Wick, Burn It

Has there been a fantasy about being able to see through my eyelids and float just above the ground, smooth. Push I do through the dream like flying but supported by breathing. The faces in the window are often perplexed, but there is nothing I can do about that. Sometimes I think that they can read my mind, and I struggle to hide my thoughts, but that interrupts the imagination I once treasured as so much more pure than that of all other humans, I could hold onto it when I was feeling pleased. For once I am glad to see those toxic yellow jerzis, they slow down the train to my satisfaction and the earth doesn't shatter as often, but I'm still wondering where this is all going. Rickshaws are pretty useless in this town but they use them anyway. All you had to do was ask and there would be a grape on your tongue and a hand fondling your buttcheeks, what do they say about knowing what to say in most situations? I feel that there could be a witty asertation of the facts in this case but it takes just that extra split second too long for me to be as smart as I once was, and so in order to hold a coherent conversation there are going to have to be some really serious changes in this particular curriculum. And all he asked me was just this one half assed question designed to put me on the defensive, and here was a reason for me to forget pretty much everything I thought I was going to say, because without the right sort of alertness I was unable to provide for these people the right kind of work when I blink my eyes you can see that there is a code that we are trying to keep very secret, much like the arrangement of the navajo who have always known that there is a house for the spirit, and what is it that I was trying to say that someone recently also pointed out, that there was a risk involved when you are going to use a real navajo in order to put into practice the interesting parts of navajo tradition, so the stupid easy way to do it is to sho the intrepid american who was raised by indians, an he gets to tell you all the neat spirit stuff.

Soft Drink Expansion

Why didn't they finish this building? Try to look like the Eiffel Tower, no drywall lets the air come through in such a way that slows my descent but I don't mind streaming through it for now, it's pretty easy. If I want I reach out as far as I can, discarding my fear of the rust that corrodes the steel, but it doesn't offer any better grip than I thought I was going to have to have in the breakfast cereal that allows me to cry myself to sleep and the ghost is all I was trying to think of, while quickly I deecide whether the point should be belabored, a concept of which I am quite familiar but there seems to be some distractions that allow my brain to be frustrated, all I want to do is to make something beautiful, and here if I try it will all be me, no matter how I try to hid the inside places where I store all the equale places of the pantric bellowheeze. And here about this time I begin to wonder if the bent concetration is possible without these sort of distractions that seem to want to refuse to create new experiences for me that very well should make me a smarter person but intead of broadening what should be a wide open path there is an obsession that really wants to close my mind in a lot of ways because there are so many things that I have to work out ahead of time in order for me to be able to articulate what I have to say in such a way that any person who has the patience to listen to me will understand and then I look at her with derision because she mirrors this flaw in me, though without the proper area of study you will never know, and here you have touched on an interesting point, you can think that there is a base amount of intelligence but what do you suppose you are going to do when ther eis no more things in there left to read, left worth reading at all, and this is what I was trying to communicate to you whenever I thought there would be the possibility but even now at the end there is very little that I will be able to do with this information, as there was something about the smart people we all thought we were, and here we have a class that starts at the newest possible moment, here in the evening I was waiting for a meteor shower and all we had to do was wait for a bit and under there we could see something there, I didn't understand what he was saying because he talks so fast and I tried to respond with an intelligent answer but all I had was a green thermos.

Arugalormel Cheeli

Want doof traggos? Thinking of yube. Arbello wishes not the bebbest. Which grab dibbint you reegle. Santo break thanks to fore am paff. We are so happy to have you on the team. Since I was waiting for a place that would let me run from my own head I thought I might be interested to know that I still have to think of things as if they haven't happened yet even if a phrase rolls off so easily because it fits together so well. ANd I don't remember thinking about that dragonfly gulping down bugs, and I don't remember hearing the train go by and breaking down on the flammable railroad ties, and I don't remember an enormous wrench that rips open bolts with superhuman leverage, and I can't tell what is past the sky even though it acts like a shell and I can't leave it's hard to imagine an environment less suited for human existence than this irradiated nightmarescape. But here I take an interest in some of the things I was supposed to be exposed to, and press the mind forward a bit at a time, ignore the physical, distinguish the real from the apparent, move past the desire for music because that is strictly emotive and experiential while writing seeks to bring a balance between that an the intellectual, that balance is the strength and the key to existence free from distractions, in a library, each separate book is an anthology of the possibilities of my life, and when I pick one from the shelf I notice mistakes I have made but I feel no regret, because the page serves a purpose and the black text is substantial, and substance is all I the reason I need to exist. A while of wandering and I notice that in one room time moves so fast that my muscles creak against my skeleton and my head feels too heavy and soggy to be supported by my neck, my guts are in turmoil there until I crawl to the next room and I feel the plaque crumbling up and dissolving inside me, and flushing out in rivulets leaving the muscles clear, I watch the fluid drain away from me, reach out my finger and press bits of solid matter against the tile floor, it feels sandy under my finger when I scrape it aside, then find I can stand, and standing breathe deeper and climb to the highest bookshelf, the top of a warehouse, and dig forth, nuzzling between the ooks like a kitten into the crook of an arm, working my body, fitting between them. I can see outward now, from my nest of dark books in shadow, miles of bookshelves that curl downward at four separate points like arms of a starfish, and I am comfortable and safe in the darkness, my breathing energizing my brain, my body beginning to slide into the books, pressed between them, absorbed into them, it pinches me until I am no longer conscious and my eyeballs are pressed flat.

