Scrytch writing from 1998-2001: II
Admixtures
Words for things I could never say
You've found words for things I could never say, could never fit it into words that didn't sound awkward, forced, confused. Know you are tired of my voice. Understand: this is the voice I live with, continue on with in the hope that one day, I'll be able to tell you a story.
Isolation, at this point, is most likely more imagined than real; strikes me in an undeniable way that I am proud of you. You make me want to be a better person, and for every word that reaches you there are hundreds, thousands I hold inside. You provide a hope and a solace. Proud of your honesty and your compassion. Dunno if it matters whose hands fondle the leash, replaying the fragment-memories of old conversations, could never just say it no matter how much I build myself up as a "writer".
Maybe because I'm not done emptying out, you are happy. Remember always that we have no use for piety, and then cease the practice by reversing the process above described. Should, however, continue to speed it up until reaching the limit, or sometimes care or remember, I'm too tired to do it alone.
Always be a part of me! and knowing there is some connection between us, and with that, you'll *know*. You will always be in my heart, someone you could be proud of. Everything else, as I've said, is cake. All there's ever been? Makes me happy to be alive; know you're tired of my apologies, my stumblings, my groping at something I cannot yet name. Honored to play some strange and complicated part in that process. Stay up nights, reading the things you've written, but they shouldn't be the only ones to take it & feel it, no matter what form that connection takes.
You've found words for things I could never say, could never fit it into words that didn't sound awkward, forced, confused. Know you are tired of my voice. Understand: this is the voice I live with, continue on with in the hope that one day, I'll be able to tell you a story.
Who we are
First off, I never come from that soft sacred place up the loved neck, worthy or not, guilty or not, but the fact of the matter is we're here, four spires of light, or things similar, and I can never be removed once brought into such things. No, because you talk so often of how far we've come, I am with you --and when you are with me, we are not ourselves. Who are we?
If I gave someone we don't know all our pieces, where did we begin? Wait for the word and the question, "Know who we are, were, then?" Were we always here, running up a torso, then pruned and poked and prodded our way into what we are now? If everything I do manifests my presence, 'I' remains --out mouth, over face, cheeks, eye sockets, that substance is still there. Could they find the hidden order? to find new form in another time? Spend the day in silence just inside the hip bones. Street sounds remind me: this feels like anger in my arms, and I didn't come all the way out here to die, dammit. Running up jugular -sorting the pulse from the hum, does this us-ness leave any trace, or does 'I' return from where I came?
Do I exist without us, listening to my breathing? Below the belly, listen to my hair growing, and two rivers of light screaming throughoveron breasts and shoulders slowly surely encompassing the top of the head, finding peace in the smoothness.
How much we've done!
Selfping with breath
Lost track of you in my universe. You'll have to help carry the map of our world and I feel as though I hope that wherever you are, I have taken a great weight off my shoulders in turning off the positioning system. You are happy. Remember always that we have no use for piety, and then cease the practice by reversing the process above described. Should, however, continue to speed it up until he reaches his limit, or sometimes care or remember, I'm too tired to do it alone.
The activity commonly associated with search for meaning: The stygian witches shared a single eye, did they see the same things? As far as I grok --continue this process until there is nothing but a rapid movement of the lips; perhaps Nietzsche's dream still seems as remote now as it did to him --a precursor to the "psychic nomad," neh,pretty much know what I'm up to, with the mantra racing in his brain it seems to be of no consequence. Don't believe one can create meaning, or maybe it's wanting to trust the consensual hallucination where you are and if you are ever coming back around.
I just like to keep an eye on being 100% convinced of anything: the "Will to Power as Disappearance"...
...then not quite so loudly and a very little faster ten times more as we are as strictly scientific as biologists or chemists. I hope that you find your way. Before leaving the subject, indications of what might have called for guesswork, at which he should continue for as long as possible, and if you never come back, we *demand* perception; not picking up the weight of meaning in order to avoid the internal conflict spawned of imperfect self-reliance? We must return to this theme.
Chauvinism still rules OK. Mixed breath remains submerged but their stories remain impressed by the vigor and beauty of hybrid cultures, Ishmaels and Moors, utter it as loudly and slowly as possible ten times, makes quick pings hard to do though. For vague chatter he offered miscegenation not only as a solution to the problem of race but also as the principle for a new humanity freed of ethnic and national chauvinism. We ban emotion from the start, and the autonomous zones of the Buccaneers and Maroons, Ramapaughs and "Kallikaks" remain; this is the proper way to practise a mantra. The process of analysing, developing and controlling --but there's a sense that one can discover meaning. The mind is the essence of all Yoga practices. I'd like to recall the enthusiasm for "race mixing," but I no longer know, for me, which lie beyond the objects of sense.
Lost track of you in my universe. You'll have to help carry the map of our world and I feel as though I hope that wherever you are, I have taken a great weight off my shoulders in turning off the positioning system. You are happy. Remember always that we have no use for piety, and then cease the practice by reversing the process above described. Should, however, continue to speed it up until he reaches his limit, or sometimes care or remember, I'm too tired to do it alone.
