easterly
even if god's the only one keeping score, and although the board seems empty from here, it seems fair to acknowledge that said emptiness might result from a simple lack of events. i suggest that this letter is first in a series of informational letters to people who've made the excellent decision to live elsewhere than here. seeing as we are still co-aligned timewise,
jessica,
you have no choice but to align your head to such floating dots as these, and realize that i'd be making nonsense even without this semi-late night, this mediocre coffee, and other etceterae. and really, if you don't want things spilling out of the respectable channel of msn, you might turn your pity towards me in the manner of not shutting your box down when i leave to tuck in amy the seemingly un-tuckinnable. seriously. can't you handle a ten-minute unexplained absence?
my theory is that, despite your msn flaws, you're really not such a bad person.
i should start writing about something. that, really, is the crux of this letter's point. i think i misunderstand livejournal and its ilk because the audience is so diffuse it's hard to write about anything but how cool one is -- and when i do that, i start worrying if i come off sounding like a square, and the illusion is broken. so if i were to direct this to a person as opposed to a they, i'd sound like a kind of neo-contemporary james dean meets barney rubble character.
typically i'd be cracking the seal on my nintendo right now, or at the very least, staring off into some sort of absence. i think this new focus - letters! - has sharpened me. or, to return to the very least, i'm too busy pining over games i don't have to realize how cool my collection is. this is an epiphany of the worst kind; one that might induce me to change my behavior. i think there's a specific mindset for every game ever made, and i'm finding specific mindsets scarce.
coming back to the diffuse, pointless ramble about my life being a diffuse, pointless ramble.
but really, the point would just be to find something to fill the point-hole. things seem really static ever since school ended. now i'm casting around for some kind of change, and all i find is different routes to overheatedly wander downtown. looking for a job is ten flavors of neopolitan bitchwax. it has honed my ability to rationalize away new possibilities (i could never work at the market on yates! too many yuppies!!) and my autonomic nervous system has never had greater freedom to twitch (that describes each and every interaction between me and a potential employer, but especially the 180 degree turns).
my dream job involves stooping over a keyboard and nervously shelving inventory. isn't that rich?
there's a video store three blocks from my house, and i walk by it several times a week. it finally occurred to me that i should walk down that street in clothes that don't look like i salvaged them from a tire fire, and go into the store, and demand employment. when i did that yesterday, the boss grinned cattily at me, and asked me if i knew why that was funny. apparantly it was funny because he'd already hired a clerk that same day. the trainee was a curvacious girl with abrupt, exciting eyebrows. she saw me in my shame. thinking back, i have lost my ability to not find this funny.
i'm hoping this message makes sense in the bleak light of tomorrow's sun. i've only taken forty minutes of my quick life to generate this much. the backspace key is not significantly worn down. for me, this is a rather speed-crazy dash.
i want more coffee. there! i got it.
yesterday 'the three stigmata of palmer eldritch' by philip k. dick read me -- i say that because it was an exceptionally passive experience. i think i was really unprepared for it on some psychic level. it fucked me up like a rocket. i came into it forgetting this was one of the few books where his acid-damaged theological experiments actually worked. after awhile it felt like i was storing data as i read, just taking in his ideas, and the new parts i read were directly operating on the old data, translating it into new forms without any sort of intermediary brain stuff to shield me. dick is my favorite philosopher because he never proposes any sort of answer; he just piles on the questions like a drunken pizza chef. this book was basically about transubstantiation, and the idea that it's the foundation of all being/experience. that the mystery of we-came-from-dust is the same as the one of this-wine's-the-blood-of-Christ. i'm not sure what to say about it, because i didn't understand a fucking word, but i think what it set up in my head is something that's going to stare back at me for the rest of my life. i'd like to mail it to you, if you'd dig that. we are both, i think, addicted to confusion.
lucas has all these weary-looking six-inch rubber WWF wrestlers. they're all making faces at me, perhaps complaining that their costumes have been worn away by sweaty littleboyfingers. i'd like to believe them secretly alive, but no luck. they're ossified. (i was looking for that word all day, so i'll use it now.) nobody's been believing in them for too long. even now, their displayment seems mainly an ironic gesture. kitschy hipsters pump life into nothing, let me tell you.
did you sketch around at those illustrations yet? i'm still trying to figure out how the story's going to fully work. silas and dree are living on a giant block of weary history, and i'm not sure what they're going to uncover, or how. lots of ideas, patterning needs work.