Arugalormel Cheeli

Want doof traggos? Thinking of yube. Arbello wishes not the bebbest. Which grab dibbint you reegle. Santo break thanks to fore am paff. We are so happy to have you on the team. Since I was waiting for a place that would let me run from my own head I thought I might be interested to know that I still have to think of things as if they haven't happened yet even if a phrase rolls off so easily because it fits together so well. ANd I don't remember thinking about that dragonfly gulping down bugs, and I don't remember hearing the train go by and breaking down on the flammable railroad ties, and I don't remember an enormous wrench that rips open bolts with superhuman leverage, and I can't tell what is past the sky even though it acts like a shell and I can't leave it's hard to imagine an environment less suited for human existence than this irradiated nightmarescape. But here I take an interest in some of the things I was supposed to be exposed to, and press the mind forward a bit at a time, ignore the physical, distinguish the real from the apparent, move past the desire for music because that is strictly emotive and experiential while writing seeks to bring a balance between that an the intellectual, that balance is the strength and the key to existence free from distractions, in a library, each separate book is an anthology of the possibilities of my life, and when I pick one from the shelf I notice mistakes I have made but I feel no regret, because the page serves a purpose and the black text is substantial, and substance is all I the reason I need to exist. A while of wandering and I notice that in one room time moves so fast that my muscles creak against my skeleton and my head feels too heavy and soggy to be supported by my neck, my guts are in turmoil there until I crawl to the next room and I feel the plaque crumbling up and dissolving inside me, and flushing out in rivulets leaving the muscles clear, I watch the fluid drain away from me, reach out my finger and press bits of solid matter against the tile floor, it feels sandy under my finger when I scrape it aside, then find I can stand, and standing breathe deeper and climb to the highest bookshelf, the top of a warehouse, and dig forth, nuzzling between the ooks like a kitten into the crook of an arm, working my body, fitting between them. I can see outward now, from my nest of dark books in shadow, miles of bookshelves that curl downward at four separate points like arms of a starfish, and I am comfortable and safe in the darkness, my breathing energizing my brain, my body beginning to slide into the books, pressed between them, absorbed into them, it pinches me until I am no longer conscious and my eyeballs are pressed flat.

Insightolluver's Traggles

Today I am going to today I am going to today I am going to today I am going to tell me what I did today. Thank the beak they were supposed to fly faster, without a doubt I wondered when it wasn't going to take that so seriously but there we have it folks, an no dreams which are good enough can break into the self censorship of the past that I was trying to make with several packets of strange foods designed to allow me to outlast the oh that's right she did die didn't she all I had to do was ask, but that was when it was so hot that I had to worry about all kinds of things like that and the balance I had chosen for my head was not cathartic enough, I had to shave it all off and take a shower in mud, but that simply isn't going to get me anywhere any longer, because on the top it's all coming off, so I ask all around me myself whether those certain things are worth it when I fight against time but there is not distraction coming in here or around here so I think that should win me a bit of leeway should I determine that there are several things worth having in that sort of situation, several times he has insinuated that it was your fault that the certain thing wasn't done, we needed that week, and the symbol comes flying out so there will not be much time after all as they are going to have to pull up the blinds and rip into the minds.

Grebellicue

It was a farce, I tell you a farce, I tell you. No one would have let it rain that long if the green was on still, I ran as fast as I could underwater but the best I could manage to kick up was a current, and the old hatchback roll right over that guy's body. I let it gel in my mind, the light bends through it still focused and the picture is one with hidden brushstrokes, something honest and possibly charming but three dimensional, or possibly not a numerical dimension but an internal dimensionality that never needs to be defined to anyone else, except to project the visual and the impact of the dream. "The next time you turn into a boy, will you kick your brother's ass for me?" I am a tactician, you rely on me at all times to push you through the opposing elements. I will them away from me and they fall like starved gulls into the ocean. I don't care to kill or mind if I die, for this dream I know the end to, and I am not invincible but a force that props up the image, so we can all see through the day what will be left once my legs are broken and my teeth no longer function, I am then a cage to restrain all of the dark matter compiled through my lifetime, it is now a task saved for gods to keep it from rupturing and overwhelming the field of vision.

