Maybe nothing ever completely ends, but this is close enough.
R.I.P. it up and Start Again
15 November 2009
12 November 2009
X
Ex: preposition (from latin) out of, from.
“I want you to notice,
when I’m not around,
but you never did or will.”
Fell and Crashed into the myriad, labyrinth, matrix
of fantasies, idealizations, dreams, thoughts about you.
“Here it is,” and she presents it, cold and self-conscious, naked in front of an inattentive audience who all recognize her:
I.
My lips wrapped around
your cock,
fingers graze your
buzz cut,
and then the volcano erupting
salty, slimy swamp water.
II.
Found and am Following this treasure map,
to find where (“X” marks spot) I went wrong,
why I won’t ever be good enough.
I keep Following it because I AM STUBBORN,
can’t give up trying like you did.
III.
Something inside compels me to live, eat, breathe, and want you;
an Invisible Force heats the water that turns to water vapor
that moves a turbine causing mouth to incessantly chatter about
some reason to live
someone to grieve.
IIII.
My heart pounding opens my lungs,
the anger smashes open an adrenaline treasure chest.
I might never give up.
If I let go of these bricks of gold on my ankles,
I’ll be floating in space,
where the tedium of freedom rapes me of my
fear of a hungry shark (he then eats me, I die).
Nothing to solve.
Nothing to lose.
Nothing at all.
My body keeps me weighed down,
(Can’t disregard my heart remembering and my cunt craving)
to Earth and also brings
PROBLEMS.
PLEASURE.
EXCITEMENT FOR THE IMPOSSIBLE ENDEAVOR.
V-IX.
Some faceless ghost unwarrantedly replies,
and whether truth or fallacy you can judge with your own eyes:
X.
Don’t you get it yet, Jess?
If he acknowledged your existence in any way
it would cut you off from the
IMPOSSIBILITY OF THE ENDEAVOR,
the impossible would transform to potential,
everything would SHUT UP and slow down,
with possibility to move, but no movement
until something else made it move,
like trying to watch a flower grow.
Be patient.
Let it be.
12 November 2009
“I want you to notice,
when I’m not around,
but you never did or will.”
Fell and Crashed into the myriad, labyrinth, matrix
of fantasies, idealizations, dreams, thoughts about you.
“Here it is,” and she presents it, cold and self-conscious, naked in front of an inattentive audience who all recognize her:
I.
My lips wrapped around
your cock,
fingers graze your
buzz cut,
and then the volcano erupting
salty, slimy swamp water.
II.
Found and am Following this treasure map,
to find where (“X” marks spot) I went wrong,
why I won’t ever be good enough.
I keep Following it because I AM STUBBORN,
can’t give up trying like you did.
III.
Something inside compels me to live, eat, breathe, and want you;
an Invisible Force heats the water that turns to water vapor
that moves a turbine causing mouth to incessantly chatter about
some reason to live
someone to grieve.
IIII.
My heart pounding opens my lungs,
the anger smashes open an adrenaline treasure chest.
I might never give up.
If I let go of these bricks of gold on my ankles,
I’ll be floating in space,
where the tedium of freedom rapes me of my
fear of a hungry shark (he then eats me, I die).
Nothing to solve.
Nothing to lose.
Nothing at all.
My body keeps me weighed down,
(Can’t disregard my heart remembering and my cunt craving)
to Earth and also brings
PROBLEMS.
PLEASURE.
EXCITEMENT FOR THE IMPOSSIBLE ENDEAVOR.
V-IX.
Some faceless ghost unwarrantedly replies,
and whether truth or fallacy you can judge with your own eyes:
X.
Don’t you get it yet, Jess?
If he acknowledged your existence in any way
it would cut you off from the
IMPOSSIBILITY OF THE ENDEAVOR,
the impossible would transform to potential,
everything would SHUT UP and slow down,
with possibility to move, but no movement
until something else made it move,
like trying to watch a flower grow.
Be patient.
Let it be.
