Oh, Time

Dec. 3rd, 2013 01:43 am
Pulled from hermitage by S., requesting my presence at concert. Animal Collective? Never heard of. Bought tickets online while at work so as to remove my usual game of acceptance in the moment followed by excuse later on. Printed tickets, tucked in breast pocket.

Show was good! First half left me wanting, considered leaving. Second half delivered- sonic chaos, exponential crescendos, multi projection show on a dozen screens like teeth mouth insides mid devour or regurgitation of stage.

Then onward, uncharacteristic, to local hipster bar- on the off chance I do venture out for communal entertainments it's my habit to bow out early- for continuing conversation and pool(played terribly) until last call.

And now. Receding wave of sociochemical euphoria. Five hours until alarm sounds. Optimistically four hours total sleep. Wish me luck tomorrow: For respectability, systems analysis, training plan development, relative sanity. I hope for my usual giddy, absurd, perverse overtired rather than the rare bout of severe... ineffective... lethargic... sulking.

I suspect the former!

And look forward to it already. Excitement of transgression. Being worn out from an excessive bout of life. Yes, look at my bloodshot eyes: I debated vast truths in the night while you slept. Balanced reason and absurdity with such canny precision. I drank and ate and swayed in sonic oceans.

I will wear the white shirt with an extra button undone, blue-black suede-ish jacket, and a bleary, know-it-all, smirk.


May. 17th, 2013 10:49 pm
I need more conversations. There were always a few close ones and we'd spend nights, hour on hour, improvising mental architecture, collaborating towards some platonic, sensual ordeal of interaction. The give and take. Trading roles in snakeskin revolutions. Getting lost in the mazes we build and laughing our way out, suddenly children filled with wonder at one another and ourselves.

No one's ever claimed I have a light touch. My hands sometimes feel elongated, as if I could cradle my head easily grasped in one. Rest it in the bowl of my palm. I know that I have effected the trajectory of these dear friends as much as mine has been so altered. Not in specific ways, not about any discrete decision, but broadly, suffused, the bones of the world laid by our pilgrimage.

Sunrise would surprise us. Hoarse and weary and giddy with satisfaction. We always part ways, to sleep.
panama crone harelip abed 
head stand good
rich oboist arc
cosine obelisk
parapsychology dollar
algorithmic blot

I thought today about resolutions. 
I thought about stopping this... conversation with ghosts.
I feel sadness, always, as cosmic microwave background radiation.
I stay up later than I should, looking for the muse. When she finds me, we wear each other raw. She comes to bed and is never there in the morning. I don't resent her for this since I don't want to be there either. 
I stay up later than I should, looking for the muse. She's always out for blood. When she finds me, she'll only whisper as much as she can draw. I still wake up somehow more than I was. 

Gender Politics Aside
"...instead of seeing giving birth as a forced production, we see it as a “natural,” “biological” process, forgetting that in our societies births are planned (demography), forgetting that we ourselves are programmed to produce children, while this is the only social activity “short of war” that presents such a great danger of death. Thus, as long as we will be “unable to abandon by will or impulse a lifelong and centuries-old commitment to childbearing as the female creative act,” gaining control of the production of children will mean much more than the mere control of the material means of this production: women will have to abstract themselves from the definition “woman” which is imposed upon them."

"One is Not Born a Woman"
Monique Wittig


Mar. 22nd, 2013 10:51 pm

I'm obsessing over "work," the space once occupied by daydreams crowded out by this thing that always pays but doesn't fulfill. Work has all the trappings of a dream. The inspirational hooks and melodies, the one five four.


There is a qualitative factor I can't name. Mood, spirit, ethos, flavor, nothing quite works. Work is always less enjoyable than play, maybe defined by that difference alone. Surface tension between worlds. I don't want my working life to influence my playing life at all. Of course, of course, impossible.

So, I won't write about my day. You'll rarely read narrated events, and when you do they'll be mostly fiction. Truths are always coincidences. I continue to obsess over single lines of text, while others(most!) happen of their own accord.

So this! This. Must be enough. Cut free, as much as it can be.
Adventures in Noble Hypocrisy

I'm often read in person as confident and sometimes arrogant. It doesn't seem that way from here, but I can understand the point of view. I tend to maintain eye contact for long periods during conversations. I try to use tone of voice to emphasize meaning instead of subtext(unless, Of course, of course, of course.)- Attempt cognizance of passive aggressive tendencies, fallacies, biases.

I am also a child of irony. Much of my generation was dipped by the heel in that foetid river, exchanging our psychological innocence and certainty for a map detailing our prison. Of course my arrogance is an act! And you're supposed to know that. Instinctively, telepathically, collective unconsciously, through the bottle or in the belly, you're supposed to know. Certainty is inherently disingenuous. I am a playful liar and a noble hypocrite. I don't mind playing a role because I have no choice. Neither do you. Strutting or cowering, contrite or sleazy, putting on airs like the emperors new clothes.