Inteldogpile

A huge grimy truck speeding up to the red light, I can hear the gears shifting, the engine roar alters pitch. A long line of bikers pushing against the wind. I pass them when I can but the water isn't rippling enough to sufficiently recreate the drama. Feel like dismemberment plan doing what DC bands were doing fifteen years ago with more sophisticated production. Silence settles in when the third person chooses to work. Harder than it was supposed to be. A bowling shirt. An angry look, a stare down from a middleaged mad wearing a back pack, I wonder at how strangers moods effect one another, and smile at all the rest of the people I see, but the smile is a caricature, a joker grin that only confuses people. When will I get to sing on the bike, breathlessness of late, out of shape, should make a regular habit of taking the lake, halsted is an easy route, though more dangerous. Don't get the work out.

Variouseriousilly

With the proper time and motivation all things that conspire together to form ambition will be see through but the question is are there unseen sacrifices or vices which you are unwilling to give up, the answer is yes. And though there you find yourself sitting back and watching things that other people have created, hackwork that satisfies the greed of advertisers and network executives you can see the bones and wires of it, the motivation behind the brush strokes and it dries it out for you, It's not a matter of intelligence but how willing you are to learn from what you have already seen, or so if I dare say to die you will find will to hire for yourself a readily firing synapse that describes it all to you in a flash but lets not take the time to dissect the meaning of the revelation. And when you formulate opinions the lesser pragmatists find you critical and you are inclined to agree with that because you are fucking letting everything spin past you like time is nothing and there is no hurry for anything, and contentedness and the next thing you know seem to go right along with one another like firey bloom, where is your sense of humor, all you can do is to feel either inferior or superior to the individuals you interact with, such the way to dictate the way you carry yourself, the level of confidence with which you project your personality, and at first there is a suggestion that somewhere in the middle if a person who you could find a real connection with, a pal or buddy or mate, but that is a horseshit proposition when to begin with the social perspective is one mitigated on judging others, not the least ofd which reason being that the realigning the judgements as you gain more information is stressful and maintenance of the judgement is bigoted. Do you have an answer why here in this year long anniversary between you and she that you allow yourself to say something that you know is going to upset her, hurt her, no it's because you push for what you want and if you can see a way that you can get it you will take chances like that thinking that you are eloquent or skilled enough to stifle the fallout and patch up the wounds but the danger is that you are taking bits of her away, you know that she will try to change herself for you but then what? Who are you to make another person change who they are, and if they start to change are you going to take hold of those changes and be sure to mold them into this ideal fucking model human that somehow reflects your whim so much so that you end up with a person like Michael Jackson who changed himself around so many times in response to what the rest of the world wanted that the only way he could deal with it is to regress to a state of deluded childlike innocence.

Backlash

Backlash boom we all pay attention and give our input then there is a backlash boom we see something interesting and figure out a way to get people to give us attention by means of it and hopefully make some money and then there is a backlash boom I hear a rumor and there is no cause for it but there it is as true as a mountain top explosion and the people feed from it and add in ideas which evolve into new ideas that cover all ground and then boom there is a backlash you get curious about the wind cracking and look out the window but that is the main thing that usually distracts you from a train of thought that people once credited you with leading to a revelation and bam there is something to ponder but it never takes vey long for new information to discredit your conclusions because while there is evidence to back up a new position which offers a comparitively wide perspective the evidence itself is a perspective that can be interpreted in so many separate ways that it is useless and then you ask yourself what is the role of guilt in your daily existence when any point of view might suffice do induce your peace of mind but the fact of the matter is you know that you are the only one that needs to know that the true crime is that all perspectives have not been considered before you engrave your position into the air for all to live with and somehow that really scares the shit out of you because you have perpetually lived your life as if all things you do are to be considered and weighed in the minds of others. But look back on this line of thinking and then separately apply it to each individual and then breathe the air directly into your brain, the blood will be redder and the thinking not so corrupted with plaquey filaments of doubt. Get on with things and there will be no reason for justification of betraying yourself and widening the unused space in your brain.