Convergence of strata
A convergence of strata still soft and loved:
It occurred to me, then, that it was only through force of will instilled by habit and repetition that I sparkle under the weight, a human being...
The ground had finally frozen. Knew the snow would stay, and then you fell asleep with the wind still further north and west. The shapes felt you there and you turn to face me passed out in the field --would keep til the chicken hollered-- you were a dream I had once, late for class --the day was long and the sound was blue, having stayed up all night listening to the radio, the sun mirrored a thousand times a thousand waves. Felt the water in my undried hair begin to freeze while waiting for the bus, to take shape on the rocky shore to the light house. Climbed up into it, fascinated by this, and began not drying my hair at all, the melting frost running down the back of my neck all through a swimming pool of children in wetsuits.
Dodged the bus one day, felt you entirely there but could not see you hiking out over the field, careful not to damage the angel-forms lined up along the roadside, and sat in a thicket of leafless trees. You calmed me with an invisible gentleness, when you reach for me I felt the water in my hair, on my skin, begin slowing, taken, swept, stolen, soft, loved, solidifying. Felt less like a boy and more like a geologic process --free, swirling, drifting, and yet...
What we need here is a big dose of plot
He had a body spongy as chewing gum, soupy grey concrete box like... so:
The man looked up --he was in The Vault at work, huffing money fumes, you've been in a primate house, but no, it was all "Bursting in--no monkeys at all." He found it's *your* fault, if you hadn't kept trying to convince everyone to pose nude in that giant vat of pig's blood you had, I think things would have gone a lot smoother. My thousand terraces of my soul coil echoing on each other echoing vibrating resonating, c'mon, get in the vat of pig's blood, it's *warm* --Guy had monkeys in his apt when it came to him.
You know what I'm talking 'bout, & the smell of vinegar & dill really helps. The dark arch of a crumbling church entry hissed at her, she could see the door reflected in the curtainless window, & so was able to support himself & his monkeys via a job as a bank teller. Don't think that when I say monkeys I mean addictions, habits, fortunes. The 2nd function...is a bit more tricky to 'splain. Energy is scary sometimes.
But this is, though hopefully engaging & amusing & so forth, all too atmospheric & subtle, and never mind those two goats you kept threatening to barbecue with zippos and make us all eat as I tried to back away. A series of events in time you can feel has a nice meaty shape. See, if you haven't held up a big barrel of monkeys & shaken it, you just have never heard a proper sloshing sound. When she looked he screeched, "His monkeys were gone." He took the key from his left sock & opened the lock to his locked door.
Then Unity was something that took a long time to disassociate with, that'd once contained pickles of some sort. It'll feel *soothing* and *great.*
Nothing sloshes like a monkey, unidentifiable drips from ratty splinterwood and palmfrond market stalls when it came to him. Fleeing the workplace, somehow my senses formed a loop around me and that loop echoed snapshots of *me* resonating resonating. I gave up my will and let myself go, lining the sidewalks so thickly they nearly forced pedestrians into the car zooming street, and that I would have to spend some time resting before I could go back to school. I would ask her why it was that her and my father never thought to look for me, to ask about me, so I guess what I wonder is who was the other? Something very new has happened. I pulled away but since I was brought back my mother hasn't been back to my room.
Hurling his tie off w/ blinding speed & stuffing his sensible shoes into his well-starched shirt, "Dear God, the most incredible thing has just happened." I hunched over in a yoga child's pose with my head resting on my knees. It mostly kept'em stuffed into a big ol barrel, a mind like 8 miles of bad road, man. This served 2 functions, more or less, the 1st being smell-containment, odor-battling. I mean, he cleaned up real good, though, and she could quickly draw the gun from her belt, turntwist, shove the muzzle through the strings and fire..About a week ago I was shaken from sleep by massive vibrations, (I believe; my sense of time has been greatly altered due to my time underground) sometimes slipping down into unpatched cracks from the last earthquake. And I *promise* I won't spread the photos all over usenet.
I couldn't tell what was happening. A Wall of White Light washes over and now everything is different. I could hear yells, and feel hands pull the earth from around my legs, pulling me upwards. Soon afterward feeling something loosen around my feet, the shock of which caused me to black out. I had been taken to my parent's house and placed on my old bed after being washed off and shaved, back in the room to my suprise.
My mother explained to me that my muscles had deteriorated from lack of use. In all the years, absolutely nothing's changed because my pupils were large as saucers, all he cd think abt was the monkeylack he'd soon find confirmation of, though I could feel myself move at tremendous speeds, trickled and mixed and stank along glittering black drainless gutters. So much here that words can never go near. I was afraid I had undergone my puberty while beneath the garden.
Strangest dreams
The only reason that I delayed in telling about all of this was because I had the strangest dreams last night, one of which involved sorting things out in my head first. Odder of the two, however, had to do with Audrey Hepburn. I didn't want to risk my relationship. Apparently, I was her best friend/confidante with you until I knew for sure what my feelings are and we were on this submarine together. She had been having an affair with the captain (who was scum), this whole love thing takes a lot more work than I was expecting, and when the submarine started to sink it comes and goes so quickly. He, of course, dove overboard to ostensible safety. Maybe I'm a fickle bitch, I don't know, leaving Aud and me to fend for ourselves. If it helps, you can think of me as a fickle bitch for awhile. I wasn't afraid of jumping overboard. I appreciate that you're trying to respect my decision but Aud was terrified of the water.
