AlphaSmart Backup 6.23.23

[turboswami]

5.9.23 - Santa Diego



I am uncomfortable with people watching from the open slide door of my van. I feel I should have a shingle up, along the side of the van, "The Boatman's Call. What kind of tour can I put on, from the back of this van? A traveling set list with my battery powered devices, my bluetooth speaker included for feedback. How to arrange with the local venues. How does he tour Europe, not knowing any venues or cities? Latching the tour onto a localson's? How can I be here and hide too? How can I recline, unseen, like the old days? Just casually observing a loved one, watching over a younger generation, as if the medium was the muse's child or baby sibling; to watch over us and come when we call. Their loving attention serves many roles in the lives of very living edge of our ancestral lines, the forward most boundary of an ever expanding tree. If I were king of the forest, not dick, not jane, not duke. I am a braggart, sickening to be around. Repellant in my schpeals. I cannot be less that zero for some time yet. So, until then, I must sell myself as a pop package, ready for circulation on a mass scale. I wish to listen with bionic electret microphone ears to every one of the conversations, not just the word or two within my field, the limits of my naked hearing sensitivity, receptivity within the molecular medium of air, controlled radiating pressure along that density of fine gaseous dry environ, for which we have been evolutionarily adapted. What will the full integration of the always recording highly sensitive devices, instruments, enhancing my experience of the sensory field within that bandwidth of transmitted informational content of consciousness. The traveling salesman must have some such tricks up his sleeve, to see the suckers coming from more than a mile away. Tools of harvesting tourists and curious passersby. How to attract attention on the street. A born hustler, like Rasputin, scrounging a living on the sidewalks, even through the cold Russian winters. I want casual video recording outside my home like other people have. Installing a battery powered Ring on the side door of the van? I am the Boatman? I don’t like it, but I'm going to have a van with a huge wide pram boat along the entire roof, so I should try to play to that image. The Boatman across the River Styx, the river of Forgetting through which the dead must, inevitably, pass in order to fully immerse and ascend their physical life, as it was left. How are we to cross over into the realm of the dead and remember all that we learn and recall after death. The Greater Memory, the relationships that extend across multiple life times, the Greater Family, that can extend across species, even, within the subtle realm of spirit. These are a rare set of exceptional human experiences, shamanic in nature. While rare, the core set of these are universal experiences, not deriving from any one culture, but experienced identically in every culture. So, in other words, a set of rare and exceptional human experiences not deriving from one culture, but deriving more from our species, as a whole. These non-human entities whose interaction with and development alongside our species that are acknowledged and recorded in every culture. While the experience with these various entities is universal in its manifestation, as beings of blue-white light or demons bringing possession, or intrusive entity interaction experiences often experienced by those individuals who will become shamanic initiates, as an indicator of their natural hypersensitivity to subtle or non-physical natural phenomena. Thermometer reads 124 degrees on the dark metal roof of my van. The heat radiates inside, where there is no air flow. I am I think back to all of the severed relationships of my life, one after another, and begin to learn individual reactions to specific classes or types of personality, the core mechanics of social behavior entering the realm of quantitative measure, careful study along various scales, ranges, or realms. While the word "realm" came, initially, with some well placed resistance, please allow me to explain: The Curves lead to crotch rot, that will go right into your brain, rotting its way in from where you ate her. " - Guy on the beach with the synth drum. I cannot imagine my forties working out, this late in the game, what do I have to show for myself? What is my online media presence, if not such interviews where such gems are shared with me? The casual recording buffer, mounted as an electret in ones watch, glasses, or breast pocket, these are the most natural and free flowing interview styles, simply inviting people passing to sit and discuss some idea, mostly open ended invitation for informational presentations or classical debate, rhetoric and the addressing of the many forms of false argumentative strategies. The careful study and reference to the logical fallacies that we tend to regress to, fallacies occurring inevitably as the body passes, on and on, through the various stages of male aging, the commonly seen degradation of one’s middle age, the chronology of life stages most commonly seen, represented as a statistical bell curve, with outliers of multiple standard deviation of distance along either side of that bell curve, with only the rarest of outliers being able to traverse far out from the culture he or she is immersed. Without putting one's self out there, into the relational field where others now exist, and where the Greater Others are able to express themselves to us. I only want a child, a son or a daughter at very least. Where in my twenties, I wanted and pictured myself teaching a young son how to create, in my thirties, I began to dream of my potential daughters, each waiting patiently to come through to us. I feel that there is a kind of trait and age specific preference among the pre-born spirits, souls eager to commune, collaborate, or come through me. The manner of musical collaboration uncomfortable in its execution, the characters I am able to play in sound, in voice and its furthest expressive ranges, beyond the constraints of linguistic ranges of articulation. Within this range, artifice is the broadest possible definition of personality by voice, extending back through the evolution of that articulation of sound up through the species, extending well before even our own primate branch. What can I do to be seen, to show game, express my sexual competence, as a dominant and virile male, showing ass best as he can within a given social hierarchy, each domain having its own competence hierarchy. The dominance within this specific social domain ascends, peaks, and plateaus along fairly predictable age groups for males. Physiological measures such as metabolism or testosterone all ascend and descend along a set of peak or prime years for a male. This is typically, up to age 24 or so, where the development of ego and personality as functionally integrated with some aspect or area of society.. This division of social forms of self, media by which we can learn to and potentially master expression within, I just want a girl-person to hold, wrap up tight in my long arms and spoon, as an eternal symbol of protection, the spooning embrace. It extends down into the core of a woman's biology and, simultaneously, activates deep genetic circuits, like the male Family Protection Program, either fully functioning or left without activation, in instances of the forever bachelor, the Peter Man adult child who Never Lands. This is often the ascetic or the village fool, the beggar, magician, or maybe a socially inept solitary Steppenwolf, hideous in some unseen way, the closeist I reject, the practitioner of closeness is a Closeist. The beautiful bikinied women of San Diego's beach inspire me to be a more appealing man again, to recapture my youth. In some circles, this kind of behavior is called a Midlife Crisis, but so it goes! I am happy to watch them, although I wish I had a sign to lure them in, some game I could play with them, some shot I could shoot to capture their attention and, subsequently, their affection. I just want to connect in spite of my anxiety, to intentionally create new and promising relationships with strangers on the street. The pickup lines and subsequent scripts, ready for recitation, are key to success in the "cold open" of social interaction, out in public. "If I was a druggy, I'd be drugged out. If I was lazy, I'd be on my mom's...." I think of my being sprawled out on a queen sized bed as she thought of laziness, as a topic for her side of the phone conversation. These are the forces of presence, charisma, and social dominance within some chosen field or area of natural strength. The measure of intelligence is "There were three planned parenthoods I went, one at Ocean Ridge Drive, the other in the Gaslight Distr...."

