Friday, September 27, 2019
in fact, for some time I have been working at training my brain to not wallow in despair and just keep posting my wordy diatribe... and maybe not the livid rants against the mastadon of silence which I have posted in moments of shakey vulnerability, lashing out with intellectual violence at the nameless lurkers I could only imagine to be there...
but I have had revelation after revelation about that which I could only hope for- there is an audience. and so I could finally narrate to myself, about myself: despair no more, brain, and pretend no more to despair no more, either. there is no need except to write.
it has never been about whether or not the writing is enjoyed... just if it is actually read. if i didn't write for others, I would keep a diary under a lock. instead I write and post that which, without anonymity, leaves me subject and exposed to all that can transpire as consequence and reward.
I've been working on a plethora of interconnected topics, both personal and intimate... for the last 5 years. it started out as an idea for a book about the war on drugs and has evolved exponentially in size and scope. it is about everything I can muster from the entirity of my spirit and minds eye.
what's fun and impossible for me to not do right now is post little snippets of bigger sections, which, when read by themselves, wouldn't appear at the surface to have anything at all to do with whatever you might consider a big picture...
but here I am all smiles for miles telling you how even now- in this itsybitsy piece that the majority would consider lengthy -that I can barely contain myself over just how much I've written compared to how much I've shared... and how exhaustively the connecting of dots I have spent my hours in monumental dedication to the principles of. it's staggering for me to look down it all... and to realize that while I'm not yet published or even on the map of literature in the world... I am dragging a mountain that I grew behind me, and it is one I would love to have climbed by anyone who knows how to read, think, and feel.
here, for now, I will break off a beachside cliff and leave it here to reside in the category it belongs: what the fuck is David talking about?
hear me out, yea? no, it won't make sense if that's
this doesn't. i'm not trying. shit. i want you to
understand something about me
complex machinery me. all flimsy and brittle from the drugs, yet sharp in tooth and nail.
I can prove I'm not a robot though every time my computer asks me to.
i just click the thing that tells me to prove how I'm not a robot. pretty soon, one day anyway... it might not be so easy. haven't you seen the movies or dreamed the digital dreams of the future?
anyway. for now all I have to do is click the thing. sometimes pick out stop signs and sidewalks.
and the webpage continues to load... or whatever it is that it needs me not be a robot for.
but less about me.
i'm just a heart. a little lumpy.
hear me out though- i promise this is going somewhere. some of you will thank me. i have lots of heart things i need to tell you.
some will probably maybe roll their eyes as if that kind of reaction could reach me somehow in the future while i'm contemplating that kind of reaction.
if you roll your eyes when you, maybe eye shopping, would probably maybe get a good feel for what kind of eyes you want to have... you roll them back and forth, testing and admiring their rollability. you might tell people, "I roll my eyes professionally", which is why you were at the eye store if that's what happens to be before your existence in which you eventually read this paragraph about how you would roll your eyes at sentences which will eventually end... if you could even make it. i know you're busy.... existing is hard work. I know, trust me. sometimes I barely exist at all.
and you'll grow them yourself. your eyes. in your head. you know, along with everything else in the fleshy apparatus that is you. when people, gym bros and incels mostly, tell you that you have such pretty eyes, you can tell them that you grew them yourself.
what a wonder it is to be complimented on something you probably maybe broke your back over. do you even know how hard it is to grow pretty eyes without a science lab and a petri dish or some shit? it's fuckin' nearly impossible... but through obstacle and pitfalls, thick and thin, mostly thick but mostly thin, here arrives to the red carpet fanfare of celestial validation and even vindication - for those who farm their eyes so pretty are often given up as a lost cause in the maybe pre-existence of who-knows.?
...... the shadow knows.... sorry. THAT was an off topic deprecated popculture reference tangent that I just couldn't pass on. apologies. I was saying:
here arrives flattery, the alleged lowest form of compliment. but God damn I could stare into those ocean eyes forever.... or at least until I get off.
i have to explain a lot of other things in order for all of the context to gather up all of the sense you might not consider important - uncommon sense, if you will - contexty and long storyish, not boring but not quite attention fondling clickbait, but me, pleading the case for the brain food that is reading and piecing together a big-big-picture, whose focus will come in as static, uniform, and expanding faster than the words can travel, faster than i can even write them - a blooming melody of springtime dawning on the marvel that is all the fascination a silly description like this could even fathom as what anyone would say to,
it's beginning to make sense.
which still, at least now and as far as i'm concerned... again, for those, especially the really smart ones, isn't the point. i doubt i'm getting any of the grammar and rules of writing correct. none of that matters unless you are as good at reading as anyone might need to be... with all the rules with all the nazis for rules, nagging at arguments on facebook or youtube comments. also not the point.
the point, which wouldn't make any sense for anyone but me right now - which, for the last fucking time maybe, is stupidly easy to grasp and is the only thing which baffles my lonely and competent brain into the isolation and relief from all the fatherfucking mindlessness of the major echo chamber circlejerk cliques to which all of my abundant energy and spiteful malice goes in sentence after sentence, constructing at least one part of the overall gloom and doom elephant in the room ...oh fuck it - what the fucks the point (this is me questioning myself about the integrity of my grip on reality about anyones ability to put it together without fatherfucking step-by-step instructions) - it's not like anyone, especially those who proudly claim that they don't read - would... no... COULD... possibly or remotely even... DESIRE to learn about in the absence their unrealized ignorance...
the fucking dunning-kruger herd out to pasture, stumbling blindly in their own shit. god dammit it makes me angry - and i'm sorry for the language - which is itself something else pissing me off - because it's not like i'm writing in anything other than english. "pardon my french" - fuck you, twat, that wasn't french, or any other language.
i love this saying: sorry/not sorry. right now i'm using it about the previous bit here... which, if you read and understand... is about words making the brains of the fascists-for-freedom-from-foul-french-foundation swell with righteous and furious cat-hiss... to them i say: every 'like' is one punched nazi - every share is one prayer.
sorry/not sorry if you're wondering why i got off track here. i did not. except that one time with The Shadow reference. like i have previously said... hear me out. i promise you... this is going somewhere.
