Steaming noodle bar.

Word deficient tonight.

Checkers...

Log )
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."

From
"One is Not Born a Woman"
Monique Wittig



Tanglembed

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.

Listen,
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." "

Not Advice

Dec. 29th, 2012 11:43 pm
No buts. World is wide enough. We're being watched, aren't we? I hope, sometimes. That some future historian will read all of this and raise me from the dead to have a conversation. Conversation finishes and I'm back in stillness. Thinking slowly about teleology, softly about nihilism, and shamefully about righteousness. 

I build mazes around myself. At the time, they seem reasonable and correct.

non cohesive, Slippery, but dry. I don't know what's happening, or even who I am. There is a fight. In me. I'm not impressed with either option so have decided to remove the opposing forces and simply rule by fiat. 

The ongoing explosion of information will one day be regarded as a sort of big bang origin to what followed: A fully sentient disembodied culture, joined the world and insisted on a place within it.. 

Find ways to keep us in, long term. Cross platform identity is important too. The world has to be there, whether it's a lobby or Victoria Falls. 
to cheer you empty bonnet eyeball recursive trailer park blue toilet man remains hot damn all that wide space nature rocks and shit and mailbox shoes stomping hazard pattern grey handed lust wielding devil stenographers.

Never, half the wings in the world unpartnered but still flapping amiably. They never knew, never suspected, never nightmared the crater slapping boot leathered fiends on their way from Duluth, or Kathmandu, or Wherever She Last Sang.

Hotsauce, mullets, drag racing, gasoline and timber, magnolia, mind numbing cicadas, white green blazing air. Elongated strip mall cities, navel gazing outlaw frontiersmen dancing across eight lanes of glistening and sun blistered traffic. It's high noon and no, you can't get a fucking cab, asshole.

listened to the sobbing as we descended stairs stained with urine and worse

are we coming or going this isn't even

Endings. I'm not here. Please leave canned goods or unused condoms. That was a joke. Please just leave. I'm kidding. See. We're having fun together now. You'll treasure these memories, I promise.

"Open your eyes. There's nothing there, you're ok. It's me, it's me, just relax, ok. Nothing is going to happen, honey, I promise. Can't you see the light through your eyelids, see how bright that is? We're in the kitchen. You're sitting on the floor, reach down and touch the linoleum. There. Yeah, that tile's coming up a bit. We're in the kitchen, everything is fine, you can feel the floor. Just open your eyes, my sweet, my love... Please? It's not dark, there's nothing here. What? Ah, that's the cat. He wants you to pet him. Just pet him! Look, we can't do this all night again, I have to get up in four hours. Yeah, we've done this before, don't you remember? And the floor is kinda dirty. The cat, yes! What else would it be? Well. There are more of them now, I'm, uh, see, watching them for some neighbors. They like you, even though you're all tensed up. The way you're clutching your arms will leave bruises! I like you too. Open your eyes and see? Please? You're sweating. I can feel it through your leg. Relax! So jumpy, so tense. Let us relax you. Let us. Open your eyes."
Tongues are weird.
empty vessel
dusk hued breath
sweat slicked limb locked torsion



Two people walk through a forest. The walker with a rock turns to the other and says:
"This rock has no meaning.  It is a rock that has lost its "rock-ness."
The other replies:
"Hrm.  I don't care about your rocks."


...isn't it rude to interrupt?  I mean, I've talked to people, europeans(why do you want me to capitalize? can't you just let it go?) before and they seemed to prefer it.  Changes the dynamics of a conversation, both parties comfortable with cutting each other off.  

It seems chaotic but it's not any more than, well, normal.
The bugs have returned. Our instinctive knowledge of an immanent summer crawls, buzzes, hops its entrance. Exposure breeds familiarity,
"I can drink the water around the bug, it's trivial really, just a little extra protein."
What does a person strictly accustomed to impurity judge as pure? What does such a person use as cleanser(According to thesaurus.com "soap is an organic compound; detergent is a synthetic cleaning agent")? Are all our societies hypochondriac?

Another

Apr. 11th, 2011 11:18 pm
This is a test. This is only a test.

How quickly even a modest brush with Media can lure and harness thought patterns to a fevered dance. Looking for a good text based browser for windows. Interacting with the world through text provides a different specificity of meaning than the usual set of visual and audio cues.

The text world is not nobler than any other, despite my inclinations to insist otherwise.

Fragments

Apr. 11th, 2011 03:19 am
Something begins again. I have been here before. This circumscribes a reaching for a past that is erased and mostly forgotten. I still write in these codes to myself because they are inescapable. The death of specific nouns forces a focus on relationships rather than meanings. Choppy sentences wave happily from the page, from the screen, from a boat... A boat, yes. Comrades on a desperate sea voyage bound they know not where. Nothing holding them together but sloppy punctuation and ephemeral chains of grammar.

Do we have our story yet? Can we begin the dissection?
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