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The measure of intelligence, or, more specifically, whatever it is we measure when we measure IQ, is directly proportional to success in many domains, proficiency is simply expressed in most things the highly intelligent attempt. Should this area of psychometric study be s ignored or suppressed from public view or discussion due to the potential political incorrectness of the findings?

. Ne next day.

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What inspiration can sprout in sloth, from sloth? What inspiration can spring from gluttony or selfishness? I imagine there being an ideal set of conditions, physiological or otherwise, that accompany an interrelated set of ideal practices, many of these of a distinctly spiritual nature or, more specifically, involving the subtle ranges of human sensitivity. These ranges can be termed exceptional, as they include, primarily, the exceptions or outliers of the bell curve of human sensitivity, the upper ranges generally termed hypersensitive, among other terms and interrelated measures, in the psychometric literature. (cite, cite). I COH's Basics from 2014 limits itself to the further functions of analog synthesis. I imagine using beat frequencies in very controlled and rhythmically tuned relationships, tempo sync'd with arpeggiated vocal phoneme cuts.

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I hesitate, again and again, to return to the obsessive organizational approach to projects, as it came with such agonies of mind. Obsession is not comfortable, even when applied in that beneficial or positive way, to bring about success within a given domain. Musk, Gates, Jobs, each of them were characterized by their highly organized and intentional obsessive thinking and behavior. Yet,, for each man, a list of accompanying deficits, mostly social or relational, can be drawn in indirect correlation with their career successes. Many of these deficits were present in childhood and, in many ways, the highly focused obsessive thinking could be understood as an outgrowth of that early neurodivergence from the rest of their class, their family and peers. This was understood in antiquity, with many of the early Greek philosophers being known for their dramatically unattractive physical appearance, or some illness or, again, deficit that set them apart or led to a higher than normal amount of time spent in solitude as a child. Much of the social sciences have ignored solitude as an area of study, in the same quantitative way that cognition and social behavior has been studied. Yet, I expect that a set of commonalities can be drawn across many philosophers and great thinkers who, by a variety of other factors, were able to find success as a thinker, or who se claim to fame was the some area of the mind or, within which tey were able to articulate divergent ways of thinking about some domain, often those commonly taken for granted in some way, or not considered in a deep or systematic way, its mechanics or restrictions. in the case of Freud, for instance, the Victorian restrictions of convention which limited the open discussion of sexuality or, honestly, emotions, across the board; or across their spectrum, rather. By identifying the unconscious force or pressure of these unexpressed emotions, but more specifically, the libidinal force, unexpressed, and the building pressure of its inevitable release, in one form or another. These most natural forms were, at one time, set apart from the "other," or expressions made deviant by some extreme restriction on the natural expression of sexual objectives, biologically and physically, fulfilling the instinctual drives of those libidinal forces, surfacing up through hormones into physical act of sex. It is by this logic that many have come to understand the mandated abstinence of the Catholic priesthood. The man, not permitted to the physical copulation with a woman, many of the early initiates of the priesthood, never having sex once in their life. When the biological need is restricted so severely from pre pubescence onward, the natural expression not permitted, that force does, inevitably surface, albeit in an unnatural area, among those children he spends so much time, choirboys and whatnot. The epidemic of this behavior, fully acknowledged as deviant in the eras of the early priesthood as well as our own era. Pedophilia disgusts our sense of decency, makes us instinctually look to and find our own children, to protect them from such EVERYTHING in that moment. So that, the more we hear of these horrors, the more we become, as an American society, hypervigilant around the priesthood, instinctively, having heard all of those stories, and, at this point, seen that part of the Catholic church to become a cliché or a trope But I am amazed that the woman in the van parked next to mine said “Hello,” as if an unspoken camaraderie existed between us, as two van people coming to Planet Fitness to shower.