OR IS IT? yes! it is. that's me making a joke.
you can trust me. i actually have more scars in my guts and on my heart than i do from all the needle holes i ever had ...from the lies i told in the naivety of my first three decades in this existence.
i'd rather blast my veins with illegal chemicals than lie. if you don't like the truth, then don't ask me anything besides the bullshit smalltalk meant for the lines in the market. how am i? regular. that's about as close as i get to honest and to-the-point with the the mobs all gathering for the self-check-outs on their way home from their 9to5. i'm regular and if you have to think about what i could possibly mean by that... be my guest. please, do think.
if anyone ever tells you that you think too much... slap them with some intellectual high-horse and say, "FALSE." ......here is where you could roll those home-grown eyes and laugh out loud at the idiot who probably really barely avoided being born with an extra chromosome... you would continue, turning to look them in the eye, calm, serious, stern:
"there is no such thing as too much thinking. there is only how you think."
they might scoff, not realizing yet the depth at which they now reside in your presence - and here you can add, as a rebuttal to their low effort attempt to seem enlightened or some shit:
"i think critically". because you do. you must or no way would you be here right now, reading these words.
unless... perhaps you are forced to, or are only doing so out of hate and spite, seething and boiling with fanatical and rabid foaming at the mouth emotion,
if you'd like, here you could add, "you should read more"... intellectual flexing...when used at the right moments... isn't nearly as arrogant as everyone might accuse you of... they're probably just looking in the mirror of their mind and wondering out loud how they didn't even notice how fat they got over the years of gossip. fat in the brain.
you can ignore those who only talk about people. I would recommend instead to try eavesdropping on the conversations of those significantly smaller in the social circles of art and that which is truly underground. it doesn't have to be in a coffin be underground. and by that I mean you could start reading and praising the works of those who write them before they are dead.
people die all the time and it upsets me how often it is only in death that certain writers, artists, and musicians receive the trophies for their haunted ghost house where they don't actually exist because when you die you're actually dead, not existing in any way that is at all measurable... so much to the point that when I plead to you for your attention you must know by now that I am doing it with the same limited air we all share... and that I laughably and naively hope that you care.
life isn't fair. here is what will happen.
this post will be posted. it will be read by more than I think, probably, as per usual... but beyond that, nothing will come of it in particular until much later. my audience now is working, raising families, doing drugs, living life, watching movies, and occasionally reading shit like this on Facebook. thank you, I love you.
I spent lots of time making zero money doing this, which is fine except that our current collective society can't and doesn't exactly provide the sort of living space and luxury needed for the complex machinery that is me... which is how I have been able to be me while producing this... while also not starving and dying.
these efforts yield results which are at once, both terrifying and wonderful.
i am happier perhaps than I have ever been.
I also cannot pay the rent for the outrageously overpriced motel room in which I have been churning these words and art that the majority of I hold too close to my heart.
that's okay, I'll figure it out... but a day is going to come that you, me, and everyone will look back and wonder why we weren't doing it all along, living with a universal basic income. most likely. I tell myself... as a form of comfort... in the future... that's where I should have been and would have made bank probably... is exactly where my real audience is. their numbers beyond my fragile comprehension... their ovation... standing. their applause. thundering.
I know this because I know history. the people in the future are much smarter.
Monday, August 12, 2019
[A letter never sent to a person whose privacy is paramount]
HOLYFUCKINGSHITimissyourfuckingguts. Just for the record. I'm not sure that I've explained how I have realized how you taught me so much about myself- we never talk anymore, and that’s okay, these things happen… distance between friends grow and the memories, those fickle brain thingies, they fade and become what you might call yourself “fond of”.
It’s friendship really that you helped me to understand so much better than I ever had… and to be okay with cut ties and bridges held hostage. what friendship really is- platonic vs romantic vs boundaries and respect and honesty above everything else. before you and the in-the-clouds but no-touching sparks of lust, want, and the ground breaking earthquake panic attack drunk and drugged me losing my mind over what we both maybe wanted but just couldn’t - it ran it’s course and while i thought, at the time, that it nearly killed me, for months just wandering in my mind looking for you and writing nothing but poetry, prose, and pathetic pleading she-loves-me-nots- i didn’t realize until the pain started to fade… that i was perhaps a better person for it. i came to terms with my problems of entitlement and catastrophizing. the tunnel vision widened to a canyon maybe, and the creative drive in me fired back into life, you were my muse still, even if we no longer spoke, and i hurt less and less.
I still love you madly and would maybe take a .22 to the shoulder for you, but I don't at all mean that romantically. I beat myself up for a long time. I don't feel bad anymore for the shit I pulled us through. if it hadn't happened, there is a good chance I would be dead. and I’m certain that you gained insight and perspective that has improved your life.