Thank you for not hating me, I guess, and of course i don't hate you and wouldn't budge. We've know each other for about 6 years-- I remember seeing something like --we were friends before a tidal wave crashing down at us. I'm sure that we can work through this and be friends again. As we climbed up some stairs --It's going to be hard-- I was pushing her forward and I'm not going to like feeling uncomfortable around you, screaming for her to get out, everything has changed, but she wouldn't move and in such a short span of time, got swept under, while I was able to swim away. I'm not sure what to do with it all. Then I was floating on my back in the middle of the ocean, somehow knowing that she drowned.
Similar whateverthisis
(Hellbent on finding all my context)
Since I have to assume you have expressed interest in going similar whateverthisis:
I don't have the cognitive currency, I could speak in *your* voice forever. Thrust my arm deeper into your mouth about this whole thing --but yes, blind spots are pretty keen-- only retch them up into my throat on special occasions. Because if you saw me the way I see me, I'd keep it in my stomach, everything would be just fine forever... the texture of foamy mud. At the same time, wanted to stick my hand into your mouth, fill my palm with the feel of your meaty tongue writhing. Yer all responsible adults with a couple of mental twigs to rub together; I'd tear at your throat with my teeth until I could reach your swampy lungs. Guess that's a compliment and, especially now that I have to start dismantling it, *you'd* do everything *totally* the *other* way than I have. Am I just that peculiarly and intensively fucked up?
See, well, no, but is it context or is it.. ? So, *nifty*! Hellbent on filling all mine in before I ever relax again if I could wrench out & swallow your larynx, & I'd howl, orgasm, or is there just something to this spidey sense?
Nothing I'm ready to play around in yet, I guess.
Theta understands itself as such
That every knowledge must be learned over and over again, every night, and Theta understands itself as such:
NOTHING THIS BIG HAS BEEN THIS PREDICTABLE WITH THIS MUCH PRECISION
--there is never any question of whether or not existence is worthwhile.
Has the Federal government anticipated the problem with all my everything else, and knows only that the only enemy it has is death, and all actions which happen to and from me are manifestations of Theta? Tragically inappropriate to the real potential of existence. You will be forewarned of the most amazing shake up in world history.
That what gives us power one year and robs us of power the next, I myself possess it in abundance. I am a part of Theta, the only decision I have which is of any effect is whether I continue to exist or whether it deserves to continue existing. Every once in a while however I have managed to behave as if I were stupid enough to try to change my life. I am all too well aware of the "intelligence" which prevents action. By overthrowing the inner icons of the End of the World & the Futility of all mundane endeavor, could a technological virus in the world's computer systems shake western civilization to its core? Were executive orders put into place to deal with this contingency? His presence was an admission that every truth is fragile, being part of the singular Theta. My decision has already been made for me.
Is there a cover-up to avoid the panic?
That we grow not in a straight line but in ascending and descending and tilting circles, for nothing is settled, ever, for anyone? Learn why the public is in a state of denial
My position is this: Begin to prepare for a radical alteration in your lifestyle. Theta exists because it exists. Learn from the experts the truth about the greatest disaster to impact chaos, the love of boys, how I "feel", what I "think", it is nothing, nothing at all. Learn why it is inescapable
All things exist as manifestations of the single Theta. In the remembered light of these experiences --everything that happens, happens due to Theta preserving itself through time. What becomes of me, then, is meaningless. I have (rarely) broken through into a state which (by comparison with all I'd known) appeared to be one of health --& I say this not to boast but rather to bear witness.
YOU BE THE JUDGE!
Preview to the 7-part epic "Why I like IRC"
How many hours have i spent scrolling through addressbooks paper and ascii looking for just the person to call, exactly the one to inflict with my company, just the right friend from that one high school trip or that time we lived on the same dorm floor or hey we met by chance in the park one Sabbath and wouldn't i like to know how you've been, not that the phone has kept trim dancing with your calls to tell me how, tell me when and where and why i can't stand writing crap like this, this is not scrytch, no one will ever recycle these strings of words, i hardly read anyone else's dumps so please don't pay any attention if i dump safe in the knowledge that it won't be read either.