12 November 2009
10 November 2009
Kindling for the Flame
Mother, wrap me in a cool quilt patched of mostly Truth with some Lies, to keep me from freezing in the Arctic where we are all 10 cents per dozen and nothing is good or right or perfect, fighting and flying in circles, a leaking tarp to shield me from the Rain of God, the rain of my weeping eyes and soul, let me sleep forever to the sound of your beating heart.
I squeeze out oxytocin-rich tears to release the pain, stress, disappointment
from the billowing, relentless fire in my head.
How am I going to live in this world knowing what I know,
being who I am?
Whatever “Plan” they were talking about
won’t stitch its pattern on the cloth of my life.
They were all a bunch of liars
They told me that it would
(all they ever do is tell, say, proclaim on the slippery soap-Box).
I disassemble the premade pattern,
pull threads from the warm blanket of lies that they gave me
and see them disappear into the flames of the fire,
piece by piece, layer by layer,
disentangling myself from poorly tied knots,
find myself naked and freezing after they’re all burned up,
the fire has gone out,
looking for some quick fix,
warmth to stave off frostbite
and stop my lungs from crystallizing…
I must move to circulate my blood and produce heat…
I run.
No one is chasing me this Time.
Motivation dwindling as my weak muscles cramp up,
but I’ve gotta keep running as fast as I can through feet of snow, littered with the corpses that failed,
stars in black night are the light at the End.
…frantically, through tangled branches in the thicket, searching.
Searching blind for the Cabin of Henry David, but:
the Little Light Inside is now TeeVee,
and its new occupants expanded it with add-ons, a four-car garage
triumphantly proclaiming, “Progress!”
No one is going to Save Me now, I’ve got to Save Myself.
This was never for me: No Room of My Own in their blueprints.
Keep running,
releasing Dopamine and Seretonin and as I stop at the river to drink,
I see the reflection of another that isn’t me
and realize that no realization is going to
Save Me.
If I don’t want to die (which is up for debate),
I’ll start weaving
the strands of all the realizations,
twisted into threads, intricately
one at a time.
The warmth from This Quilt is all I’ll ever need,
gladly, because in the End,
I have no one but Me.
I squeeze out oxytocin-rich tears to release the pain, stress, disappointment
from the billowing, relentless fire in my head.
How am I going to live in this world knowing what I know,
being who I am?
Whatever “Plan” they were talking about
won’t stitch its pattern on the cloth of my life.
They were all a bunch of liars
They told me that it would
(all they ever do is tell, say, proclaim on the slippery soap-Box).
I disassemble the premade pattern,
pull threads from the warm blanket of lies that they gave me
and see them disappear into the flames of the fire,
piece by piece, layer by layer,
disentangling myself from poorly tied knots,
find myself naked and freezing after they’re all burned up,
the fire has gone out,
looking for some quick fix,
warmth to stave off frostbite
and stop my lungs from crystallizing…
I must move to circulate my blood and produce heat…
I run.
No one is chasing me this Time.
Motivation dwindling as my weak muscles cramp up,
but I’ve gotta keep running as fast as I can through feet of snow, littered with the corpses that failed,
stars in black night are the light at the End.
…frantically, through tangled branches in the thicket, searching.
Searching blind for the Cabin of Henry David, but:
the Little Light Inside is now TeeVee,
and its new occupants expanded it with add-ons, a four-car garage
triumphantly proclaiming, “Progress!”
No one is going to Save Me now, I’ve got to Save Myself.
This was never for me: No Room of My Own in their blueprints.
Keep running,
releasing Dopamine and Seretonin and as I stop at the river to drink,
I see the reflection of another that isn’t me
and realize that no realization is going to
Save Me.
If I don’t want to die (which is up for debate),
I’ll start weaving
the strands of all the realizations,
twisted into threads, intricately
one at a time.
The warmth from This Quilt is all I’ll ever need,
gladly, because in the End,
I have no one but Me.
03 November 2009
Lies and Liars
I’m going to give up this time. I think I found the…answer, or closure, or whatever I was waiting for. But every time I found it before, I wanted to pretend that it wasn’t what it was and wanted to pretend that I could somehow bargain my way to what I wanted: that love, that truth. The Truth might have been a really nihilistic one. Misery is all that is Real. Misery is life. Fuck you and your misery is life, life misery. Fuck you and all the times you said you loved me. All the words you SAY but fail to really ACT. Fucking lies. Lies, lies, lies. It’s all just a bunch of fucking lies. How do I let go of lies?