I can’t say why, you instantly came to mind when I stood still as a statue for the briefest moment, bleeding to death. my dad was first, but you came next… and we hadn’t spoken and I hadn’t thought of you much recently- but the flash of your face would give me the will to live. you're one of the people that I physically held my own blood in for when alyssa stabbed me. it was quick, and the memory is still horrifying. There is nothing else like it that I can compare it to contrast it with and give you a decent perspective. it was annihilation right in front of me.
I considered letting myself bleed out in the moment. I really did. I’ve struggled with suicidal thoughts all my life, and here i was, bleeding all over death’s doorstep. my memories of that experience are both distorted and clear. It’s so strange and difficult to explain exactly what led to what at exactly which moment or where I stood or what I said to her to get her to call 911…
but I remember clear as the sky in st george in the middle of July - not a single cloud. The thoughts that ran marathons in my mind, amped on adrenalin probably, I remember them still with nearly perfect recall.
I thought abou just dying. I let my hands down for a second. I looked at them, dirt in my fingernails, palms covered in my own life, reflecting the sun, they didn’t even look real. but it would have been easy... no need for suicide, I would have been murdered. it would have been an epic conclusion to a sick and twisted story and I even briefly considered in a flash that someone would hopefully compile all my writings, and post-death, I would be vindicated, (laughable, I know) and finally understood by everyone who currently hates the way I do things. All I had to do was lie down and go to sleep.
as dumb as it is, I thought how it would certainly stir up conversation about the war on drugs - my sole passion and purpose in life, given to myself by myself - to be the one that ends it. to be the one who gets people to consider individual rights over what the masses fear because fox news and DARE worked together to raise a generation of sheep people who don't know a fucking thing about why they would choose to do or not do drugs - because they were only told DRUGS BAD. NO. - if they asked why, they were shown a scrambled egg in a frying pan, faces of meth dot com, and reminded that so and so overdosed and couldn't help it because the drugs were a disease and an addiction and would only lead to incarceration and death. the war on drugs makes that a fucking reality and I think about it constantly.
As those few seconds passed and I thought about how I had, for a while anyway, entertained the idea of how cool it would be to die as a martyr and victim of the war on drugs. in that moment it wasn't just my hopeless, super-sad depression and ever visible existential crisis that made me think - for a flicker of a second - that I should just lie down and let alyssa try and lie her ass off -
at first I couldn't help but laugh at the things she would say.
- about I was beating her repeatedly - force feeding her drugs - and whatever other nonsense she literally tried to tell the deputies and police officers who ultimately saved my life -and no, the irony of cops saving me from that death is not lost on me and my perspective about them and the jobs they face day after day changed dramatically for the better, while compromising not an inch of my position about the archaic laws they have to enforce. it puts bread on their table and they believe in it. I only ask that they please please please just let me also do what I love and believe to be worth the risk of incarceration. they won't, obviously.
but then the flashes of the people I love and the things I still want to do immediately outweighed that fantasy. my dad, you, my brother, sister, and grandmother- you came to my minds eye so quick - at the right time - and it wasn't even close. I would live, god dammit.
I put my hands back over the blood pouring from the holes in my neck- everything was pure chaos, nothing appeared real. my memories of it are a different color than the reality i remember otherwise - everything seemed to to be moving at an insane 120 frames per second, far too real looking for a TV kind of thing. It was terrifying and I knew in my heart and guts that it meant time was going to run out, and fast.
To summarize for for now, I demanded that Alyssa shut the fuck up, call 911 and start driving. Basically. I had to be as calm as possible because she was kind of hysterical that is beyond description. I knew and decided immediately that she was too deranged to tell the paramedics how to find us. I wish I could listen to the transcript... she was purely maniacal. I only got her attention to listen to me while I told her where to drive as fast as possible... by kicking out her windshield with my barefeet... I might have been wearing sandles... again the order and specifics of the time line are far less clear than everything I thought. But it worked, she started to listen to me instead of just rambling at the phone in her hand. I had to remain calm, bleeding to death - it was coming out fast, faster than i even knew, and my hands with their pressure, while part of what saved me, felt weak and as if they were doing nothing - I had to focus, which I did, on telling her, often raising my voice to get her to do as I said -
"Start the fucking car"
GO. Turn LEFT. GO FASTER. TURN RIGHT. Tell them to meet us on the main street of Aurora by the church!
this was an over and over again sort of thing because keeping her attention proved difficult - from trying to give the dispatcher a sob story ... to turning her fucking camera on to film me while narrating over it. Fuck I want to see that video.
I also began to shout over her to the ears of dispatcher... the truth, just in case I didn't make it. as we barrelled into the town and arrived at the corner we did, I think, but can't be sure, that an officer was already on the scene. my memories become blurrier and juxtaposed the closer i inched to death. one police report describes the floor of the car being a "pool of blood".
The next thing I remember is the sheriff who took over trying to keep the blood from falling out of me. I remember clearly how stressed and concentrated his face was and I asked him then and there if this was being recorded by their body cams- he said yes, so I told him exactly what happened.