there's nothing interesting about anyone's shit, nuth-nuth-nothing at all until lives actually hang in the balance, fortunes to be built & canals ripped through the earth, fir-furred hills flattened into a grid on the strength of your moods, your non-point-source-angst, your horror of litanies dribbled and fingerpainted over frame by frame by inch by inflated memory until the sentence colapses on its own silly weight and you sit there thinking, Dang, what did i do this evening? This week? Where was I? Was I practicing dhikr? zazen? palpitating my microcosmic orbit with my smirking inner lips, extinguishing being and non-being and whatever other scrap of jargon I have coopted, safely knowing that native habitat of words don't matter any more, they're all just labels, man, just models for That Thing There, that Entity, that Object that as a 21st century seeker I am totally ga-ga to jump, screw & spend the rest of the afternoon cuddling with in the sack with the metaphors of my choosing lined up with my Apple computer, Sanyo phone, Longaberger basket, Clinton Hill apartment, mostly dark and fuzzy clothing, my organic groceries, my feisty Den of Fearful Geeks job, my science fiction novels and religion books and science books, my English language and not least my distinguished pedigree of farmers, preachers and teachers. Some of those things I picked out on my very own; others foisted on me without my consent, though I have to say the Longaberger basket really does make an attractive snack food bin, and I can't imagine trying to write something like this in Aramaic, Tok Pisin or Tocharian.
Fuck. Um. I still haven't said anything. Well, maybe I can find somebody to call, or go on IRC continue not talking.
Re: sideview to the seven-part epic, "Why I Like IRC"
Said Urge:
How many hours have i spent digging through search engines and peoplefinders looking for just the person to call, exactly the one to inflict with direct knowledge of my existence, just the right friend from the twenty-years-ago high school history class, or biology class, or maybe they worked in a USAF office with me and drank dangerously with me 15 years ago, or possibly i fell in undying love with them over 20yrs ago, and wouldn't i like to know how you've been, and secretly if you ever think of me; not that the phone tingles with the abuse of my actually *using* the phone numbers i occasionally find for you while i'm trying to find out if you have a webpage or email address out there somewhere so i wouldn't have to intrude on your nowaday life as dramatically as a telephone call.... tell me when and where and why i can't stand writing crap like this, this is not scrytch, no one will ever recycle these strings of words, i hardly read anyone else's dumps so please don't pay any attention if i dump safe in the knowledge that it won't be read either.
my shit is interesting, but often embarassing; your shit is interesting and strange sometimes, resonant with my experience sometimes.
lives actually hang in the balance, fortunes to be built & canals ripped through the earth, fir-furred hills flattened into a grid on the strength of your moods, your non-point-source-angst, your horror of litanies dribbled and fingerpainted over frame by frame by inch by inflated memory until the sentence colapses on its own silly weight and you sit there thinking, Dang, what did i do this evening? This week? Where was I? Was I drawing anything? building robots? reading any of the books i've piled around me? going for walks? exercising will (or myself)? programming? planning for the future? but i can't seem to get myself to personally believe in the future, some huge cloud of denial prevents me from being able to take it seriously enough; and i can't believe i'm competent to make any real plans or decisions of any importance.
Fuck. Um. i still haven't said anything. Well, maybe I can find somebody to call, or go on IRC continue not talking....but i am going to that 20yr highschool reunion next week. maybe just in case.
Re: borderline-view of the seven-part epic, "Why I Like IRC"
Said Slee:
How many hours have i spent digging through grimy memory boxes, looking for just the person to call, exactly the one to inflict with this *me*, this wreck of broken machinery, just the right friend from high school journalism, or that time we tried to cheat the detention czar or hey we met by chance at the Shady Glen downtown, you remember, with the unnaturally cheery elves painted in seafoam green, and remember how you signed, 'don't let the alligators get you down in florida', when i moved, and do you ever think of that, i mean, i realize my phone isn't exactly straining with your anxious voice, but you know i sometimes find your number.... tell me when and where and why i can't stand writing crap like this, i really wouldn't know if this was scrytch, but i know that no one will ever recycle these strings of words, i usually read your dumps but please don't pay any attention if i dump safe in the knowledge that you won't really be paying attention anyway. right?
there's nothing interesting about anyone's shit, except maybe the way you try to connect your discordant cavity with someone else's, i have never been successful, but hell it sounds nice, and sure, you can stake all your lots on lives hanging in the balance, fortunes to be bought and sold, & canals ripped through the earth, fir-furred hills flattened into a grid on the strength of your misplaced intentions, your heartache, your irrational fears creating a bubble of angst-ridden denial, your horror of poorly chosen rhymes fingerpainted over in ochre and blueberry, inch by guilty inch, until this sentence collapses out of blind exhaustion and you sit there thinking, Dang, what did i do this evening? This week? Where was I? Was I drawing anything? Building that carousel horse? Re-reading the wheel of time series because you *know* you saw the next one out and you wanted to read it, right? Was i practicing guitar? kindness? stroking those fragile, uncertain lobes of my identity, extinguishing empty words and empty being, and creating something, anything, rather than accepting this one more evening off and then tomorrow, really, tomorrow, i'll do that, surrounded by my paint containers, my action figures, my story magazines, my sci-fi and erotica, the little mama bear the distant friend i still love dearly let me borrow, my ghastly cubicle clone database job, my not exactly Willow Glen apartment, my unsuccessful record of verbal communication... but i can't seem to get moving, this ever present quicksand of fear casually strangles all plans, and i can't seem to trust myself with decisions of any importance..
Fuck. Um. i still haven't said anything. Well, maybe I can find somebody to call, or at least think about, or go on IRC and continue not talking.