I started to believe them, the words.
I keep going back and forth, in my mind. Between trying to hold on and trying to let go.
I started to believe they were really coming from him when he was trying to tell me all along (through a lack of action) but I didn’t want to know and even now I don’t want to know, but this time I HAVE to know.
And the whole goddamn mess could have been avoided, but the sound of his voice sent me back there, to that place full of false hopes, giant trees that look real and smell real and then you go up and try to pick an apple and the whole façade falls and its 2-dimensionality is revealed.
Time has nothing else to do but pass. The only thing it is capable of doing is passing. And if this, me, human, mortal, limited in perspective and existence, is limited by time, bound up forever in the fact that I am going to die and that every single second is a second that will pass, then this will pass, my life is going to go by, and somehow I’ll be able to accept the truth.
But that knowledge only goes so far in my brain. It can only do so much to halt the fantasies. Fantasies don’t give a shit about any rational explanation for their death. Fantasies think they are God, they really think they can just manifest themselves, they really think they have a chance and that “Chance” (read: intuition, some divine ultimate prophecy) is the mechanism through which they will be lived.
It’s going to take some major Buddhism here to get these thoughts out of my brain. They lived dormant for years, growing all along without my knowledge of it, and just exploded like invasive species, sucking up all of the space where necessary thoughts lived. It’s going to take will-power.
The whole reason this is dragging on so goddamn long is the lack of directness. Just a bunch of causal little lies slipping through, nothing blatant or obvious or DIRECTED at me. I would kill (at least these thoughts) for just one direct statement of the truth, the obvious.
For so long, even now, I would do anything for love, for his love, to make him love me or to love at all. I did so much, tried to change who I am completely, to cover it up, “edit” it to suit what my distorted mind thought may have been his tastes.
I mean: I would have literally done ANYTHING. You name it, I’m there in a fucking heartbeat. And I mean, now, I would literally do ANYTHING. I see how flawed this is. It’s really fucked up. But it’s the truth. I really would.
There are at least 2 Selves living inside me and right now they are beating the crap out of eachother. I really hope that one of them gets a gun.
But, at the same time, I’m a fucking hypocrite. Because I would have done anything, but I obviously didn’t do enough, could never do enough, and I failed. I guess I did what I said I was going to do just about every time, but it still wasn’t enough.
I never was enough. Never will be enough. Could not possibly be satis. Let go.
When is it going to end? I know it’s going to end: Everything that lives dies.
I just don’t know how to kill it. All the resolutions, conclusions, epiphanies, trying, slowly killing myself, changes in thoughts, words, actions, rationalizing, promising (to myself, to him)….never end up leading to the ultimate death of this very fucked up attachment. I gave up some of the best things in my world, it’s all changing, I gave it up really for that ultimate Desire, all in vain, and now I will be alone because I am fucking stupid and should have never done it in the first place.
Maybe that’s when it ends. But I am skeptical.
At least Meatloaf had a limit. He would do anything for love, but he wouldn’t do that.
He’s fucking dead.
I can see how he got there. If I didn’t have a neatly rational Other Self, then I would be also.
Hopefully The End is soon.
I started to believe them, the words.
I keep going back and forth, in my mind. Between trying to hold on and trying to let go.
I started to believe they were really coming from him when he was trying to tell me all along (through a lack of action) but I didn’t want to know and even now I don’t want to know, but this time I HAVE to know.
And the whole goddamn mess could have been avoided, but the sound of his voice sent me back there, to that place full of false hopes, giant trees that look real and smell real and then you go up and try to pick an apple and the whole façade falls and its 2-dimensionality is revealed.
Time has nothing else to do but pass. The only thing it is capable of doing is passing. And if this, me, human, mortal, limited in perspective and existence, is limited by time, bound up forever in the fact that I am going to die and that every single second is a second that will pass, then this will pass, my life is going to go by, and somehow I’ll be able to accept the truth.