Jan. 6th, 2013 09:45 pm
I! And the fruit of my labors, concede. None of

will work, doesn't have to, shouldn't even. Here in this small room. Through a door L. sleeps with the small fan on, white noise. Faint rush of the propane heater. I wander absently, with great purpose, towards the screen's promises. My uncomfortable chair fits my uncomfortable

self winningly. The furniture is repurposed, dinner table and chairs enslaved by the appliances. Interior decoration bowed to Appliance, so, they Applied themselves vigorously. You your companionship, business. Rumors of high promotions and even Appliances call the shots in a few edgier operations. Yeah... Ok what is that? I don't specifically remember writing it, though it's obviously mine. Could delete it. But, this is't supposed to be a

heavily edited exercise, this bloggery thing. I know what I was trying to describe and am presented with the images intended in the writing. But the description is personal, because I was writing for myself. I guess that works. Writing only for oneself opens strange doors in the mind. The write

r tries to trick himself, gnaws on subtlety like a badger on a face. Self deception is easy, not a tall task at all. It comes easily to us because we have a lot of practice. It's sort of what we do. Without deception we don't exist. I feel like someone is playing a joke with my(Everyone's?) life, but we haven't gotten to the laughter phase. Pre punchline.

It's a joke that I know I am incapable of ever understanding, a joke I can't laugh at without choking. Every thought is a potential revolution. There are gods, and we are their children, born at their intersections, nursed on their prudence, and injured by their conflicts.

We are fundamentally unable to know them. The unconscious is not filled with ghosts and demons, things that we find often enough outside. It's filled with the vast majority of ourselves. The nub of consciousness hangs as a wriggling appendage from the rest of our dark bulk. "What's going on in there?" "Well. Like I said, I can't get the joke. There's no way to understand. I don't mean it's too difficult or anything like that.

The problem is that for you to understand all that," he gestures to the black rings orbiting them a few thousand kilometers out, "You wouldn't be you anymore. Being intimately conscious of the processes and interactions that create your experience of consciousness... would evaporate you.

" The Questioner stares up at the rings. "They haven't evaporated." "There is no they! You still don't get it.

you don't have a map for this. Those things you're looking at aren't even what you think. Rings? Last guy saw dice bouncing around. Someone else saw angels, ok? You don't even have a visual handle on it! Can't see it, not what it actually is. So it dials back for you and substitutes." "I'm going in." "Fine. Assuming you've come prepared?" "Medical team, private hospital wing. Twenty years of life support. Constant physical therapy." "And after twenty years?" "Game over man, but I'll be up before then." "
Alan Watts often talked about the illusion of the separation of body and environment. The self insists that the body ends outside the skin. Would the cell, if it could, tell us that it instead was the indivisible unit? That the body was just another outside, as far as the cell was concerned?

The barriers are not barriers at all. Doors, while sometimes closed, make passage implicit.


"Although I don't feel qualified to advise you... Your persistence indicates a strong enough need that I am persuaded to speak nonetheless. Understand that I am not as wise as you imagine me to be, even if. Especially! If! you call me a fool. Use with suspicion."


I've changed over the past few years. I wonder if anyone else notices.


Nov. 15th, 2011 11:01 pm
I don't like this person I become sometimes: At work, in official situations, in transactions. I detest the facade, but have come to love the game. Honesty always barbed. First thing is to find out what someone wants from you. Not in a material sense! Most people I meet want their expectations broken in small ways, providing novelty without threat. They are the simpler set, as almost any mild eccentricity will do. Rouse interest, then provide positive reinforcement and project confidence. The more rigid people don't want their expectations broken. With these, identifying what those expectations are and exceeding them according to their own internal standards works best. Overall, a genial and conscientious demeanor, hints of friendly subversiveness.

The best complaint I've had is rather ambiguous. "We... have no idea what to think about you." Of course, quite happy with that.

Why can't you just be yourself, be natural?

I am. Always. But what you're really asking of me is to be unaware of the processes driving behavior. Every interaction is calculated in some way, whether you're party to it or not. This truth makes people uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable. The facade is mandatory, freedom is forgetting.

I'm not that grim, not really. I enjoy... all this. Love it. Relish. Sometimes.

Because people can align, they can fit so perfectly with each other that their masks dissolve. Sublimity. For a moment, forever, through any sense, even the smoke signals of writing. Is that what I clumsily attempt to reach? Using all the wrong tools, chasing the unquantifiable with a calculator? It's ok. One good conversation is worth it.
We caught some of the republican "debates" recently. I'm not a cynic, exactly, in the sense of consistent contrariness. I do have an admitted bias towards a carnivorous interpretation of motivations, in that I see sharp teeth everywhere. By these meats wherefore we live, so our hearts therefore we give.

Politics (from Greek πολιτικός, "of, for, or relating to citizens") in 2011 in the United States is Entertainment. Now, I say this as an outsider. I do not associate with any political party or particular "movement." (tangent: I am interested in the co-evolution of technology and state power, what drastic variations on themes of control. What would a government be like that had total and unassailable information control? Fascinating or by design completely unremarkable?) I simply can't muster the suspension of disbelief necessary to identify with anyone who appears(in the true sense of apparition. More than an image, psyche imprinted in digitus.) on television. Agenda. Gleaming teeth. I don't believe salesmen. Unless they're very skilled and I don't realize they're salesmen until after the sale.

Change... happens. Unfortunate that most of it is not our choice. May have to look in to changing that.

What if you're wrong about yourself? What if continuity is an illusion, along with your common sense view of consciousness. If we are collections of competing impulses, warring factions, delicate ecologies of desire. Would it matter if you weren't real, whatever that means? Would it change anything? It should, I think. Self consistency is not enough. There is enormous resistance to this idea, even hostility, so of course curiosity is stoked.


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