I don't know what it is you think you have in that dusty coat of yours but don't tell me to nothing when you think I am the one who is holding all the cats.
Here you have a place where dig as deep as you can and there is something to be founds between those two. Row row your boat. Every town is on the make. Who writes I know what it is you think we are trying to do here but the major set piece that I have been attempting to think about is that there would never have been a man in the window in the first place if you didn't have to go screaming like a lunatic every time you thought you saw a killer in the road. You know how to stare a man down, and you give him what you have when there would be time for it to come to that, but instead of the mix there should have been a melange, for certain that is when you would have attempted a guess but there are sometimes civilized folks out there who would not be thinking that there should be called people but then again here would be your share on the top of the major part of this particular century because all I had to do in order for you to be waiting like the taller person would be when the foot stomps break through the ceiling a dream comes in through the magnificent place and heavy walkers destroy the peace of mind that could so easily be involved in tis kind of thing but seriously what am I trying, what is this that I am trying so hard for a man to find out in the making of the terraformer, I though you and I had an agreement, something about the riteous man just doesn't sit right with the kind of a guy that waits until your back is turned the other way before he clocks all your friends in the head but what is it that you are attempting here, other than the breaking of something that could just as easily be deleted because there is no high concept, just a problem that is trying to make use of something that would have been there but on the other hand it could not have been, and as much as I try to make some kind of a place, one way to get what you want from people is to throw them on the defensive, make them have to justify behavior that any idiot could see is logical but you never thought you would have to defend yourself because of that. YOu find out what race they are but tht doesn't narrow it down at all.

Lycrap

I'm beginning to suspect that there were murderers there, but the shift in perspective isn't all that profound, one person can find killing impossible to imagine and another person doesn't lose any sleep over it. Destroy a person's life that has nothing to do with you, and well if your life ever gets destroyed it wouldn't be them, it would be a random act that has nothing to do with your sadism. Even better, at least you did it in for somebody else if anything horrible ever happens to you, you got your hits in. Pretty easy, see, when you make justification. If the worst that can happen to you is to feel kind of bad, well that aint no kinda deterrent.
Are you writing from the heart, are you writing from the heart?
All the time you say what there would be to say but you are a chicken. You can heave what it is that you want to heave but until down came the suffrage nobody cared all that much.
the toilet there and the sink frozen the people are sitting against the walls because their chairs have been burned, I wasted the maximum degree of time in the arc of the sainthood, leaving all there was to leave behind like dust over th footprints that mean nothing to me. A measure of truth worth more than anything I ever dreamed of creating gave me a reason to continue to work, but when it lead to nothing the death was inevitable, I as impotent as the scholar waiting on the sun for light enough to write by. Given the sainthood and his following situation, the man minus his arms could hardly have been blamed for the sordid places he desired all people to take. And still the question was there, forward, inching toward the stalks of his eyes, does the character have a plausible motivation or are we sitting here waiting to find only that these are the places he wanted us to be taken to, not the places we needed to take him in order that the true sanity could be revealed, and maybe what I was doing was making a word more than it was supposed to be because the memory was not willing to allow me to get away with lying. You in the wavering cloud wait and watch the water come from under my soul until here we find the makings of a cool gelatin.
With wine you have there something that comes from deep within the base of your spine, something you wait for but there couldn't have been a way for you to understand the make and model of a body that pleases you, instead formulating strategems designed to prolong the relative creation of quiet distance between the conscious mind and the part that figures out how to spill, shut all else out, engages in a craft without pretention or awareness, only experience, flexibility, massaging a place that hides peace for you, for me. Who do we talk to when we say things that call for our own deaths, where do they come from when there was a mind once to break kout of and a mind to reconnect? What the hell do you want when you don't give in to the designs that spread out before you a way the determines the species you wish to be, or would have brought into being if it were your hand that swept over the blank page, giving impetus and energy to musccle and mind, creating context amidst a fear of senescence.
sword sway cowering away verbose. confident in the craft, death of a sales people.