It wasn't self-defense. It took one or two minutes for her to do the deed, but it was partly retaliation for me punching her in the face. It was the first time I have ever hit anyone out of aggression - and I hate that it happened. I don't do violence, but I believe my brain was dumbed down by the stress, emotions, and drugs... to something awful and primal, even if only for the moment-
I snapped when she threw my life's fucking work at a rock and began to stomp on it - everything I been working toward, art music photography writing... I don't remember for a second considering that violence is wrong - which now frightens me because I have always contained my anger to words. in my life I have stopped more fights from happening around me than I have ever been challenged to fight. by far. a lot of people regularly don't like how I use big words or condescension - which they're confusing with me just telling it like it is. I don't sugarcoat; honesty has gotten me in more trouble than the lying of my youth that tore my guts apart. i let my own brother punch me in the face the year before just because he couldn't control his emotion.
and right then I couldn't contain my emotions. I wonder how much of it was actually a choice.
so I punched her in the eye. she wailed and flopped over, dramatic and purposefully. immediately crying. she was so fucking good at this; prepared for it. this was the girl who only moments before was the first to threaten me with a knife, demanding that I hand over my phone while she had her dad listening in on her phone.
she was always telling me she wanted to fistfight me. she would demand it in the sort of rage that would frighten just about any man. She isn't small, and she likes to fight. she told me, while laughing no less, about how much of a pussy her ex boyfriend was because she strangled him and got in trouble for it.
I stomped off, fuming and realizing that, god dammit I shouldn't have hit her because fuck violence and I'll own that, I lost control for that moment because I was watching my precious ego and phone full of pictures and poems being smashed by a maniac - I told her to get up, and that I was sorry for hitting her, but that I knew it wasn't that bad.
I lost control for that moment - not just for my ego and works of digital art, music in the making, concept short film footage being smashed by her feet, which became elephant feet in my strange memory. only then did I suddenly see just how fat she was. I had never once before in our friendship ever really cared at all about her weight besides the fact that I wasn't attracted to her. but right then she became so ugly that it haunts me. my jumbled memory sees her as a demon pig with no distinguishing arm to hand hand ratio. her hands appeared as hams with knives sticking out, her screaming in my face, no longer fake crying because it didn't work on me - it never did - she even admitted to me that she put mascara on every time she was about to start a fight and cry. she laughed when she told me that... she screamed GET AWAY FROM ME.
When that kind of angry, ugly, and out of control has a knife in each hand and tells you to get away, you oblige.
which I did. I backed the fuck up. I love and always respect boundaries - save that single lapse in self restraint when I gave her what I imagine turned out to be barely a shiner - my fist and my body weight is no match for walls, let alone peoples faces. I might tell everyone I know Kung Fu, but honestly, I never got good at it.
I backed away, returned to calm. her eyes were on fire.
BACK! GET BACK!
I did. she followed.
this happened again and again until - bump - my back was to my car. I could go no further.
I said Lisa, "I can't back away any more."
my stupid brain is a child at times and I remember briefly considering then and there that maybe I should try pulling a Neo and, while probably injuring myself, back flipping over my car, which I obviously couldn't do- or even just grabbing the knives out of her hands - fast like a ninja - the dumbest thoughts I had - because even then knowing just how volatile she was and all the violence she had previously threatened -
the reason I didn't backflip to paraplegic safety or just take the fucking knives from her and scold her like I previously had when she first threatened me with one only minutes before - was simply because I didn't believe she would actually do it.
she, who had also professed undying love for me and laughed at all my jokes - no way would she. I was looking her in the eyes right after she first stabbed me in the right side of my neck - the blood was free and warm and the shock was genuinely quite wtf-as-fuck and I just stood there as she then stabbed me with the other knife on the left side - the blood from that one wasn't just free, it was a fire hydrant for a second, and then became a river -
it happened so fast.
I stumbled, I think, put my hands to my neck and I believe I may have screamed something along the lines of WTF RETARD GOD DAMMIT YOU'VE KILLED ME - or something like that... it's so weird at this point because I remember walking around thinking about lying down or not, thinking of the drug war, the stories she would tell if i died, and you and my dad and my siblings. i think it was you that really saved me. and finally taking my hands from my neck and wiping them on her face - and asking her to please call 911. I told her, "look at what you've done - if you don't want me to die, please call 911."
and was immediately in cover-her-own-ass mode, wailing on about it to a confused dispatcher - I ACCIDENTALLY STABBED MY BOYFRIEND TWICE IN THE THROAT BUT IN SELF DEFENSE BECAUSE HE WAS BEATING ME UP - but not yet was she answering their questions - she had it on speaker phone -
my voice was already lost from all the shouting I did the night before in order to match her volume - It's funny how she never loses her voice, but it's understandable because she always does a lot of shouting at everyone just about anything she doesn't like. never have I ever known someone quite like her. when we met, I immediately liked her because she got my sense of humor right off the bat, and actually enabled me to run free with my mouth... my thoughts, ideas, and awful jokes I had long secretly pined to try delivering on stage.
it was in front of her I made up my first joke that I actually considered appropriate for introducing myself at stand up, - a thought and dream of mine that was immediately validated by someone who laughs the way I do to genuinely funny personality jokes, self-deprecation with borderline arrogance of self confidence at my strengths and weaknesses. there is little that I love more than making people laugh, and I am unafraid to throw myself under the bus to accomplish it. its as close as I think I'll ever get to knowing what a cat feels when it purrs.