But that knowledge only goes so far in my brain. It can only do so much to halt the fantasies. Fantasies don’t give a shit about any rational explanation for their death. Fantasies think they are God, they really think they can just manifest themselves, they really think they have a chance and that “Chance” (read: intuition, some divine ultimate prophecy) is the mechanism through which they will be lived.
It’s going to take some major Buddhism here to get these thoughts out of my brain. They lived dormant for years, growing all along without my knowledge of it, and just exploded like invasive species, sucking up all of the space where necessary thoughts lived. It’s going to take will-power.
The whole reason this is dragging on so goddamn long is the lack of directness. Just a bunch of causal little lies slipping through, nothing blatant or obvious or DIRECTED at me. I would kill (at least these thoughts) for just one direct statement of the truth, the obvious.
For so long, even now, I would do anything for love, for his love, to make him love me or to love at all. I did so much, tried to change who I am completely, to cover it up, “edit” it to suit what my distorted mind thought may have been his tastes.
I mean: I would have literally done ANYTHING. You name it, I’m there in a fucking heartbeat. And I mean, now, I would literally do ANYTHING. I see how flawed this is. It’s really fucked up. But it’s the truth. I really would.
There are at least 2 Selves living inside me and right now they are beating the crap out of eachother. I really hope that one of them gets a gun.
But, at the same time, I’m a fucking hypocrite. Because I would have done anything, but I obviously didn’t do enough, could never do enough, and I failed. I guess I did what I said I was going to do just about every time, but it still wasn’t enough.
I never was enough. Never will be enough. Could not possibly be satis. Let go.
When is it going to end? I know it’s going to end: Everything that lives dies.
I just don’t know how to kill it. All the resolutions, conclusions, epiphanies, trying, slowly killing myself, changes in thoughts, words, actions, rationalizing, promising (to myself, to him)….never end up leading to the ultimate death of this very fucked up attachment. I gave up some of the best things in my world, it’s all changing, I gave it up really for that ultimate Desire, all in vain, and now I will be alone because I am fucking stupid and should have never done it in the first place.
Maybe that’s when it ends. But I am skeptical.
At least Meatloaf had a limit. He would do anything for love, but he wouldn’t do that.
He’s fucking dead.
I can see how he got there. If I didn’t have a neatly rational Other Self, then I would be also.
Hopefully The End is soon.
06 October 2009
Karma
The world is full of givers and takers. As animals, consumers, we are all really takers, but in society there is an emotional/spiritual give and take which all of us take part in by interacting with one another. No one is fully a giver or a taker. We all fall somewhere on the spectrum.
I listen to what people have to say, share what I have, and have provided emotional support for so many people. But, lately, it has come to my attention that it isn't helping me to give to people who never or rarely give back. It isn't about stuff; it's about the stuff of the mind. I may be a "giver", but like everyone else, I have needs.
By being there for people who really don't care about me as a person, I make myself a doormat, let others think that's okay, and only contribute to their self-centeredness. By being there for people who don't have anything to give back I let them suck out all of my energy and become a shrivelled skin of a once vibrant being, leaving nothing-- no happiness-- for myself. This stifles my growth, is distracting, is a waste of my time, fills me with negative energy (listening to anyone's emotional trash does that), and makes it impossible for me to make firm decisions in my life. I don't do what I want to do: I listen to tons of shit patiently and become uncomfortable.
So, I'm giving that up. The difficult part in such a resolution is that people EXPECT for me to be their emotional barf bag. FUCK THAT. I'm at a place in my life where I can reasonably deal with my own depression and anxiety, so I, for a few weeks now, can see through the clouds of emotional chaos.
I see an end to this shit in sight.
I may have to be harsh and brutally honest. I may have to be uncomfortable in being brutally honest, but what is this? Uncomfortable. Nauseating.
I am a person. Being a human person does not give me any entitlement to anything of this Earth. But at a more micro-level, on the level of people and the Hive, I'm no longer going to give of myself to those who don't see any value/importance in me as a sentient being, and who don't appreciate it, and who only have negativity to doll out (which is not really giving, but taking: my peace of mind) but nothing positive to give back.