Whatever

I woke up several people in the way that I thought I could there was uncles in the morning and I left it alone and time kept passing and in the lake there was no way I could ever wait for it and instead All I thought was that there could be picnics there could not be porks oh I thought you would have a chance to wait but it seems that I could never wait I could never wait and the time it continues to take away bits of my life and so interesting how close the word life is to the word lie and I have some skills that I have been leaving behind and after all the studying I do there is nothing I seem to be able to remember not the way that I wanted to not that way not the way that I wanted to the fuckers got themselves destroyed but there was a way for me to be better that that there was something in my plan I was sure of and I waited for as long as I could but beets told me that as a man I could not be happier than there would be some how sea creatures personality would bring into the steeplechase that you all thought there was jungles in you life and as the time came there was a secret in your face and it made me so angry and I have you have no idea who it is that you are attacking what the hell difference is it to you what it is that I wanted to use my anger for and instead there you found that the steel was having simpletons worth hanging on people get to fight you whine like a mule you whine like a mule you are still alive there was a fight and you couldn’t let any one single person go without being killed without being killed those guys had nothing to do here and so instead of waiting we wait while kevin has his dangerous happenings you see you little fucking deathmobile kids who will wait for as long as they can but instead there is something that you will insist that they reach but they never will find all the anger that I think was inside the injustice I hated nothing less than the way you consistently don’t become anything but a barbarian and so they learn to kill leaving no room for a decent person for learning for reading the places I always wanted to have taken away from me. But I can find more places to hide away from the decision that I made that made me happy for a time but what I did with it is a questionable thing- how much have I even tried to translate what was inside of me into something that I wanted all to read but here we were we could not give everyone enough of the feedback that came from sending the man from his grave beyond the specificity drawing away from the shot. And all I want to do is try as hard as I can to experience the fight that I feel I deserve and on the train I tried so hard to make the art octopuses known profundities I can try to take seriously but there is no output- nothing worth working on and why because I am a loser who will wish for death forever but will only gradually move closer and closer to is as I struggle for a foot in the door and the woman I choose might not know what to do but there is place for me with out death without thinking hurting all those many wonderful experiences are not worth the few seconds of neck breaking that comes from the problems in modern urban society and I don’t even have a loud enough voice to maintain a blog,

so angry right now that I can't even think straight and I am dreading an interruption. Have to chill chill chill even if the babies don't let me go through, have to find something at least maybe anything to make me happy, haven't I am so angry I can't even believe it I want to crash something break something scream, scream at the idiocy, every five seconds I have to be interrupted god I really hate that especially when I am arg.

BBBB beeee that as it may should something be described as that relationship between filling up your brain with things that are actually supposed to be left behind and just like she said if it gets put away then there is no reason to suspect that you are being unoriginal. And the stimulus is unfair, and I have no idea what this is going to do to my longterm peace of mind but honestly I don't like feeling this way and there is nothing but an unhealthy course of action presenting itself before me and so it ends where it ends and left you do the baggage behind like those fantasies I had of running through the door and leaving some part of us behind I think there is some health issues here, wondering what the problem is and instead of waiting around I find that there is no way for me to recover the points I have left behind and as it turns out at this point this has become a bit of a challenge and instead of hating the maximum left right of the sentence there would not have to be anything deeper than that, but when I try and reach for it it doesn't get behind me, just don't feel like socializing much these days, would rather be instead the thing that once upon a time I imagined that the conversation would begin rather awkwardly, and so someone was there to listen and her technique is to be there and to listen attentively and actually really to care and to have many other people to talk to and which of these places should I feel compelled to offer the advice? There is nothing that I can find in there, nothing that there would have been had I not brushed against the glass and gotten some of the grime on my skin, and the texture of the glass surprised me, finding materializing in my mind a vast desert of streaks that criss cross the frame work that I called in to, what a novel freaking idea. angry I am with myself for putting as much of that peace of mind on the line as I have on something as fragile as a pipe dream, and exploring this other aspect of myself is definitely a path to greater self discovery, but I can't help but to assume that the lies are way too thick, something about me is going to change if I keep going, something I think I probably won't like- this kind of change is a good thing for the person but a bad thing for the world that they cling to. Can I leave something behind? I have what it is that I want, and beyond that I know there can be something before the fire and all you had to do was create a place where all the people you knew were no longer interested in thinking about you, and once you begin to see the transitory nature you want everyone to be impressed by you, to love you you do everything you can do get people to love you because you are greedy it isn't enough to have passing respect you as a person have to be continuously considered somehow, this vanity you have is like an unstoppable monster that gobbles up your time and no matter what you do it will not be enough. It isn't enough it is never enough there is never enough love you always need more you are never content if you don't get it you withdraw and lash out and people who look up to you begin to resonate with this mood when they are around you and it feels natural at first but eventually they realise that they are never in a good mood when they are with you and so there is a negative association here at work that can not be denied. In on the kill take is what you decide to have to be, like fur that gets threaded up, in the distance there would be the curvature of the moon and with the walks that you take I would be bound to have something left underrated, the music it is not doing any good, there should be a person here who has not made peace with the master of the ceremonies.