The small I am so distracted by music...I am Sitting back in my van, making bass lines on the synth that weird guy on the beach called a cheap toy, I take off my headphones and hear an older black man talking to a woman in a car, "So, why you tryin' to turn yo back on a person??""

She feels embarrassment and guilt, saying "What? I wasn't...!"

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Strangely refined forms of sexual manipulation, evident in the player and, in his common point of mastery, the pimp. To convince girlfriends to begin to sell themselves to make money for you, that is some phenomenal feat, although it often simply involves drugs and induced addiction in his target, many times it doesn't. They simply adore this man to the point they would work that hard to please him. I am considering submitting some writing samples to a publisher, to attempt to have some of my work published. I certainly have plenty of writing compiled and archived at this point. Daunting to wade through all 1300 pages of my journals, for instance, but I recall many instances of powerful and inspired writing over the years, but the primary intention is to get the spiritual experiences out there , to be considered, primarily. The interpretations and theoretical understanding of those experiences can, perhaps, come later or be included as a commentary within the actual storytelling text. Having seen the low quality of writing that many of these publishers release, the many New Age and spiritual fare, I feel I could produce prose that was considerably more focused and coherent, although my writing ability has lost many of those exact traits since my early twenties, I still have chops! The discipline is what sets me apart from those writers I'm thinking of, many of them prolific in that particular capacity they possess. I should say character, or the particular aspects of that capacity we share that differ, no doubt many of them very much the same. The point being, while I have some strengths as a writer, the weaknesses are many and, many, paralyzing or responsible for great personal pain or anguish in writing, as a process. The kind of condensed style, leads to a sort of constipation that many other highly competent and legendary writers simply did not contend with, supposedly. Dostoyevsky said to have wrote incredibly fast, without edits. Carl Sagan would largely dictate his books to cassette recorders and have them transcribed and lightly edited afterward. Turbulent men who could temper their fury into their poetry, they softened, burned out like falling stars, brilliant and short lived. Many of these same patterns can be seen in musicians as well or, likely, any artistic medium, in one way or another.

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I return, more and more, to those early twenties areas of thought. Several recent discussions led to me returning, for instance, to the many detailed thoughts, studies, and plans for fathering and raising a child. Mainly, what can I do to ensure my child's success in the world? This was one such idea that I obsessed over during my bachelor years of college, especially after I began to have a steady girlfriend near the en second half of those four years. For one, I did not want my child, at that point, generally pictured as a son, of all victim to the severe lack of attention span and general low quality of self expression that has, gradually, come to prominence with the advent of television and, much more severely, social media, smartphones, and endless streaming capabilities, nonstop, regardless of where we are or what we're doing. This has crippled my generation, certainly, but older and younger generations, observably, too. So, while initially at age twenty-one, I simply said, "No screens, no television, no internet or computer phones." I now realize that, the computer, in and of itself, is not bad, more the media that it is transmitting into our faces that affects attention span and self-image so severely. I began to think of media in terms of any other form of consumable but, more accurately, using a fast food metaphor: While there are many types and choices in what we can eat, there is a clear understanding, at this point, of the detrimental effects much of those food choices can wreak on our system. Fast food, sugary drinks, candy, fatty and greasy food, saturated fat, cholesterol, on and on... We know clean consumption and dirty or unhealthy consumption when it comes to food and, by and large, we can instinctively sense the unhealthy forms and habits of media consumption, can feel that media's negative effect on our system and general emotional and cognitive state. Much like we food, we find it difficult not to indulge in these fast food forms of media. Yet, as many families know, if the parents do not allow those types of highly processed or garbage foods in the home in which their children are being raised, it is possible for those kids to not grow up with that negative influence affecting their development and, the hope is, they will not develop a taste for McDonalds or for addictive video games, online personas, or binge watching Marvel movies. Perhaps this line of thinking is fresh in my mind only because I gorged on a large pizza with the works just an hour ago, shameful business, all around. Yet, I know that if I had no access to those restaurants , if the pizza place was not right there, in the parking lot of the gym I'd come out of, yea, I would not feel the temptation to visit that place. Likewise, if the food is not in the house, I will, obviously, not eat it. For those with little impulse control this is n ancient strategy for imposing self-restraint, using a technique intended t o supplement actual self rest control where it is lacking naturally. So these strategies mostly translate identically over to our cutting garbage or "fast media" out of our lives, or, as I understood then, remove it from the field of influence within which my child will be immersed and what will or will not affect their development based on my choices as a parent. So, from no screens, I more closely came to understand SOME screens, but the content of which I would exert some filtration. No internet on the computers, but a wide variety of software tools for the creation of a wide variety of art. Video, audio, still images, or the written word: if they wish to enjoy culture, it will need to be culture that either they or a family member have created. Home schooling, I realized, allows the parent to take a more active role in deciding what tools they would like to provide and teach their children to use and master. Among these tools, some of the most essential interpersonal tools, those skillsets that will serve them for the rest of their lives and which are not generally taught in public school system. The skillset related to teaching and bettering ones self, self-directed learning, the results of which, for more than any degree, determine if someone is an expert or not in a given field or area of competence. Being given books instead of television to develop up and out from, my children would be leaps and bounds more advanced and better equipped to make an impression within their culture, to express themselves effectively. Lets be honest, the ability to express one's self with great conviction, charisma, eloquence, and persuasiveness is the single greatest strength we, as social primates, have in the society we have created. And while the written word may have largely been abandoned as a means of communication in the information age, both Adobe Premiere, After Effects, and Final Cut will be installed on the studio computers these children will be instructed and learn to self-teach in. Ableton, Audition, , the many instruments and tools of audio and video production, will be assigned for them to learn, as both a student and as an apprentice in their father or mother's work in these different areas of self expression. Building media "packages" designed to convey an idea convincingly and succinctly in a short and well-developed little pop package, this will serve them, in all likelihood, more than their ability to write long form fiction or poetry. So while we need not accept the content of the mass media of the prevailing culture and its era, we should, ideally, still be versed in its conventions and how best to use, master, or exploit them to achieve our goals, whatever they may be, in society.