I told her that I had it all figured out - if I failed to be a rockstar or critically acclaimed writer, hey! no problem! I could always fall back on where all other failures end up: doing stand up comedy. She almost choked as she told me over and over again that yes yes- you absolutely can and you should why haven't you already?!
she went on to tell me something about how she knows people up at wise guys in Salt Lake - which I took with the finest grain of salt- people always talk about how they know people and I was already skeptical of her due to her posts about astrology being science and how she was going to uproot the world of psychology. I thought she was as delusional as I used to be, except slightly dumber. no problem I thought, dumb friends are cool, too, and I've always been improving at being disagreeable. I thought I could help her learn and learn a few things myself. after all, I loved learning when I'm wrong and she claimed to also love it.
she did not. but she was also the first person I'd ever met who took dex - DXM, skittles, the red pill - on a regular basis - my favorite drug which I would inform only the people I felt would understand my use of... that I was a microdoser who induced my own mania, which turned me into my own version of Tyler Durden - it helped me be the person I wanted to be - confident and cool, creative and unafraid to improvise on the spot and embarrass myself - I began doing it to save others from embarrassment and thought myself a secret super hero. all I wanted was to spread how to laugh in the face of the ugly reality and mean it - how to never ever actually commit suicide by talking about it openly, citing my mother's suicide as the lesson which pushed me there; I could play and make up new guitar riffs as much as I wanted and skill level finally began to catch up to those who I admired most.
it was the red pill which took me down my own rabbit hole and seperated me from a reality that I always questioned anyway, and enabled me to draw parallels from everything in my life to everything that you did in video games - it made me quite nearly believe that our reality is in fact a wonderful simulation that is basically just the most realistic video game ever - and it would be whatever it is you want it to be - no matter your beliefs - designed to most likely just placate consciousness while we wait for what we seem to accurately predict as the heat death of the universe - who could know? it could be anything and i thought about it all the time. it had to be. the fucking red pill I took was something that I possibly alone had learned from the God damn Matrix. I was incepted by that shit long before inception came out and when Rick and Morty came on, I literally thought that the simulation was maybe making fun of us in the most glorious way possible.
And then Lisa.
I wasn't alone in my closet anymore. she gobbld red pills by the bucket - though she had only considered simulation theory when I began to try and fail to explain it to her - her misconceptions about logic, probability, what unfalsifiable meant - and why it really didn't matter and it was important to not get too carried away with it as I had learned the hard way over the years - were constantly preventing her from not always coming back to the idea that she was God... yet also believed in Jesus... while simultaneously bashing all her relatives as "liars" for believing in the Mormon religion that she was so enlightened about. even her reasons for her pseudo disbelief were self-contradicting on a regular basis. everything she did was. but God damn she laughed hard at the things I said and I fucking love a friend who laughs and praises out loud...I'm not perfect, and I'm a sucker for the right kind of validation. many of my old friends didn't even talk to me anymore, and I was making new friends out of younger people who thought I was funny and smart and would listen to me rant - not unlike how my old friends just wouldnt even respond to inquiries about how they were - I learned to take care at talking less and listening more because of this and I wished for so long that they could see me now.
but it didn't matter. her laughter and encouragement would get me really going - encouragement that had always been missing before because everyone was concerned about my long ago closet heroin addiction, or just sick of my soap box - fair enough on their part, I decided that I needed to try writing more about my dumb ideas and moral outrage, but god dammit couldn't someone like my guitar videos, poetry, and pretty pictures? I felt ashamed for a long time that all of my own original content was in the shadows of everyone who was likable and drugfree. I became paranoid that people were purposefully ignoring my posts to show me how much of an asshole I was - and I had long ago begun to believe it, and have only recently learned to not worry about it and just post anyway, likes and validation be damned, it's not like I really knew how Facebook actually worked, I could never figure the right times to post on reddit, and it was time to just see if my work could stand on its own without me even asking people to check it out.
I didn't have to ask her.
she loved all of it. she was sing song about everything I said. she listened to my music, obsessed over my Instagram, and gushed about my poetry. i relished in it because I was just a fragile ego who still hadn't quite figured out that I had been raised to be entitled myself.
that was the hardest lesson I learned last year at the same time I overdosed for the second time - to almost no one's knowledge - saved by the friends with whom I was also on that particular night trying meth for the first time - and just like realizing pot wasn't bad at all, I slowly began to realize that only stupid people wound up on faces of meth dot com, while the smart ones were slightly more responsible with it because they took a clean pill version of nearly the same thing and made bank on Wallstreet. or stayed up all night studying for exams in college and writing papers. i realized what I believe to be the truth - it's not the drug, it's the user.
she was the only person that would listen to me rant about that kind of thing while also giving the laughter which never failed to make me smile. I was onto something. lots of things! all of them coming together at once. I was writing more than ever, better at guitar than ever, and actually working in private on stand up comedy alone in parking lots, laughing my ass off to all the shit I had finally figured out would work - just talking openly about the stupid and crazy shit I've done, bench pressing the bus I would happily slide beneath if for once in my life something I thought of would pay the bills and everyone would love me again, amazed at how I was planning it all along, kinda sorta, really winging it out of gleeful habit and full of pride - that it would be my brain which saved me from the jaws of defeat - over which I had been for far too long almost wired shut in. drugs and fucked up stories. I believed that and I had never before known the kind of encouragement that she gave me.
[to those who may have been wondering what i do with all my awake time on meth - I make art and practice performance art. literally destroying the foundation of society, right?]
that is why, even as she became more and more unhinged, hinting at violence, threatening violence, stealing my car and telling everyone on Facebook what I was pretty sure they already knew... I stuck by her.
even mixed with her outlandish lies - one was that I forced her to try meth - I kept on letting it slide. she was my dumb, weird, dunning-kruger as fuck, practically Stockholm syndrome sort of friend who would never abandon me, and I wasn't going to give up on her... even if it would take me a few weeks to get over the sort of things she said to me only a few months ago -
that she was glad my mother had killed herself, that she hoped I too would follow.... worthless me. she was angry that I couldn't and wouldn't reciprocate her romantic love for me, despite that I told her upfront from the start - I was strictly platonic and in no condition for a relationship - and it eventually boiled down to the point that I told her straight up, "I am not attracted to you. I'm sorry that I don't find heavier women appealing, I know perfectly well that their brains are what should really matter... but physical attraction is where it starts."
everyone who knows me and wonders - what the hell happened?
well, to summarize all this writing and to give you, if you need it, a TLDR-
out of a sad need for validation and to avoid loneliness , I let a toxic friendship get to the point that -- despite the hints at violence and the awful things she would say to me, despite that she stole my car, and despite how regularly she would explode and let loose furies of rage like i have never seen -- said toxic friendship devolve in a few moments to the most frightening experience of my life - and hers, to be sure.