There would you think be a dark place to hide if you had to find one, even without the dark monsters waiting with their disposable beaks and incorrigable fantasies to smooch you without remorse. Intellect being what it is, there could have been some forces to be reckoned with, in all honest, but through out the desert there are people who have planted their feet hard enough to consider home home. Guessing it would be appropriate to beg the pardon of the future wife is never a mistake, but burning up the stomach with a series of nonsensical barings of the teeth can't describe the colors the way they were meant to be activated, ugly though the thought of something like this might be. You seem to never really know whether you are lost, a place that you wouldn't mind getting lost in, because there are so many doors to other places that only need to be peeked at to send your mind soaring in many different directions, places where if you thought to hard the breeze would begin to chaffe and instead of being brought someplace new you find that there are wriggles where there should be no dois. A labyrinth is what I am thinking of here, a place where there are how many books would I have to look through in order to find my own life on the page, what kind of shuffling could I be doing? And someone once said about me that I was an enormous book with a thousand pages, really well written and when you open the book to a random page there is just that one bit of me but there is so much more that you don't know. And the best part about it is that none of it is a secret. How many times have you wondered whether something you have just done has ever been done before, or how many times? The sum total of all infinity is described by the millionth monkey, and what sort of a life do you think he had?

mor eof the same

Into the brink of bananas my tooth runs out of names because there was once a time in which there would have been something to do but instead the decay sets in and tomorrow never comes. Surprised? Fun fun fun this could be, and once again the rules are set, the groundwork laid by the idealism of the inner voice I rarely let free or to stretch like an imagination I had once. To there go I often when it's time to flounder and wonder why it is that I CAN'T handle the noise but I seem to be able to postpone the unhappiness, not to create a time that it will disappear altogether, and little things kick up signals that want me to pay attention, waiting for me to realise that it isn't what I expected or thought it was going to be, and instead of eventually reaching something difficult to find I find everyday just as difficult as the one before, only more or less idle when there would be fewer examples of elasticity. Underside is the same as upside down when I think hard enough to turn off the thoughts, and free myself from vanity, the one that chases me until I am unhappy again, unpleased, unimpressed with myself. The experience isn't really worth wondering about, no. I haven't tried to define the beginning or the safeness of the end, encapsulated like parenthesis, or bookends that want to meet but bend the space between themselves into ever more interesting, infinitely interwoven non-shapes, moving in on myself like the tips of my fingers crushing backwards into the hands, and the shoulders biting back and puncturing my head. An insect describes the arc I am attempting to imagine: sometimes the barbs point in to separate directions that leave me without a clear conception of where my focus is meant to be drawn, and inside I wonder how many times that shape had been drawn by nature by the time it emerged in that form. Who can't take the outside and shut it out the way it was supposed to shut, internalising the worst of the conundrums as whittled down from a massive calcified residue accumulated over the course of six or seven or eight thousand years, until without noticing I lean over and let my finger draw across it and before I realise what I am doing bring it to my tongue and what I expected to be merely salty is actually more caustic than I am prepared to handle physiologically, and the back of my throat begins to swell and cut off the flow of air to my lungs but i don't panic, never would, never would. I die in my dreams and decide that this is not natural but there is nothing I can do about it, or rather there is nothing that I can do to prevent it from happening again in the future so I use my ingenuity which is quite extensive and proven to adapt and find myself though a different and more wary and moody person nonetheless much much healthier for it. And instead of waiting for the hours to unravel I in this thickness of pined for sweeps of long grass eat my own body metaphorically, incestuous is a word that comes to mind but I don't like it anymore because its meaning has been lost due to over use. But still I describe an arc with the tips of my fingers as in my imagination I twirl as if there were no reason to pay attention, again shutting all things away from my awareness but still unable to live completely in the moment. I am tired of making decisions, decisions I make everyday it is what ages us, when we are children the decisions we make are rooted in instinct and an assumption that only good can happen as A result, but not now, no, we have the minds that attempt to out fox the other minds, there are only so many resources for the sharing. And instead of the weight that falls away from the face, instead of the heart that seems lighter than air so that the toes feel useless, there is a sloth that manifests itself gradually like the accumulation of debris around the eyes during sleep. Let them be sealed shut, my eyes, and I will sleep, because even if in dreams I am as unproductive, the waking world is nothing more than a series of moments seen through the lens of chemicals released according to association with stimulae. I don't want death because it would be cold but since sleep is where I spend most of my time it is where I feel most comfortable, if not most alive.