Here comes Karma, and I won't stand in Her way.
I listen to what people have to say, share what I have, and have provided emotional support for so many people. But, lately, it has come to my attention that it isn't helping me to give to people who never or rarely give back. It isn't about stuff; it's about the stuff of the mind. I may be a "giver", but like everyone else, I have needs.
By being there for people who really don't care about me as a person, I make myself a doormat, let others think that's okay, and only contribute to their self-centeredness. By being there for people who don't have anything to give back I let them suck out all of my energy and become a shrivelled skin of a once vibrant being, leaving nothing-- no happiness-- for myself. This stifles my growth, is distracting, is a waste of my time, fills me with negative energy (listening to anyone's emotional trash does that), and makes it impossible for me to make firm decisions in my life. I don't do what I want to do: I listen to tons of shit patiently and become uncomfortable.
So, I'm giving that up. The difficult part in such a resolution is that people EXPECT for me to be their emotional barf bag. FUCK THAT. I'm at a place in my life where I can reasonably deal with my own depression and anxiety, so I, for a few weeks now, can see through the clouds of emotional chaos.
I see an end to this shit in sight.
I may have to be harsh and brutally honest. I may have to be uncomfortable in being brutally honest, but what is this? Uncomfortable. Nauseating.
I am a person. Being a human person does not give me any entitlement to anything of this Earth. But at a more micro-level, on the level of people and the Hive, I'm no longer going to give of myself to those who don't see any value/importance in me as a sentient being, and who don't appreciate it, and who only have negativity to doll out (which is not really giving, but taking: my peace of mind) but nothing positive to give back.
Here comes Karma, and I won't stand in Her way.
11 September 2009
Decision Day
D-Day. Decision Day.
I was writing in my journal today and I finally gained some clarity about my living situation. I have been struggling with the decision to A.) stay in Bloomington and get my own place, even though I have no friends or support system or B.) move back to Ft. Wayne and finish my degree at IPFW.
I came to the realization today that maybe the reason I don't have any friends and haven't been able to make any connections for a long time is that I need to focus on myself and on learning to be independent.
I moved in with Dan in October of 2007, during my first semester of school when I was 19. I have never lived alone, except for a couple months when I was sharing a house with a TV-addicted 47 year old and a couple of months when I was sharing a place with a materialistic, scared little boy (Thomas).
I need to live alone and I need to be alone. Moving back to Ft. Wayne would simply give me a network of people to depend on for acceptance and approval. I need to learn to accept and approve of myself. So, I'm going to stay in Bloomington. I decided to come here for some reason, and it will be a real action of self-trust to stick to that decision. It may be hard, but anything worth doing is hard.
I've made it through a lot of crazy shit in my life: through the chaos that was most of my childhood, through many sick relationships and friendships, through very intense depression, suicidal thoughts and desires that lasted sometimes months on end, through extreme feelings of social isolation and rejection, and through many, many decisions that compromised my integrity and the Truth.
So, I am strong and can make it through this and I think that I'll be a better, more well-adjusted, and comfortable person in the end. Maybe I'll even like it.
I was writing in my journal today and I finally gained some clarity about my living situation. I have been struggling with the decision to A.) stay in Bloomington and get my own place, even though I have no friends or support system or B.) move back to Ft. Wayne and finish my degree at IPFW.
I came to the realization today that maybe the reason I don't have any friends and haven't been able to make any connections for a long time is that I need to focus on myself and on learning to be independent.
I moved in with Dan in October of 2007, during my first semester of school when I was 19. I have never lived alone, except for a couple months when I was sharing a house with a TV-addicted 47 year old and a couple of months when I was sharing a place with a materialistic, scared little boy (Thomas).
I need to live alone and I need to be alone. Moving back to Ft. Wayne would simply give me a network of people to depend on for acceptance and approval. I need to learn to accept and approve of myself. So, I'm going to stay in Bloomington. I decided to come here for some reason, and it will be a real action of self-trust to stick to that decision. It may be hard, but anything worth doing is hard.