Words for things I could never say
You've found words for things I could never say, could never fit it into words that didn't sound awkward, forced, confused. Know you are tired of my voice. Understand: this is the voice I live with, continue on with in the hope that one day, I'll be able to tell you a story.
Isolation, at this point, is most likely more imagined than real; strikes me in an undeniable way that I am proud of you. You make me want to be a better person, and for every word that reaches you there are hundreds, thousands I hold inside. You provide a hope and a solace. Proud of your honesty and your compassion. Dunno if it matters whose hands fondle the leash, replaying the fragment-memories of old conversations, could never just say it no matter how much I build myself up as a "writer".
Maybe because I'm not done emptying out, you are happy. Remember always that we have no use for piety, and then cease the practice by reversing the process above described. Should, however, continue to speed it up until reaching the limit, or sometimes care or remember, I'm too tired to do it alone.
Always be a part of me! and knowing there is some connection between us, and with that, you'll *know*. You will always be in my heart, someone you could be proud of. Everything else, as I've said, is cake. All there's ever been? Makes me happy to be alive; know you're tired of my apologies, my stumblings, my groping at something I cannot yet name. Honored to play some strange and complicated part in that process. Stay up nights, reading the things you've written, but they shouldn't be the only ones to take it & feel it, no matter what form that connection takes.
You've found words for things I could never say, could never fit it into words that didn't sound awkward, forced, confused. Know you are tired of my voice. Understand: this is the voice I live with, continue on with in the hope that one day, I'll be able to tell you a story.
Who we are
First off, I never come from that soft sacred place up the loved neck, worthy or not, guilty or not, but the fact of the matter is we're here, four spires of light, or things similar, and I can never be removed once brought into such things. No, because you talk so often of how far we've come, I am with you --and when you are with me, we are not ourselves. Who are we?
If I gave someone we don't know all our pieces, where did we begin? Wait for the word and the question, "Know who we are, were, then?" Were we always here, running up a torso, then pruned and poked and prodded our way into what we are now? If everything I do manifests my presence, 'I' remains --out mouth, over face, cheeks, eye sockets, that substance is still there. Could they find the hidden order? to find new form in another time? Spend the day in silence just inside the hip bones. Street sounds remind me: this feels like anger in my arms, and I didn't come all the way out here to die, dammit. Running up jugular -sorting the pulse from the hum, does this us-ness leave any trace, or does 'I' return from where I came?
Do I exist without us, listening to my breathing? Below the belly, listen to my hair growing, and two rivers of light screaming throughoveron breasts and shoulders slowly surely encompassing the top of the head, finding peace in the smoothness.
How much we've done!
Selfping with breath
Lost track of you in my universe. You'll have to help carry the map of our world and I feel as though I hope that wherever you are, I have taken a great weight off my shoulders in turning off the positioning system. You are happy. Remember always that we have no use for piety, and then cease the practice by reversing the process above described. Should, however, continue to speed it up until he reaches his limit, or sometimes care or remember, I'm too tired to do it alone.
The activity commonly associated with search for meaning: The stygian witches shared a single eye, did they see the same things? As far as I grok --continue this process until there is nothing but a rapid movement of the lips; perhaps Nietzsche's dream still seems as remote now as it did to him --a precursor to the "psychic nomad," neh,pretty much know what I'm up to, with the mantra racing in his brain it seems to be of no consequence. Don't believe one can create meaning, or maybe it's wanting to trust the consensual hallucination where you are and if you are ever coming back around.
I just like to keep an eye on being 100% convinced of anything: the "Will to Power as Disappearance"...
...then not quite so loudly and a very little faster ten times more as we are as strictly scientific as biologists or chemists. I hope that you find your way. Before leaving the subject, indications of what might have called for guesswork, at which he should continue for as long as possible, and if you never come back, we *demand* perception; not picking up the weight of meaning in order to avoid the internal conflict spawned of imperfect self-reliance? We must return to this theme.
Chauvinism still rules OK. Mixed breath remains submerged but their stories remain impressed by the vigor and beauty of hybrid cultures, Ishmaels and Moors, utter it as loudly and slowly as possible ten times, makes quick pings hard to do though. For vague chatter he offered miscegenation not only as a solution to the problem of race but also as the principle for a new humanity freed of ethnic and national chauvinism. We ban emotion from the start, and the autonomous zones of the Buccaneers and Maroons, Ramapaughs and "Kallikaks" remain; this is the proper way to practise a mantra. The process of analysing, developing and controlling --but there's a sense that one can discover meaning. The mind is the essence of all Yoga practices. I'd like to recall the enthusiasm for "race mixing," but I no longer know, for me, which lie beyond the objects of sense.
Lost track of you in my universe. You'll have to help carry the map of our world and I feel as though I hope that wherever you are, I have taken a great weight off my shoulders in turning off the positioning system. You are happy. Remember always that we have no use for piety, and then cease the practice by reversing the process above described. Should, however, continue to speed it up until he reaches his limit, or sometimes care or remember, I'm too tired to do it alone.