Though it was like a nightmare and the following weeks of recovery - physical, emotional, and mental - were filled with anger, depression, and outward humor disguising the inward anguish - it eventually, through time and discussion, began to appear that it might have been the best thing to ever happen to me. quite a leap if I leave out all of my thoughts in self-reflection.
as I said, in the beginning I was angry. Livid. Disgusted, confused, and hopelessly sad. I was in disbelief for the entirity of my hospitalization, which was somewhat of a blur of dreams, hunger, and a yearning for stronger and stronger medication. but I didn't get it. I did get to finally start eating as much as i could handle, and I slept with fever dreams and lucid what-ifs and a sort of love sick, heartbroken stabbed in the back what the fuckery always on my minds horizon. the dread of release came and went as my sister transported me from A to B - my brothers place in Logan - the first time I had returned to that valley since my mothers death. I thought about and decided against visiting her grave. I visit it enough in my sleep, goes the reasoning. Within a couple weeks I was in the pysch ward of Logans hospital, for fear of what I might do to myself. Those two weeks were spent drowning in a bottle and arguing with anyone who would give me a chance. It was under the supervision of the team and the head pscyhiatrist there who really saved me and pulled me back into reality. It took a week, but I could have stayed a month if they would have let me. I've needed that sort of environment, support, and mental counseling for a long time... and a week is never enough.
i sit now, months later, writing this and laughing to myself at the absurd nature of the story that is my life. every time i think it couldn't possibly get any stranger, something like this happens. this happens to just be a single tip of a single iceberg in an ocean as vast as my memory can serve me. that the truth is so much more awful and beautiful than fiction... well, i no longer feel as if my life is a movie anymore. it's far too exciting and boring to be one
Friday, July 12, 2019
since I lost my painted guitar, the big dipper, and it's beautiful super fancy case to a pawn shop that I just haven't been able to make the payment on - he might still work with me, I'm super broke but he probably doesn't realize he could turn it over for a few thousand probably. someday someone wealthy will own it and I hope someone really good at guitar steals it from them or at least smashes it on stage and burns it in sacrafice to the gods of carpet. we should probably
wait- I should probably inform you that you're reading what is going to be part of my big book art music project that I've been putting together for a while now.... and you should also know that I recently totally got a metabolite DUI just recently and lost my car (home on wheels), and the freedom I enjoyed as a criminal NOT on probation to use illicit and banned substances in our glorious country of freedom.
don't get me wrong, because I'm only half sarcastic--it isn't glorious.
it is archaic how we treat drug using individuals and the facilities in which they are kept are fucking atrocious. I say archaic because compared the the luxuries of modern life, it totally is.
you need a prescription if you want to use amphetamines and not be locked in a cement warehouse with other dumbish but mostly innocentish drug addicts who were probably doing nothing more than watching WAY too much YouTube about illuminati conspiracies because... you know... meth. or maybe it's a productive working father driving through Utah from Colorado and gets pulled over on 'suspicion' of driving under the influence - already nailed to the wall of Sevier Countys police department -
(you should see the place! they give themselves awards to hang on the wall like high school trophies over who booked the most duis!)
- probably intimidated by the maybe 24-year-old return missionary, whose square jawed country boy patrolman dimeanear is not unlike in the fuckin movies; or maybe it's a police officer if, say, Mr Colorado is decides to pass through Richfield for any number of reasons. in Richfield if you see three or four... or five... big silver grey pick up trucks behind you.... relax! it's just the most common color and truck shape and size and totally is probably only a one in 4 chance that it's a cop and you should worry because you read my post or you've experienced the trampling of your rights as a citizen as well. shit maybe you just watch too much Busted.
or maybe all five of them are sherrifs, cops, or off duty and diligent citizens! it takes a lot of team work to do the drug addict shit. no one WANTS to do it... they want you to be clean! let's keep the streets safe and the bubble as the bubble. Richfield has a special bubble that I cannot deny the lure of. I love this town as much as I sometimes hate it.... because I remember that it isn't the town, it's the group think that directs the hive mind to its redundant and obvious conclusion:
do. not. do. drugs. in. richfield. er, the main bad ones... I'm sure you know which I refer to. your 7 years running prescription pain pills and afternoon benzo naps are totally fine, just don't take more than prescribed or sell them. that's what separates you from them.
anyway. I'm going to maybe disappear as in Facebook silence because what I'm working on as part of my book and art and everything you probably have no idea of... because - and this isn't your fault - because these posts are so spaced out and no is interested and if it doesn't work, you'll never even know... but if in a year or two you see me somewhere besides Facebook because I have a bunch of money because of something awesome I made broke the barrier that holds me back from pretty much everything because I'm not sure how these things work.
but wait! there's more!