6-11-23

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Another day in San Diego, waiting for my Adderall to be filled. Its good to have on hand but it is an amphetamine and it does bring side effects with regular use. I am and have been a drug dealer since Freshman year of high school, my sister coaching me on what to say to the doctor to get the script for Ritalin. I wonder if Don Langson actually killed himself? I had heard he simply drank himself t o death, which is not far off, but generally not described as suicide, not without some exaggeration or hyperbole in that usage of the word. Since it is a very slow death, drinking yourself away, the degradation of that kind of surrendering to it, the bottles of strong liquor, Don's Bacardi 151, pouring it into a drinking glass. Straight, with ice. A bottle of wash he barely needed. It was impressive once, but as he grew older, and grew into that pattern, it became something more disconcerting, where I felt afraid for him and that lifestyle of blacking out, of losing himself and his personality. Passed out in the weeds as we looked to find an old abandoned iron ore mine in the backwoods of Negaunee. I simply invented an adventure, looking over satellite photos for an old mine, then trying to find it, all crammed into the Metro, Derek, Eric, Don and me. An excuse to see my old friend, to take him out and have fun like the old days, "The Boys Are Back In Town" is cranked by such old friends during homecomings across the country. Yet, he barely made it thirty steps out of the car before he was gone, unconscious in the long grass on the edges of the dirt road we had arrived at. He made it beneath the gate, sure, but then he was beneath our feet, do we need to carry him? Is he going to be sick? Goddamn it!"

I think of that for of alcoholic "gone" the many other forms of gone there exist, along an established set of characteristic behaviors and their symptoms, for each of the many addictive substances. Being "gone" on meth was not something I had even thought to identify until over a decade past my sister's regular use. But, of course, in retrospect, that degradation into severe personality loss that comes with addiction is crystal clear, into the bath salts and the cathinones. And for myself with the phenethylamine family of uppers? This is, honestly, new territory in many cases, with the rare and exotic of Shulgin's PIKAL psychedelics. Because there is so little use of these often termed "designer drugs," it is hard to have a predictable set of clues related to specific stages of negative effects, some temporary, some undoubtedly permanent, as reliably so as the permanent benefits of phenethylamines like MDMA are purported in the literature to induce in clinical patients suffering from PTSD, for instance. Could I ever, can I admit? Can I even, could I ever identify those permanent deficits in myself, the dangers of , say, early age marijuana use on my life and personality, so difficult to discern those more subtle gradually manifesting patterns of behavior or loss of some form of organization or conceptual focus to my thinking. Staying on topic, when the inspiration becomes , n some ways, manic in the variety f ways and through which branch of ideation it tends to activate. In this area of quantitative study of human cognition, the "Spreading Activation model of semantic priming, and hyperpriming, can help in identifying the characteristic changes in semantic priming that preadolescent and adolescent marijuana use can be measured to induce alongside the 7-10 fold increase in the likelihood of developing later life schizophrenia that that pot smoking is associated with.

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The book project, featuring the stories of my spiritual experiences, could contain a set of additional authors whose running commentary on the given phenomena could be interpreted from an academic perspective, psychologically, neurophysiologically, shamanically, or in philosophical terms, theoretically using one of the many models of consciousness or spiritual systems or practices. I would like to invite Stan to provide his expertise to the interpretation of the outo f body experience, for instance. Or Charles Tart, a living expert in both the OBE and systems of consciousness which divide the various ranges of consciousness into a set of discrete states, which may be interpreted as bandwidths within a spectrum we, as humans, can variously traverse, with some states being quite rare, while other states of consciousness being most common, as to difine a baseline range within a much more expansive or, even, oceanic in scale.