Redefining my lonely unread blog to be a platform for nonsense to amuse myself

? I wasn’t so sure that he could make out the best or the worst of the procedure, all I had to do was wait a while and instead there was a strong possibility that there could be no quarter left, and that no matter how hard I tried to evoke a real emotion the lines just had a hard time making themselves from one end of me brain to the other, and then on down the line and out to the tips of my fingers which if they could glow with brilliant blue bioluminescence nations could do what they would to trust one another, n=not unless there was an equation set in there already set in motion, but you are the laziest writer of them all because you know how to manipulate your mind into becoming a situation maker, a place where the books are hanging off of the walls and the people are afraid to make due with what they have because they are not so trusting of the future, no, not like they once was, and the success of the endeavor brings forth and unbecoming defensiveness that we should no allow, don’t you agree? Callers should be allowed to have a voice now and then, when the time is appropriate, but what I see is green and a streaming gloworm of lights that blinds a short percentage of my vision but it’s definitely dark above the horizon here, and without the leisurely stroll through real facts the story has no root in reality, so you can create something that actually requires real work and research, and a pen, and multitasking and most of all some time that should be put into it, while smoking pall malls and letting the brain get all limbered up, don’t want the lazy brain to fall into the wrong sort of decadence, we must villianize that aspect of ourselves in order to manipulate our productivity. What if not by rending departure but a crack in the sky comes the hail so far away through the breaking of the waves that fall over one another like screaching leaves in the atmosphere, and still I wait to redefine my bloggishness, while pestering the beuford I expect noone to get this far, so there alack a do alack a dee. And into the darkest mood I go without a care for whom I trample, And the leaves follow tiny grey and black upon my foot a bridge of poems they make for good song and dance without the mouth of maximum overdrive.

Poem

And somehow
amid all the thankless cracks and shadows
perpetuating negative space
you remember to think of me
and memory is enough

With such contrived machinations
I manage to dream
We are ankle deep and laughing
in mud that squishes through our toes
I ask once only
Do you remember when I kissed you
and you sigh
and tell me I am a silly thing
and that's enough

In a riddle whose answer is _______
what is the only prohibited word?

So forget nothing
and only remember to think of me
and laugh when you do
if only once in awhile
and that will be enough

Originality

I'm going to talk about originality. It’s going to be tough- There is much hammering and power drilling and circular sawing right outside my window, which is forcing me to put music on, which plays hell with my concentration.

I think it’s fair to say that a person knows whether they are being original- let’s say in the process of creating something. When you set out to make something, I think it’s important to try to offer something that you perceive as new and interesting- I mean, one way to look at it is that people aren’t really going to pay too much attention to what you have to say (in the language of whatever medium with which you choose to express yourself) unless it’s interesting. There are lots of reasons that something might be interesting to someone, like for example it reminds them of something important they haven’t thought of for a long time or it’s just aesthetically pleasing to them, but I think a big one is that it needs to offer something new, some element of new. Either way it has to offer something worth thinking about.

SO what you are trying to do when you create something original is to catch and keep someone’s attention and ultimately have an impact on their life, which isn’t going to happen if the whole of what you’ve created doesn’t coalesce above the mean of filtered stimuli. What I mean by that is I think our brains get so much information all day long from everything we perceive that it naturally tries to process it all into either things it needs to figure out (meaning discover what its significance, relevance, and repercussions to it might be), or stuff that’s banal and can be glossed over because it’s significance etc. is already understood, and thus can be seen not as information in an of itself but more as a direct path or line leading to a predictable outcome. I see it as the same thing as learning a new instrument, for example. At first, all the notes you want on a piano are difficult to find because the sensations of touching the keys are new, of the way it feels to sit on the bench, of the way your muscles have to move and even the way the neurons in your brain have to fire to move those muscles in order to move from one note to the next, it’s all new. As you continue to practice those initial sensations get filtered out by your brain and you are free to coast right through them to the next new bit that takes your immediate attention, and you are getting better. You are LEARNDING. The more you practice the farther forward you can see- it’s like wearing a path through the weeds. You walk back and forth and back and forth, farther and farther, enhancing your awareness of what you want, which is on the other end of the path, until you can simply zone out and experience the bliss of communicating directly through music because everything in between is automatic. I think writing works this way, and so do all other forms of creativity.

I think that the focus on the immediate moment that comes from needing to pay attention to those first initial sensations always comes with learning new things. I think that living in the immediate moment stretches out time because it creates useful memories. I think most people feel like time passes by like a breeze because they don’t fill their lives up with enough interesting new things, and when they look back on their lives as older people they idealize their youth because things felt new then, and then they fell into a routine that their brain has just filtered out since then. It makes them feel desperate and dead. They crave these new things without knowing why. This is why people like stories and why people join the army. Our lives work the same way as learning the piano.

On the other hand another way to look at the question of originality is whether what is being done is a pastiche of something that has already had an impact or it has simply copied something interesting yet obscure in the hopes that the source will not be found out and associated, in which case it’s just a matter of the size of the audience. This point isn’t as fun to explore because so much of our impact in life depends on the quantity of the audience, which is sad because, like I read once in a Vonnegut essay, there are so many people in the world that are always going to be better than you at what you do, and because of the increased communication that results in modern technology, you are competing with all of them rather than finding a comfortable niche in your own beloved community.