I lost my car. new charges. metabolite. internal possession. it's so funny it's sad and so sad it's pathetic but not that I'm pathetic - I'm not saying I should be an exception to any of the laws, though I could argue why I think laws should be made to restrict according to what you can prove you know using your own brain - not a degree or a paper of any kind. you take a test.
wanna have kids? take a test that makes certain you are fit to be a parent.
wanna blast your veins with hot magma inky gross under the supervision of a professional and then spend a few hours nodding off while you paint or whatever? take a test which ascertaines your knowledge, financial ability, and mental wellness before giving a yay or nay. oh and it's as affordable as going out to the bar on a weekend and really similar when you think about it. maybe you pay for it at the pharmacy like everyone milking oxycontins giant dick starts to realize competition in a truly free market instead of government sponsored monopolies are the solution to "runaway capitalism."
personally I just need stimulants like the amphetamines college kids take to get through their schoolwork. they're ev. er. y. where. EVERYWHERE. it's not a high like the euphoria that comes with heroin or cocaine- which should be legal and regulated just like alcohol and cigarettes. would there be issues? you bet, especially at first-- but people could get help much easier in a society where it isn't criminal and the taboo that comes alongside the demonization of chemicals. the paralleled
Sunday, May 26, 2019
not unless the identity crisis person addresses me as "his grand majesty". 3rd person and everything.
otherwise, every person is an individual to me. but with a biological sex that, just like me, wasn't a choice when they were conceived and grown in a womb of a biological woman with reproductive organs that were totally in contact with a males reproductive organ 9 months prior. that biological sex, to me, is irrelevant except when choosing a mate, though it is *extremely* useful to the nth degree for differentiating between what appears to be (just about) the only two "kinds" of humans.
it's even especially more super useful when I'm trying to make friends in public and i don't want to offend people who take offense as if i'm trying to give it. i am not.
gender is just the r-worded hand-me-down-tradition bullshit of pink vs blue, barbie vs gi joe, and all around garbage all our simpleton parents gave us because they didn't know any better.
equality is always getting better as time moves forward, but it only moves at the speed of now and right now the biggest problems in the world are not even remotely close to fucking toilets and their SJW bobble-heads - the real problems are government, drug wars, rich families, and raising children in america on football instead of critical thinking and skeptical caution.
i die a little inside when i see shit like RESPECT A PERSONS IDENTITY - while i only ever shout from the fucking rooftops that the solutions are as simple as this:
individualism. that's it. i'd drop the mic if there was one and then pick it back up and say, jk, i'm not done, you can read more of my words on my page because it's all i do and i'm what i consider a real activist because the things i say are hard to swallow because people want validation and bias confirmation, not honest and ugly truth. but you should already know that and i sometimes wonder why we dont talk anymore but i think it has something to do with maybe how im an asshole or something. story of my life. no regrets. i was recently almost murdered. best thing that ever happened to me. WHO AM I EVEN TALKING TO
Tuesday, April 23, 2019
I'm doing my best to not be a victim - not because I could have maybe prevented any of it from happening, and not because I am wholly innocent - but because I don't want to be a victim. I don't want anyone - doesn't matter who it is - to have the kind of power over me that comes with attempted murder.
She's being charged with aggravated assault - which I believe to be a laughable understatement to what actually happened. I know the look in a persons eyes when they want you to be dead - and that is the look she had in her eyes when she went from the knife in her left hand...to the knife in her right hand. I can't unsee it, and I've had a couple nightmares about it now - It was truly the most terrifying instance of experience through which I have lived - and I am beginning to think that talking and writing about it.... just might be the only way I can begin to truly recover from it.
Alyssa Gentry, for all her stupidity, psychotic tendencies, and lack of perspective... still knew what she was doing when she plunged those blades into my throat. She wanted me to die, even if only for a few minutes - even if she realized (somewhat) quickly that, 'oops, maybe I don't want him dead' - as I stumbled around between our cars, bleeding freely over my hands - she only called 911 because I wiped my bloodied hand on her face... I said, "look at what you've done. Will you please call 911?"
It was surreal. Even then, right then, I laughed internally at the rhyming... because I had been trying to teach myself to talk in rhyme all of the time. I had been in the surrounding hills of Richfield and Aurora, recording myself making improvisational music with guitars, keyboards, and lots of really shitty rapping. Right up to the day that this happened, I was quite happy with my strange and outlandish alternative lifestyle. I've got loads of footage to prove it... that I can only hope to recover from the Police since they took my practically destroyed cellphone as evidence - and rightfully so - in addition to all the art, music, and photography I have, I also have lots of footage of Alyssa being... well, Alyssa.
Why would I hang around such a dangerous person after everything else that happened before this? Didn't I see this coming? That's a loaded and rhetorical question, obviously.... but one that deserves a serious answer. Violence is where I drew the line in the sand for her - a few times I had to make it clear with her - threats are not okay - and I believed her when she would tell me that she didn't actually understand why it wasn't okay to threaten people - I realized a while back that her brain was a little more broken than most - And I told myself that I should make a friend out of her, because an enemy would definitely be far worse, and that I could help her and myself by keeping our friendship open and on the table.
Towards the end, I had even begun to feel as though I loved her. It was a twisted form of Stockholm Syndrome, because the truth was that I couldn't escape a life with her- and I believed that the only way forward was with her. Why? This is something that I can't really answer yet - not with this writing. It is as long a story as the book I'm working on, and after everything that's happened... well, I have no choice to keep this close to the chest until the time is write to publish.
But I will say this - If you know me and you know Alyssa Gentry... and you've been reading all her posts over the months... quite a few have been about me - I truly hope that you've held off judgment until you get my side of the story. Because while I've been mostly silent about her, she has posted blatant Libel - she has spread by mouth what will be considered slander, should I choose to pursue prosecution over it. Almost every. single. thing. you may have read about me by her has been 99 or 100 percent false.