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5.15.23

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I consider intelligence as it relates to the resentment of humanity, after speaking to a friend who describes conversations with others the same way a typical person would describe playing with and teasing a pet dog. Sure, I find that degree of arrogance repellant, I cannot deny the man is intelligent. Although his actual intelligence likely fades in comparison to his self-advertised intelligence; the boasting that doesn't seem to end, seemingly encouraged by my polite smiling and nodding through grit teeth. What use am I? I excise often now and feel the benefit on the clarity of my thinking and general energy level and, in spite of the aching muscles that follow, I know those effects are short-lived. But what use is it? To sharpen my physical and mental form to accomplish...something of value? Something more than basic fatherhood, was always a thought, even while even that prospect recedes into the distance of possibility. Is there something appealing to an audience in this self-pity, doubt, and vulnerability? In that, perhaps, it gives voice to those thoughts they dare not utter, themselves, but to which they relate deeply?.'.

5.18.23.

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I am in a strange place. I am smoking weed that has lost much of its potency in the hot car its been traveling with me in. I passed a Border Patrol checkpoint, with a half dozen agents in sunglasses and uniforms held back drug sniffing dogs on leashes. My blue van looks quite suspicious. It doesn't look normal, the dark blue paint was rolled over some older logo, a few eras back for the van. It looks as though it has something to hide, literally, with that Sears logo still visible from the side angle, beneath he paint roller texture. I am the ambassador of embarrassment, direct from the embassy. I quickly chugged my 21 Oz of Miller High Life as the checkpoint flashing lights were being driven through, spilling the beer al down my chin and onto my shirt, I tried to hide the can behind my seat and to cover the mini fridge full of drugs with a towel and some garbage, especially the lock. I believe marijuana is illegal in Texas, perhaps the dogs were not trained for phenethylamines or ketamine. I was very nervous, at any rate as I began to roll down my window to greet the border patrol officer. But he waved me on…I should have had the windows covered with cloth or one of those accordion reflectors you see out here in the desert. I am unhappy. I did not tell my therapist about my suicidal thoughts of this week, or from where they derive. Because it is embarrassing to admit one is ugly, or has become ugly, has been disfigured in one or many ways, emotionally, physically, socially, what was a normal or even beautiful figure within that individual becomes marred or affected developmentally, by illness or nutrition, a near infinite number of factors, genetic and environmental, which contribute in endlessly refined ways the person we are, in its current form. I wish I could return to that previous beautiful figure I represented, the strength I carried in the sheer virility of youth, the strength of my potentials and developed skills, the power in their display like the plumage of a male peacock entering the peak of his maturation. Only, in this case, our species colorful and vibrant plumage is intellectual, a cultural display of dominance, and the benefits that display purchases in the search for an ideal mate. The best we can afford, as is often said in many cultures, in so many words, in an acknowledgement of many "leagues" and how each culture organizes them, regards women and marriage, the customs that define the many fantastic ways different cultures have come to conclusions in terms of mating, both shared, some not.

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I had caught a glimpse in hotel mirror ling to what I have done to my face and it repulsed me, the closer I inspected it. I’m so disappointed by what the TCA treatment, with the 100 percent acid potency versus the thirty five percent acid peel, but the permanent scarring caused by both. I want to explain the scars to everyone close to me, but it is such of a repulsively uncomfortable conversation, the pits or pores on a person's face, that I keep it to myself, go along with the unspoken aspect of my face, the pretending that we don't notice it until, inevitably, some revelation of the conscious attention being given to those ugly aspects of a person's appearance. That, yes, while we can always hear someone say "Beauty is subjective," the aesthetics of ideal human form do exist and are well known , in the Western Tradition as the Greco Roman understanding of health, beauty, and goodness, in an ethical sense, are all interrelated with one-another in what was understood to be a directly proportional way. That more healthy individuals more closely represent the ideals for physical health, the indicators of strength and virility of a man in peak physical form, as sculpted so masterfully in those traditions and many others.

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I drive along a rough dirt road from behind a small town in the Texas desert between El Paso and San Antonio. Looking for a lake that some road signs and, eventually, Google promised was back here. Many rough looking lakeside trailer homes spring up on the East side of what appears to be a manmade lake in the dark, just based on all the tractor and backhoed piles of dirt. For hours, the Texas horizon has been bursting alight with distant thunderstorms. And here, too, an occasional far off lightening burst lights up the big sky. Just as I begin writing, the wind begins to pick up here, where for half an hour since parking alongside the lake for the night, it has been very still. At first, the gust of wind entering the van, shaking it slightly with cool air against my legs, startled me and I jumped slightly, as if something were entering through the open sliding door, but soon, the sound of small lapping waves is heard, with other sounds. I admit, the idea of sleeping fully exposed, in my boxer briefs, with the door simply left open as I try to sleep scares me slightly, knowing anyone walking or driving by could look in on me and my things in bed, ear plugs and eye shades, oblivious to their presence. Ooh! A flash of light filled the van when I typed looked in." This should be a very relaxing place to sleep, to enjoy the water, the sounds of the waves alongside the van, and yet, no, the thoughts and fears surrounding my security rob me of the beauty of this night. I wonder why I.