Convergence of strata
A convergence of strata still soft and loved:
It occurred to me, then, that it was only through force of will instilled by habit and repetition that I sparkle under the weight, a human being...
The ground had finally frozen. Knew the snow would stay, and then you fell asleep with the wind still further north and west. The shapes felt you there and you turn to face me passed out in the field --would keep til the chicken hollered-- you were a dream I had once, late for class --the day was long and the sound was blue, having stayed up all night listening to the radio, the sun mirrored a thousand times a thousand waves. Felt the water in my undried hair begin to freeze while waiting for the bus, to take shape on the rocky shore to the light house. Climbed up into it, fascinated by this, and began not drying my hair at all, the melting frost running down the back of my neck all through a swimming pool of children in wetsuits.
Dodged the bus one day, felt you entirely there but could not see you hiking out over the field, careful not to damage the angel-forms lined up along the roadside, and sat in a thicket of leafless trees. You calmed me with an invisible gentleness, when you reach for me I felt the water in my hair, on my skin, begin slowing, taken, swept, stolen, soft, loved, solidifying. Felt less like a boy and more like a geologic process --free, swirling, drifting, and yet...
What we need here is a big dose of plot
He had a body spongy as chewing gum, soupy grey concrete box like... so:
The man looked up --he was in The Vault at work, huffing money fumes, you've been in a primate house, but no, it was all "Bursting in--no monkeys at all." He found it's *your* fault, if you hadn't kept trying to convince everyone to pose nude in that giant vat of pig's blood you had, I think things would have gone a lot smoother. My thousand terraces of my soul coil echoing on each other echoing vibrating resonating, c'mon, get in the vat of pig's blood, it's *warm* --Guy had monkeys in his apt when it came to him.
You know what I'm talking 'bout, & the smell of vinegar & dill really helps. The dark arch of a crumbling church entry hissed at her, she could see the door reflected in the curtainless window, & so was able to support himself & his monkeys via a job as a bank teller. Don't think that when I say monkeys I mean addictions, habits, fortunes. The 2nd function...is a bit more tricky to 'splain. Energy is scary sometimes.
But this is, though hopefully engaging & amusing & so forth, all too atmospheric & subtle, and never mind those two goats you kept threatening to barbecue with zippos and make us all eat as I tried to back away. A series of events in time you can feel has a nice meaty shape. See, if you haven't held up a big barrel of monkeys & shaken it, you just have never heard a proper sloshing sound. When she looked he screeched, "His monkeys were gone." He took the key from his left sock & opened the lock to his locked door.
Then Unity was something that took a long time to disassociate with, that'd once contained pickles of some sort. It'll feel *soothing* and *great.*
Nothing sloshes like a monkey, unidentifiable drips from ratty splinterwood and palmfrond market stalls when it came to him. Fleeing the workplace, somehow my senses formed a loop around me and that loop echoed snapshots of *me* resonating resonating. I gave up my will and let myself go, lining the sidewalks so thickly they nearly forced pedestrians into the car zooming street, and that I would have to spend some time resting before I could go back to school. I would ask her why it was that her and my father never thought to look for me, to ask about me, so I guess what I wonder is who was the other? Something very new has happened. I pulled away but since I was brought back my mother hasn't been back to my room.
Hurling his tie off w/ blinding speed & stuffing his sensible shoes into his well-starched shirt, "Dear God, the most incredible thing has just happened." I hunched over in a yoga child's pose with my head resting on my knees. It mostly kept'em stuffed into a big ol barrel, a mind like 8 miles of bad road, man. This served 2 functions, more or less, the 1st being smell-containment, odor-battling. I mean, he cleaned up real good, though, and she could quickly draw the gun from her belt, turntwist, shove the muzzle through the strings and fire..About a week ago I was shaken from sleep by massive vibrations, (I believe; my sense of time has been greatly altered due to my time underground) sometimes slipping down into unpatched cracks from the last earthquake. And I *promise* I won't spread the photos all over usenet.
I couldn't tell what was happening. A Wall of White Light washes over and now everything is different. I could hear yells, and feel hands pull the earth from around my legs, pulling me upwards. Soon afterward feeling something loosen around my feet, the shock of which caused me to black out. I had been taken to my parent's house and placed on my old bed after being washed off and shaved, back in the room to my suprise.
My mother explained to me that my muscles had deteriorated from lack of use. In all the years, absolutely nothing's changed because my pupils were large as saucers, all he cd think abt was the monkeylack he'd soon find confirmation of, though I could feel myself move at tremendous speeds, trickled and mixed and stank along glittering black drainless gutters. So much here that words can never go near. I was afraid I had undergone my puberty while beneath the garden.
Strangest dreams
The only reason that I delayed in telling about all of this was because I had the strangest dreams last night, one of which involved sorting things out in my head first. Odder of the two, however, had to do with Audrey Hepburn. I didn't want to risk my relationship. Apparently, I was her best friend/confidante with you until I knew for sure what my feelings are and we were on this submarine together. She had been having an affair with the captain (who was scum), this whole love thing takes a lot more work than I was expecting, and when the submarine started to sink it comes and goes so quickly. He, of course, dove overboard to ostensible safety. Maybe I'm a fickle bitch, I don't know, leaving Aud and me to fend for ourselves. If it helps, you can think of me as a fickle bitch for awhile. I wasn't afraid of jumping overboard. I appreciate that you're trying to respect my decision but Aud was terrified of the water.