One last thing I wanted to say about originality, is that everything may have already been done that way before in a given medium, but that doesn’t mean the medium can’t be reinvented or combined in new ways with other mediums.

Ta.

Wide Awake

I had a headache but I kept on shoveling. The wood was good, I could feel the tiny rocks in the soil scraping.

My plan was to quit after one day. There was no way I was going to dig graves every day. But just this one, and then I wouldn’t show up tomorrow. Jobs were easy to find.

The sun was hidden and it was chilly, I’d planned it that way. I like the fall the best. It’s when people come home. I’d pictured myself standing under a huge willow tree, all alone for a few hours, working up a sweat in a windbreaker with dead leaves blowing all around. I don’t know why my imagination was that specific, but that’s what I ended up with so I guess it was like a premonition.

My trainer was a black man named Earl. He was 57, and tall, and he talked so quietly I could barely hear him over the sound of the trucks on the highway. Actually it was more like he was muttering to himself the whole time he was there, and only raised his voice slightly when it was important for me to hear him. I found myself opening my eyes really wide when he talked, for some reason.

He seemed to figure I grasped the general concept, and just sort of stood slightly behind me after he handed me a shovel and watched. He pointed out a couple of things, like where to stick my foot on the shovel, and how to keep the sides nice and straight. He sort of pointed with his whole arm, leaving his hand closed. I got the impression that his hands probably hurt him from all that digging. It was a big cemetery.

He left after about two feet, which was good. The plastic zip-lock bag was uncomfortable under the back of my shirt. It made me sweat against the bulk of the gun, and my skin kept catching a chill every time the wind billowed up. He told me to come and get him once it was up to my shoulders or so. “An don’ go too deep,” he said. “You cain’t get out then.”

“Alright,” I said.

Three feet down and I was filthy, but I expected that. My gloves were filled with brown clay and dirt. It smelled strongly like rotten eggs. Every few chucks I’d lean against the side of the grave and sort of sink in a bit. It occurred to me that this would be a good place to lie down and watch the sky, because the earth was so soft and no one could see I wasn’t working. I suddenly remembered that I used to like to do that a lot, lie down and just stare up for hours. But of course that was a stupid idea. Instead of lying down I would shove myself back onto my legs with both elbows and pull the shovel out of the side where I’d stabbed it, and start chucking some more.

After about five feet I had to stop because my headache was really getting harsh. I flicked off the gloves and pinched my eyes into my skull, then pinched the soft spot in between my thumb and forefinger to ease the pain. First the left with the right, then the right with the left after a minute or so. It was okay while I was doing it, but as soon as I would let up the pain would come rushing back into my brain, like my blood was full of tiny stones. It was hard to take. I opened my eyes and closed them again, but there isn’t much difference between the two different worlds, as far as pain goes. You’re stuck with what you’ve got when your eyes are open, and when they’re closed you can only see what you can’t have.

I decided to hurry up and dig the rest of the grave. As it was I could just barely see over the side, and if I stood directly in its center I could touch both sides with my elbows. I started to dig faster, really boring the shovel into the ground. I pulled up enormous clumps of mud and clay and swept them over my head. They swished into the grass. Swing, chuck, sling. Swing, chuck, sling.

Pretty soon the grave was so deep that the bottom was too dark to see my boots. Or they were covered with dirt, I couldn’t tell. In any case there was no way anyone who might happen to walk by could see what I was doing unless they stood right at its edge. I laid the shovel aside, pulled the zip-lock bag out and slipped the gun out, along with my draft card and a flat wad of sterile gauze. The pain in my head was making it difficult for me to focus my eyes, and I dropped the draft card into the darkness at my feet. But that was fine. I’d planned on burning it but I thought that since I was down there I might as well just bury it, and anyway this way I wouldn’t have to fumble with any lighter. I clawed some dirt way from the walls and stamped it down over the card until I couldn’t hear it crinkling anymore.

The gun was an old blue steel .38 snub-nosed my brother gave me before he went overseas. He’d bought one for himself just like it. I told him it was a stupid idea but he thought it would be cool to bring his own gun for some reason. He even went to church one day and had the deacon bless a chamber of bullets. Can you imagine? A deacon blessing bullets.

I gripped the .38 in my left hand and pressed the muzzle against the lowest knuckle of my index finger on the inside of my right hand. My trigger finger. I pressed it into the side of the grave as deep as it would go, and the weight on the pressure-point eased my headache again. “I am wide awake,” I said. It was important for me to say this.

I fired, and shoved my face into the mud of my brother’s grave to stifle the scream I couldn’t hold back, tasting oily earth.