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The Boatman's Call

Such a grim image for an electrician's van logo, the water of the River Styx, the River of Forgetting, rippling in the moonlight as the hooded reaper like figure boats the newly arrived spirits to the opposite shore. Clichéd but badass as a reference, the only remotely cool idea I can think to spin the upside down pram on the roof of my van into. Full blown seafaring or pirate imagery would be cheesy and difficult to work into an appropriate business idea. ..

Broken and fragmented sleep on this strange little Texas lake. After the storms passed, I reopened the door of the van and let the night air , cool and wet, in to sooth e to sleep. I kept being awoken by what sounded like faint moaning outside, highly expressive and plaintive cries, questioning tones and wheezed sing song-y tones. I concluded that these were from me, but did not sound like any snoring I had ever heard. Highly expressive. Several times in dream, I sat up and readied my handheld recorder to capture these eerie expressive almost ghostly sounds, but these were, unfortunately, only dreams.

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I close myself off from the world to contend with their constant rejection of me. Does this response not make perfect sense, when seen plainly and objectively?

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Later dreams of running, helicopters with heavy-duty automatic weapons opening fire on one house after another, through their front living room and porch windows, killing without much discernment when I took out my phone and attempted to capture the low-flying aircraft, killing indiscriminately, all the residents of that neighborhood alongside the flooring mill. People running as I watched the infected and the healthy, the government's response I allow a young black mother and her child into the van. They tell me they might be infected, but that, if so, it's very recent. We were told the pandemic disease was highly treatable within the first twenty-four hours.

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What toppings at, without stopping at? I reach for tools I did not mean to use and in a creek bed, I lay down to snooze Where and dream and I dream of how much I can lose. I dream and I dream of the terrible twos, homecoming blues, too frozen to choose, grown men no one knew. Who died broke and alone, soon after they flew. Cant you hear it, t's calling me?

Through my nigh sky, it's calling me.

Don't you hear it, it's calling me?

No you can't come and no I can't stay.

Don’t you hear it...?

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Wow! As I'm writing, h I hear a strange plaintive cry outside the van... Like something large, dying. It’s not a dream.

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Look at this stuff, isn’t it BANGIN'

WOULDNT IT MAKE MY COLLECTION bangin'

Look at my crotch, no way we be BANGIN'

I'm dumb bitch fish who only dreams of BANGIN'.

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"Why all this noise and fuss? Why all the urgency, uproar, anguish, and exertion? Why should such a trifle play so important a role ...? It is no trifle that is here in question; on the contrary, the importance of the matter is perfectly in keeping with the earnestness and ardour of the effort. The ultimate aim of all love affairs ... is actually more important than all others aims in man's life, and therefor it is quite worth of the profound seriousness with which everyone pursues it."

-Schopenhauer

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But are not all the accomplishments and creative expressions of men not, simply, a mating display intended to attract a mate? If not, they are likely just the remnants of or preparation for such a great phallic display, being erected at the peak of his virility, as it tends to follow across the span of a man's life. This, the intellectual plumage of the human peacock, on display for all the arduous and envious to see.

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Entering the beautiful Tribal Convention Center, I am greeted by one of the security officers, "Hhuhi." He does not sound enthused.

I think back to how tired my own voice and vibrational frequency. The ants of Watt, I throw the big leather duffle bag up there.

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"Do you want to build stone walls?" The voice is complex, with multiple tonal layers, as if two people identically asking the question simultaneously.

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Yes. I want to hide from the world, from it all. The arresting officer had had that same book, "With The Tongues of Men and angels": about the limited literature. What have I permitted..?. Because they have everything they'll ever need, and everything they'll ever want is in the back. of the car. Get in!"

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5.21.23, Galveston, TX

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Made it through San Antonio, Houston, to Galveston finally around 11 PM. A set of Muslim girls dance in the square to Bruno Mars, people jump, as if feeling buoyant, electric, breathing in the sea air, the strong cool night breeze, and those thumping speakers creating a potent mix there, young and ready, jumping for the sheer joy of it, the excitement for that Saturday night's potential.

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"What is your major malfunction?"

The shipping containers BOOM! loud and metallic in the distance, echoing back from the opposite side of the bay.