Thank you for not hating me, I guess, and of course i don't hate you and wouldn't budge. We've know each other for about 6 years-- I remember seeing something like --we were friends before a tidal wave crashing down at us. I'm sure that we can work through this and be friends again. As we climbed up some stairs --It's going to be hard-- I was pushing her forward and I'm not going to like feeling uncomfortable around you, screaming for her to get out, everything has changed, but she wouldn't move and in such a short span of time, got swept under, while I was able to swim away. I'm not sure what to do with it all. Then I was floating on my back in the middle of the ocean, somehow knowing that she drowned.
Similar whateverthisis
(Hellbent on finding all my context)
Since I have to assume you have expressed interest in going similar whateverthisis:
I don't have the cognitive currency, I could speak in *your* voice forever. Thrust my arm deeper into your mouth about this whole thing --but yes, blind spots are pretty keen-- only retch them up into my throat on special occasions. Because if you saw me the way I see me, I'd keep it in my stomach, everything would be just fine forever... the texture of foamy mud. At the same time, wanted to stick my hand into your mouth, fill my palm with the feel of your meaty tongue writhing. Yer all responsible adults with a couple of mental twigs to rub together; I'd tear at your throat with my teeth until I could reach your swampy lungs. Guess that's a compliment and, especially now that I have to start dismantling it, *you'd* do everything *totally* the *other* way than I have. Am I just that peculiarly and intensively fucked up?
See, well, no, but is it context or is it.. ? So, *nifty*! Hellbent on filling all mine in before I ever relax again if I could wrench out & swallow your larynx, & I'd howl, orgasm, or is there just something to this spidey sense?
Nothing I'm ready to play around in yet, I guess.
Theta understands itself as such
That every knowledge must be learned over and over again, every night, and Theta understands itself as such:
NOTHING THIS BIG HAS BEEN THIS PREDICTABLE WITH THIS MUCH PRECISION
--there is never any question of whether or not existence is worthwhile.
Has the Federal government anticipated the problem with all my everything else, and knows only that the only enemy it has is death, and all actions which happen to and from me are manifestations of Theta? Tragically inappropriate to the real potential of existence. You will be forewarned of the most amazing shake up in world history.
That what gives us power one year and robs us of power the next, I myself possess it in abundance. I am a part of Theta, the only decision I have which is of any effect is whether I continue to exist or whether it deserves to continue existing. Every once in a while however I have managed to behave as if I were stupid enough to try to change my life. I am all too well aware of the "intelligence" which prevents action. By overthrowing the inner icons of the End of the World & the Futility of all mundane endeavor, could a technological virus in the world's computer systems shake western civilization to its core? Were executive orders put into place to deal with this contingency? His presence was an admission that every truth is fragile, being part of the singular Theta. My decision has already been made for me.
Is there a cover-up to avoid the panic?
That we grow not in a straight line but in ascending and descending and tilting circles, for nothing is settled, ever, for anyone? Learn why the public is in a state of denial
My position is this: Begin to prepare for a radical alteration in your lifestyle. Theta exists because it exists. Learn from the experts the truth about the greatest disaster to impact chaos, the love of boys, how I "feel", what I "think", it is nothing, nothing at all. Learn why it is inescapable
All things exist as manifestations of the single Theta. In the remembered light of these experiences --everything that happens, happens due to Theta preserving itself through time. What becomes of me, then, is meaningless. I have (rarely) broken through into a state which (by comparison with all I'd known) appeared to be one of health --& I say this not to boast but rather to bear witness.
YOU BE THE JUDGE!
Preview to the 7-part epic "Why I like IRC"
How many hours have i spent scrolling through addressbooks paper and ascii looking for just the person to call, exactly the one to inflict with my company, just the right friend from that one high school trip or that time we lived on the same dorm floor or hey we met by chance in the park one Sabbath and wouldn't i like to know how you've been, not that the phone has kept trim dancing with your calls to tell me how, tell me when and where and why i can't stand writing crap like this, this is not scrytch, no one will ever recycle these strings of words, i hardly read anyone else's dumps so please don't pay any attention if i dump safe in the knowledge that it won't be read either.