i'd really like to see a closeup of a shrunken mouth set into a person's chin. that is one i forgot to tell you about.
i want to go read stuff now. this is my abrupt ending.
peace, love
martin.
jessica,
you have no choice but to align your head to such floating dots as these, and realize that i'd be making nonsense even without this semi-late night, this mediocre coffee, and other etceterae. and really, if you don't want things spilling out of the respectable channel of msn, you might turn your pity towards me in the manner of not shutting your box down when i leave to tuck in amy the seemingly un-tuckinnable. seriously. can't you handle a ten-minute unexplained absence?
my theory is that, despite your msn flaws, you're really not such a bad person.
i should start writing about something. that, really, is the crux of this letter's point. i think i misunderstand livejournal and its ilk because the audience is so diffuse it's hard to write about anything but how cool one is -- and when i do that, i start worrying if i come off sounding like a square, and the illusion is broken. so if i were to direct this to a person as opposed to a they, i'd sound like a kind of neo-contemporary james dean meets barney rubble character.
typically i'd be cracking the seal on my nintendo right now, or at the very least, staring off into some sort of absence. i think this new focus - letters! - has sharpened me. or, to return to the very least, i'm too busy pining over games i don't have to realize how cool my collection is. this is an epiphany of the worst kind; one that might induce me to change my behavior. i think there's a specific mindset for every game ever made, and i'm finding specific mindsets scarce.
coming back to the diffuse, pointless ramble about my life being a diffuse, pointless ramble.
but really, the point would just be to find something to fill the point-hole. things seem really static ever since school ended. now i'm casting around for some kind of change, and all i find is different routes to overheatedly wander downtown. looking for a job is ten flavors of neopolitan bitchwax. it has honed my ability to rationalize away new possibilities (i could never work at the market on yates! too many yuppies!!) and my autonomic nervous system has never had greater freedom to twitch (that describes each and every interaction between me and a potential employer, but especially the 180 degree turns).
my dream job involves stooping over a keyboard and nervously shelving inventory. isn't that rich?
there's a video store three blocks from my house, and i walk by it several times a week. it finally occurred to me that i should walk down that street in clothes that don't look like i salvaged them from a tire fire, and go into the store, and demand employment. when i did that yesterday, the boss grinned cattily at me, and asked me if i knew why that was funny. apparantly it was funny because he'd already hired a clerk that same day. the trainee was a curvacious girl with abrupt, exciting eyebrows. she saw me in my shame. thinking back, i have lost my ability to not find this funny.
i'm hoping this message makes sense in the bleak light of tomorrow's sun. i've only taken forty minutes of my quick life to generate this much. the backspace key is not significantly worn down. for me, this is a rather speed-crazy dash.
i want more coffee. there! i got it.
yesterday 'the three stigmata of palmer eldritch' by philip k. dick read me -- i say that because it was an exceptionally passive experience. i think i was really unprepared for it on some psychic level. it fucked me up like a rocket. i came into it forgetting this was one of the few books where his acid-damaged theological experiments actually worked. after awhile it felt like i was storing data as i read, just taking in his ideas, and the new parts i read were directly operating on the old data, translating it into new forms without any sort of intermediary brain stuff to shield me. dick is my favorite philosopher because he never proposes any sort of answer; he just piles on the questions like a drunken pizza chef. this book was basically about transubstantiation, and the idea that it's the foundation of all being/experience. that the mystery of we-came-from-dust is the same as the one of this-wine's-the-blood-of-Christ. i'm not sure what to say about it, because i didn't understand a fucking word, but i think what it set up in my head is something that's going to stare back at me for the rest of my life. i'd like to mail it to you, if you'd dig that. we are both, i think, addicted to confusion.
lucas has all these weary-looking six-inch rubber WWF wrestlers. they're all making faces at me, perhaps complaining that their costumes have been worn away by sweaty littleboyfingers. i'd like to believe them secretly alive, but no luck. they're ossified. (i was looking for that word all day, so i'll use it now.) nobody's been believing in them for too long. even now, their displayment seems mainly an ironic gesture. kitschy hipsters pump life into nothing, let me tell you.
did you sketch around at those illustrations yet? i'm still trying to figure out how the story's going to fully work. silas and dree are living on a giant block of weary history, and i'm not sure what they're going to uncover, or how. lots of ideas, patterning needs work.
i'd really like to see a closeup of a shrunken mouth set into a person's chin. that is one i forgot to tell you about.
i want to go read stuff now. this is my abrupt ending.
peace, love
martin.