If this journal is to be devoted to my malfunctions, plural, perhaps describing them like the characters I see in my travels will at least keep it interesting! But these ugliest and most shameful parts of myself are, even if anthropomorphized, nota joy to read about, nor are they polite dinner conversation. This, if anything, would serve as a path for the morbidly curious, down back into the root cellar, into those recesses where development was inhibited, or strayed, attempting to thrive around an imposed blockage or limitation, as all-natural systems tend to do during those boundlessly green years of early growth, flexible and new. To be hindered severely as a child is...pretty well-worn territory. People gawk and stare through the open sliding door into the bedroom of my van, parked so conspicuously at the edge of this parking lot...wherever the fuck I am. Home Depot at 8:30 is humid. The early morning shoppers, upright and eager with project lists in hand, can see the ugly van parked in the corner, facing away from them. They can see, clearly, that someone is trying to hide here, to hide from the world and that, in late night desperation, this was the best he could do. Yet, we want to poke the hideous and we want to flip over rocks and see what lives and eats and hoards beneath that cold damp weight, intended to defend. "What's he hiding in there? What’s he building in there?" Craning their heads to look at the accident, hoping to see some glimpse of the gore on the road, the misfortune of strangers, the disfiguring scars such mistakes have left, they want to stare at them, to investigate the horrific, poking, prodding their noses into the most intimate dens of freak. I am tired and angry. I want to leave my face off. I don’t want to see you with yours on. How can anyone hope to meet new friends, to start over in love, with that attitude of animosity from hiding? Unapproachable, my body a kind of porch for a bitter old man to yell from. But this lawn is clearly not mine and I am in no place to claim ownership or even basic security here in this foreign place. The porch is creaky now, crooked and its supports have buckled from old strains, storms otherwise forgotten.

5.25.23

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Only the lonely...

It's now or never.

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Only the lost tree, a set of branches lost from this world, developing wholly to themselves, in places so hospitable, no human being should, rightfully, be able to survive there. The Lapland of Finland, far above the Arctic circle, the strange language of the Finns and the Finno-Ugric language family, extending back into Mongolia, the Siberian shamans from whom the Sami lineage originally descends. What a strange thing, to develop a language up out of the ground of. Up out of the isolation, derived from no culture but their own, a tree sprouting alongside the great tree of Human language history, Indo European, Down through Germanic and English, on branches and cultural streams extending on and on, yet always the meeting of some older or geographically adjacent cultural stream of influence, the xylem and phloem of an ancient tree... and then this little unrelated stumpy tree alongside.

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The young confused trans dressed kids were lost out in the city, carrying a boat between them with many layers of messages,, but the most recent asking for HELP! Lost!" . The older transvestite and the narrator were telling the taxi driver to slow down. But a heavy snow drift blinded him and he hit the missing children.’ “Little man....LITTLE MAN!"  THE FATHER SHOOK THE BOY WITH MAKEUP ON HIS FACE, LIPSTICK SMEARED BADLY, AS IF TRYING TO WAKE HIM, SOBBBING.

THE NON LINEAR;

THE PARTY CONTINUED WITH MORE AND MORE PEOPLE ARRIVING DOWNSTAIRS. I NEEEDED TO HIDE UP HERE, looking down only briefly, yet the trans girl was hiding with me when my girlfriend arrived, it looked very bad. She threw a bra at the scared boy. Told her to put it on. "But nothing happened!" I pleaded.

.Can I get a witness?? Aaah! Can I get a witness??"

Some kind of wonderful... Please, any kind, whatever is left will do, but please, pleasee just be with me now. What snakes watch from the swamp grass? Face like the demon in The Exorcist, white and intense, menacing and hateful. That face on a snake, tongue like a snake hissing. The imagery our imaginations can flash carry layers of meaning, extending further and further down along roots branching further and further into whole ecosystems of subconscious activity, systems of subtle biology developing along a boundary in consciousness, with life teeming on either side of that expansive surface within the electromagnetic spectrum. Subtle systems of nature are known with greater and greater acumen , as the technology of telescopes in orbit and deep space astronomical or astrophysical phenomena. And so our understanding of the most far and away aspects of physical nature. ... I swore I heard music outside the travel trailer, seventies harmonized male vocals singing a specific hook melody If I were any kind of man, I would sing it loud and proud right now, into a microphone in this yard at my dad's Winter home in the swamps of Alabama, I suspect it will be another lost. I need to go to the neighbor's house to make moonshine. I don't want to go when I am high, because that therapy session was phenomenally useful, covering many of the most insidious blockages that have prevented me from expressing myself effectively in work, in my career, my profession. It has blocked the natural flow of libidinal force into action masculine in relationships with women, successful in their production of offspring, to carry this lineage forward, or kill it by inaction.

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The Yoke of Fire

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I was marked by ancestral spirits of a high order, as if branded by something very hot, although Dad would not hear anything I tried to say about the Scandinavian gods who interacted with me. He shut the talk down immediately, yet he could not, himself, deny the sign, marking me, like a yoke around my neck. Part of me would rather be a ghost, hungry and hiding, than stand and be a leader.