there's nothing interesting about anyone's shit, nuth-nuth-nothing at all until lives actually hang in the balance, fortunes to be built & canals ripped through the earth, fir-furred hills flattened into a grid on the strength of your moods, your non-point-source-angst, your horror of litanies dribbled and fingerpainted over frame by frame by inch by inflated memory until the sentence colapses on its own silly weight and you sit there thinking, Dang, what did i do this evening? This week? Where was I? Was I practicing dhikr? zazen? palpitating my microcosmic orbit with my smirking inner lips, extinguishing being and non-being and whatever other scrap of jargon I have coopted, safely knowing that native habitat of words don't matter any more, they're all just labels, man, just models for That Thing There, that Entity, that Object that as a 21st century seeker I am totally ga-ga to jump, screw & spend the rest of the afternoon cuddling with in the sack with the metaphors of my choosing lined up with my Apple computer, Sanyo phone, Longaberger basket, Clinton Hill apartment, mostly dark and fuzzy clothing, my organic groceries, my feisty Den of Fearful Geeks job, my science fiction novels and religion books and science books, my English language and not least my distinguished pedigree of farmers, preachers and teachers. Some of those things I picked out on my very own; others foisted on me without my consent, though I have to say the Longaberger basket really does make an attractive snack food bin, and I can't imagine trying to write something like this in Aramaic, Tok Pisin or Tocharian.
Fuck. Um. I still haven't said anything. Well, maybe I can find somebody to call, or go on IRC continue not talking.
Re: sideview to the seven-part epic, "Why I Like IRC"
Said Urge:
How many hours have i spent digging through search engines and peoplefinders looking for just the person to call, exactly the one to inflict with direct knowledge of my existence, just the right friend from the twenty-years-ago high school history class, or biology class, or maybe they worked in a USAF office with me and drank dangerously with me 15 years ago, or possibly i fell in undying love with them over 20yrs ago, and wouldn't i like to know how you've been, and secretly if you ever think of me; not that the phone tingles with the abuse of my actually *using* the phone numbers i occasionally find for you while i'm trying to find out if you have a webpage or email address out there somewhere so i wouldn't have to intrude on your nowaday life as dramatically as a telephone call.... tell me when and where and why i can't stand writing crap like this, this is not scrytch, no one will ever recycle these strings of words, i hardly read anyone else's dumps so please don't pay any attention if i dump safe in the knowledge that it won't be read either.
my shit is interesting, but often embarassing; your shit is interesting and strange sometimes, resonant with my experience sometimes.
lives actually hang in the balance, fortunes to be built & canals ripped through the earth, fir-furred hills flattened into a grid on the strength of your moods, your non-point-source-angst, your horror of litanies dribbled and fingerpainted over frame by frame by inch by inflated memory until the sentence colapses on its own silly weight and you sit there thinking, Dang, what did i do this evening? This week? Where was I? Was I drawing anything? building robots? reading any of the books i've piled around me? going for walks? exercising will (or myself)? programming? planning for the future? but i can't seem to get myself to personally believe in the future, some huge cloud of denial prevents me from being able to take it seriously enough; and i can't believe i'm competent to make any real plans or decisions of any importance.
Fuck. Um. i still haven't said anything. Well, maybe I can find somebody to call, or go on IRC continue not talking....but i am going to that 20yr highschool reunion next week. maybe just in case.
Re: borderline-view of the seven-part epic, "Why I Like IRC"
Said Slee:
How many hours have i spent digging through grimy memory boxes, looking for just the person to call, exactly the one to inflict with this *me*, this wreck of broken machinery, just the right friend from high school journalism, or that time we tried to cheat the detention czar or hey we met by chance at the Shady Glen downtown, you remember, with the unnaturally cheery elves painted in seafoam green, and remember how you signed, 'don't let the alligators get you down in florida', when i moved, and do you ever think of that, i mean, i realize my phone isn't exactly straining with your anxious voice, but you know i sometimes find your number.... tell me when and where and why i can't stand writing crap like this, i really wouldn't know if this was scrytch, but i know that no one will ever recycle these strings of words, i usually read your dumps but please don't pay any attention if i dump safe in the knowledge that you won't really be paying attention anyway. right?
there's nothing interesting about anyone's shit, except maybe the way you try to connect your discordant cavity with someone else's, i have never been successful, but hell it sounds nice, and sure, you can stake all your lots on lives hanging in the balance, fortunes to be bought and sold, & canals ripped through the earth, fir-furred hills flattened into a grid on the strength of your misplaced intentions, your heartache, your irrational fears creating a bubble of angst-ridden denial, your horror of poorly chosen rhymes fingerpainted over in ochre and blueberry, inch by guilty inch, until this sentence collapses out of blind exhaustion and you sit there thinking, Dang, what did i do this evening? This week? Where was I? Was I drawing anything? Building that carousel horse? Re-reading the wheel of time series because you *know* you saw the next one out and you wanted to read it, right? Was i practicing guitar? kindness? stroking those fragile, uncertain lobes of my identity, extinguishing empty words and empty being, and creating something, anything, rather than accepting this one more evening off and then tomorrow, really, tomorrow, i'll do that, surrounded by my paint containers, my action figures, my story magazines, my sci-fi and erotica, the little mama bear the distant friend i still love dearly let me borrow, my ghastly cubicle clone database job, my not exactly Willow Glen apartment, my unsuccessful record of verbal communication... but i can't seem to get moving, this ever present quicksand of fear casually strangles all plans, and i can't seem to trust myself with decisions of any importance..
Fuck. Um. i still haven't said anything. Well, maybe I can find somebody to call, or at least think about, or go on IRC and continue not talking.