I've made it through a lot of crazy shit in my life: through the chaos that was most of my childhood, through many sick relationships and friendships, through very intense depression, suicidal thoughts and desires that lasted sometimes months on end, through extreme feelings of social isolation and rejection, and through many, many decisions that compromised my integrity and the Truth.
So, I am strong and can make it through this and I think that I'll be a better, more well-adjusted, and comfortable person in the end. Maybe I'll even like it.
05 September 2009
The Way Up
Sequel to The Way Out
You’ve chased your tail,
now you’re at a stalemate,
running down every dead-end corridor
psychotically beating on every door.
The only way out of this maze is
Up.
The blue, buzzing ceiling lights are unpromising,
so I must face the lies within myself and rise above them.
Gazing up, up into the heavens of my mind,
my eyes detach from my head.
These dreams of you are bricks on my ankles,
keep repeating,
but I never thought I’d let you defeat me.
You are just a part of me.
I’m still here.
I wake up suicidal with the dreamsicle sunrise,
though the light behind my eyes burns on
and compels me to live.
To live, I must overcome;
crawl out of the comfortable cocoon I’ve trapped myself in
and fly up, away.
I’ll still be me and I am the problem,
it’s no man, no city, not my mother, nor society—
I must transform my head,
stop choking myself to death.
Gazing up, up into the heavens of my mind,
my eyes and ears detach from my head,
no longer can I be led:
astray by the illusions I hear and see;
into the black, stormy ocean with bricks on my ankles—
I can’t swim.
I’ve gotta face that, stop following you or I’ll drown.
If I chain my ankles to the hollow ground
I’ll be dead and buried before I learn to live.
I tried giving this world all I had to give
and it smeared shit in my face,
I became a dog.
All it took was three words and an expression,
my life was undermined,
compromised as a building sinking into sandy soil,
should I throw fireballs back?
The only way out of this maze is
Up.
Gazing into the heavens of my mind,
my eyes, ears, and mouth detach from my head.
I inhale a crisp, autumnal breath,
remember:
each time in the past the leaves fell, Everything died, winter came,
and It was reborn.
05 September 2009
17 August 2009
17 Aug 2009
All the world spread thin before me
is bleeding out of my anemic veins.
Everything you thought you took from me
turned out it kept me from pain.
She told me that you don’t have to be lonely when you’re alone,
you don’t have to be homesick when you’re not at home,
you don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be,
but when I see everything I took from me
all the world bleeding thin and bald
I don’t want to be anything at all.
I come round and back again to this thing I’ve learned:
when I look at you and when you look at me
everything else seems to disappear
all the lies, pain, and fear melt into your smile,
so disconnect a million miles.
There are miles and miles of vacant space
where I could belong,
but when I look at you and you smile and I smile back,
I know that it just couldn’t be wrong.
is bleeding out of my anemic veins.
Everything you thought you took from me
turned out it kept me from pain.
She told me that you don’t have to be lonely when you’re alone,
you don’t have to be homesick when you’re not at home,
you don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be,
but when I see everything I took from me
all the world bleeding thin and bald
I don’t want to be anything at all.
I come round and back again to this thing I’ve learned:
when I look at you and when you look at me
everything else seems to disappear
all the lies, pain, and fear melt into your smile,
so disconnect a million miles.
There are miles and miles of vacant space
where I could belong,
but when I look at you and you smile and I smile back,
I know that it just couldn’t be wrong.
29 July 2009
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.
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.
28 July 2009
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.
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.
20 July 2009
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.
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.
08 May 2009
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
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
02 April 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
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
21 January 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?
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?
10 January 2009
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.
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.
07 January 2009
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.
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.
16 December 2008
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.
(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.
19 September 2008
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.
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.
13 September 2008
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
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
05 September 2008
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.
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.
29 July 2008
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"...
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"...
19 July 2008
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.
16 June 2008
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.
11 May 2008
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).
-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).
30 April 2008
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.
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.
29 April 2008
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.
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.
12 April 2008
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.
11 April 2008
"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.
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.
05 April 2008
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 --> -->
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 --> -->
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