starving children in Ethiopia, so much that they think sending them food or trying to help them to industrialize will actually...in a long term sense... contribute to their well-being. From an ecocentric point of view, the thing to do is to donate birth control and to provide sexual education.

Strongly Agree (1), Agree (2), Disagree (3), Strongly Disagree (4)

this is a short one I wrote on the bus the other day. I still haven't written about the amazing time Dan and I had in the forest, but...maybe later.



Wal Mart smiles glaring through concrete block,
Impervious surfaces reject the crimson
teardrops of Old Growth Treemen
and la victime lies that she's a freeman
who just suddenly realized "God's Divine Plan".

God's flesh is wrapped around spongeform steaks
packaged air-tight with double sided tape.

Do you know why the zooed owl hoos?
He's calm and relentless and a little out of tune,
because they're feeding him leftovers and they've clipped his wings..............

[to be continued if I even think about it ever again]

I also have to upload this doodle onto LJ because Lisa Li (lesbian, boy-like, very yellow Asian girl in my womens studies class that I have a mild crush on) said she liked it. Hmmmmm.
Seriously now, could they (spea) bore me any more than this???

could, but won't

...won't ramble on incessantly about how stressed/lethargic/nostalgic/gray I am. I won't even mention how on-the-fence/semi-isolated/disappointed/"wish"-ful (if you get my drift) everything has been since the last time I wrote. I won't list interrogations that I've made to myself about whether it is January or whether it is life. There'll be no dull, not-as-good-as, poetry being posted. And most importantly, I will not get into how disgusted I am with mankind right now.

We'll get there with our wings.

trav'lin'

All of the places we could go for Spring Break:

Americas
Redwood Forest
Boston, Mass.
Big Sur
Hawaii
Guatemala
Chile
Venezuela
Europe
Amsterdam, Holland
Germany
Paris, France
Italy
Austria
Sweden
Ireland
Africa
Egypt
South Africa
Asia
Vietnam
Thailand
Australia
New Zealand

p.s. If I discover all of these places in my lifetime (with the addition of some colder places: Russia, Antarctica, Iceland, Greenland) then... well... You know what happens.

First Snow

So, even though Yule isn't here yet- today is winter. I looked out the window this morning and was amazed by the many inches of snow that had piled up over night... and just yesterday I thought about how Indy looks much better with the dead trees than it looked when they were green. I am head over heels in love with this natural cycle of birth, death, and rebirth. Seeing the cycles right before my eyes, month after month, gives me a feeling of stability in a world where everything seems so chaotic...unplanned...sudden. It reminds me that everything goes through the cycle, over and over again; including humanity. The fear and paranoia of what is to come-- whether I call it the apocalypse, Global Warming, a conspiracy, the War on [insert something to be afraid of], or even whether I choose not to see it--is erased by the blankness of the snow. The snow is so clean, pure, and dead that it seems like the most natural thing to happen since last spring when the trees budded.
Also, it reminds me of a time when I wasn't so taken my worldly issues. When a 2-hour delay was much more promising, because I spent my time in activities that didn't seem so important. They didn't have the affect on my life that every single day does now, or so I thought. Since school started, everything has just mattered a lot more than it ever did back then. Treading through the snow with Thomas or Sarah T., for no real purpose other than maybe to go to South Gate to steal stickers, or to go to Caleb's because it was the only thing to do. Bills and paychecks and financial aid and finals and George Bush didn't exist then, and so the stress of thinking about them and jumping through their hoops didn't either.

Winter means solace for my worried mind.

Trumpets

You were Right
by my side
with your wings spread
and your grin-faced Head!
The tiniest gray imperfections wrinkle through my belly.
Thin hairs are plucked,
dipped in ink,
swirled on a clean page,
creating the dots that'll be used for connecting
at a later date.
I have something to say, in quotations.

The Prophecy has come, Dear You!

I wonder sometimes
if the sounds
I think are figments of my imagination
are your sparkling diamonds,
cutting close to the bone;
so close, carved out of Gold.

Prophecy found the matter of this deja-vou:

Repunzel, I am, with a strawberry Blond
lock for you to caterpillar up.
Up: if you ever find me clenching my heart
or attacking anemia, panicking...
Love, We
could
dance!
in the streets of Paradise,
breathing steadily
rhythmically two-stepping, to our own way(out
of this two dimensional scene)ward lyric.

G: 24 8 2007, T: 30 8 2007

Grass is Greener Complex

If I were to tell you, Dear

that the Grass is greener

right here,

Would you marry me

to a Riddle or a Maxim

that I might hold, Dear?

A Deer and A Doe

are in the middle of a Prarie,

with a hammer and the Nazarene

so is their Grass green?

A merman stubs his toe

on the Glass of broken wine-glasses,

sucking at the sore scene

is his Grass green?

"I bought a handsom bottle of breakfast wine from the corner store,"

and "Tip," says god

the Wine is gone--

cradled in the Hands of Raw

Picked and Peddled his way

to Jaru-Salem, Mass.

There He stood before me in

line,

Small talk about the Rainy Day.

The last question I have for you, Lord Gray,

Is your grass green beneath the earth in the Rain?

A Timeline of Reluctance

Her leaves stare through the window of the classroom, like perverts peeking on me in the shower:
So curious of what time it is.
Nestled in her rather stiff and uninviting crevice,
I love this lady, Tree!
Does she love me?
I don't think so, afterall I am like them
I shit, take, and pillage her Dear Soul
with carcinogens and a Cancerous
Will not to feel guilt.

She is so cool
solitary
anorexic, but I- the opposite-
(Am I her Yin?) No.
Displeased with this snug societal gluttony,
I wish I could just stand and shake my fist!
or yet
wish things were different
here in her Home.

It isn't difficult to see my part
in her disfunctional family.
Some accusatory daughter,
"What Time did you get Home last night?"

As I slept warm in my bed.