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Neither dad nor the girl I was trying to woo would understand, but the spiritual ordeals that torment me at night are related, inexplicably tied, to my illness. My guts were bleeding the day after a spirit shook the camper, bed and all, putting its weight on me, molesting me from behind. Tonight, the interaction was more pronounced and physical. The shaking began and I felt it spread up my legs to my crotch, chest, and finally it touched my face, flicked my eyeshade down over my left eye. Eyes closed or open, I was able to perceive the shadowy silhouette of the figure as it got in my face, teasing and prodding! I am here to work is the message, as I interpret it. I am the vessel for the gods and spiritual hierarchy of my Nordic ancestors and they are not going to tolerate these lesser spirits to harm me. I laid on my back as the camper shook with his weight on the bed. I l then felt him pull the blanket off of my right toe as his influence on me quickly became evident as Old Hag weight on my chest. I considered going inside and sleeping in the living room, closer to others, but I do not think Dad nor Pattie would appreciate the story or me potentially bringing something, I kept getting awoken by sounds around the bed, items and what sounded like a raspberry to my left, along the inside area of the bed. Finally, I heard a slow raspy "Hey." being spoken through my mouth. It was the exhale of my own breath giving this spirit of an old man a medium to speak with. I do not want it to continue and must cleans myself and my space deeply or I far all of this The raspy breathing served as a kind of carrier for the man's message Much more detail should be given about the physiology of this experience, as I am beginning to understand how it works I'm not accepted by my own kin, let alone strangers. But the message

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"Let's go." a beautiful blonde in white flowing dress spoke softly but firmly directly into my face in bed.

But I have so much stuff yet to pack and...

"Let's go." she said again, interrupting my indecision with the same direct but loving way. We needed to leave, right then, immediately. She was there with me, but I knew she had passed... My lover from beyond, with me on this journey.

The inspector, the bald wine connoisseur guy, had come inspecting around the old abandoned house we were in, by the train wreck. I walked towards the van, but he stayed there. He appeared to be three inches tall, closely examining each blade of grass and looking at paint on gravel. One of the kids had opened the door to take a box outside, and that was the officer's opportunity to simply enter the home. I tried to yell from outside, "No. You have no permission to enter that house! Sir!"

But the end was already in sight. He began to accost the young boy at the refrigerator, saying, "Why would you mix garlic beef with moo goo gai pan? That is going to ruin both dishes!"

He would learn that the angel had been killed, that we had killed her. We tried to make it look like a suicide, that she fell 4 stories, hitting every window on the way down, creating a blood print of two arms outstretched before falling to the next and, finally, two the ground. Yet, as her beautiful corpse rolled over, the gothic band shirt beneath remained, like the smoking gun. She filled that shirt once more, youthful and mischievous, thin alongside her bloated corpse looking up to us, flying.

"Let's go." It was exactly 8:30 am, again. Their directly spoken wake up calls are always exactly on the hour or half hour, the zeros all lined up with my watch (which runs 7 minutes fast, but they don't seem to know that or care!)

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Considering the spiritual or shamanic-type experiences that have occurred this week, with attention to the recorded details, of both the hypnagogic, dream, and physical accounts of personal experience captured immediately after them as possible. In both cases, simply reaching to my left and grabbing this keyboard word processor. The accuracy of these experiences or dream states falls sharply the longer the experiencer waits to record what they saw and felt; this is especially true of dreams, but less so for so-called "big dreams," or dreams that the toll on the body is especially significant for me, personally. That is, the immediate bodily response to the intrusive entity interaction, severe internal bleeding, my guts! My immune system flares up out of nowhere and I am helpless, suddenly, to be knocked out of remission by the possession, once ore. Intrusive entity influence, or non-consensual mediumship, is varied in its types. Many of these types can be explained utilizing the traditional hierarchical conception of spiritual entities, with the extreme ranges of the higher and lower worlds being home to non0humany type species of varying characteristics and characteristic interaction signatures, as commonly experienced. Many of these signatures are established cross-culturally with a commonly described entity appearance and attributes. I am struggling in many ways at once and I am not sure how best to proceed. I am in denial, I am refusing to admit I have a problem, if only as a survival strategy, tas to acknowledge the truth about my ability to connect meaningfully with others, is severely inhibited and intimidating, in various ways, given the personality type of the person I am attempting to relate with. Fuck.

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Time is running out and I am more and more afraid of my closing prospects for fatherhood, now approaching fifty. Realistically, the odds or probability of my child being born with severe physical, emotional, or mental defects or illnesses at birth is significantly higher than it was in my twenties and early thirties. Accepting that will be like accepting a sentence of solitude or, perhaps, childless companionship with divorce probability significantly heightened in direct proportion to age. I have trouble, I have difficulty, I am absentminded and lost, wandering. I want to succeed, but less and less concerned with succeeding in the traditional way. Or, in all honesty, I feel tired, sluggish, and lazy often and struggle to keep up with the workers, here, in even a minimal way, as they sand and grind and climb, balancing, fiberglassing, bondoing. Difficult lines and cycles of thought, getting snappy and defensive. Yea, I am so much struggling, more and more, with basic relationships, maintaining them, forming them, contented in isolation, sedentary pursuits, low energy, loss of physical fitness and vitality. I am last in/first out. I am depending on a break, on a I am without, I am not, I am less, I am lost. I surrender to self-negative attitudes and even inclinations of speech. I use this kind of confessional of my traits as a strategic form of shame.