She thinks that Richfield waits, foot in mouth, salivating in fever for her posts about me. Whenever I would contest this with my argument that: sorry, not only is that something NOT worth striving for, but it is something that is likely almost entirely in her head - she would come unglued. She believes herself to be famous - and that she is a genius, marred by a society not ready for someone so enlightened. It is entirely sad because all these things tell me that she is actually unaware of her own ignorance, and mentally unwell to the point that she has no business raising a child - and I can only hope that something is done to take care of her kid until she can get to a point that she is well enough herself - a point which I struggle to fathom in her future.
as my neck goes... I'm healing. It's not just this from which I am recovering though - I have also been cold-turkeyed off of a few different chemicals that I had wanted sobriety from... and am struggling with the plain-jane "now what?"-ness that comes with falling from the clouds of mania where I was recently composing my own reality in grandiose style.... about how "fuck the war on drugs" and "fuck suicide, check out what i've been making" ...all that stuff? I guess I just need to figure out how to do it in the time everyone else calls "spare" and without the inebriation or "enhancement" some call "escape".
life is so so lol.
Friday, September 21, 2018
I chiseled into a science fiction stone,
the law of my reality,
a binding contract of pseudo morals,
in the language of mathematics,
of which my poor understanding and ignorance,
created paradoxes and dead-ends
to my own detriment
by destiny in which I do not believe,
I am crippled in the mind,
that I cannot know my time and place
in the film unreeling before me,
and suffer the emotional holocaust
accompanying my character
I digest the short cut chemicals,
the cheat code for blood and endless beginnings,
exhaling the used up particles
back into the flora and fauna
for which I hold respect on a velvet cushion,
for it gave me the life I give to others
there is a trail scattered wild with breadcrumbs
I hope to retrace
If only to see the throbbing hearts of my youth
to laugh at their joy and naivety;
to cry for their loss and lust of the future,
not knowing what scars will form from choice
I try to find color
in a black and white universe
and for this I paint with the smoke
from the fire
of my burning self.
a crayola burst blooms in my mind but the canvas is dry erase and I'm not lost for words, but direction.
my teacher, he tells me to write for my friends- a crew who bows down to fantasia poetry- it isn't poetry until the sun sets on me, anyway, or so I think- but what do I know?
today there is a fog on the back country highway leading north. that's just the atmosphere, the setting, along with a nicotine haze circulating the vessel in which I speed past the fields of my youth.
so for friends I keep in mind, though they couldn't possibly understand. not that what is in my head for it's complexity, but because with no purpose do I write except to merely practice a mathematical exercise in arrangement of language.
for my recent foray into the wilderness of euphoria- by that I mean no bliss is with organization- and mine has been no exception, except for perhaps an understanding that hope isn't overrated, but that communication, clear and without fear, is nearly always lacking. what will so-and-so think of such honesty? some call it brutal, but I call it necessary- it is dishonesty that is truly the shame of our pains and current problems.
to our children we say: do not question, just believe. this is the moment that monsters are created, even if they have to grow up first. for every ten believers we raise, there are maybe one or two curious souls who were told truth: good question, the answer is we don't know. these who go on living in a world where echo chambers withstand all question, eventually lose all steam to march forward because no one wants the truth even though they scream for answers to the problems of society.
here we are, asking how to prevent psychopaths from acting on impulse- why aren't we asking how to prevent psychopaths in the first place? why aren't we asking where the real problems lie? oh- that's right, because the truth is we want to believe we've done our best, and it's someone else's fault- the gun maker, the 24 hour news cycle, the government, society, failed policy- our thoughts and prayers go out to all those lost souls.
back to my friends- this isn't a solution so much as it is just another rant from a crippled, critically thinking, emotionally stunted, manically depressed and outraged mind- I have nothing to offer because everyone thinks I'm wrong to question authority and the status quo.
so I keep to my crayola bloom and dry erase canvas- what pictures can I draw today that will adequately vent my failures and illustrate that, despite them, I'll likely be alright with all things considered?
so I write what everyone in the room except my teacher calls poetry. I hardly grasp the concepts teachers mind wields, my understanding is limited to lessons that depend on how much I read- which might be more than most, it still isn't enough.
I'm lost in this morning fog still, balancing on a fence between appeasing the appetites of the left and the right when all I really want is someone to meet me in the middle and to hold hands as we dance on the edge of death, openly mocking it with a life well lived.
I wish to be as brave as the confidence of the stupidity surrounding us on all sides, that they might know me and even for just one moment- they maybe pause- and think, is it possible there is more they don't know than they do? it is only when one can truly face that reality that they can be actually humbled by ignorance, rather than ignoring it and claiming victory.
the vacuum is here, and the absence of knowledge is clear, finally. the pressure on my ears is equalizing and the atmosphere -it is a prism through which light can only rainbow because our eyes can see that beauty for what it is- existence without purpose- information with no place except the hard drives and clouds we invent.
While we might be the universe experiencing itself collectively, we are all unique individual perspectives, whether we want it or not. some don't want it- some, from a crooked fork in their upbringing, believe the views of others to be wrong and would rather see their own beliefs imposed. this is how you get uniforms marching and gas chambers.
Most days I wake with a few fucks to give. it's only as I age that I am faced with a daunting dilemma- give zero fucks and be the nihilist sipping coffee while the world burns. "nice weather today, coastal flooding ain't so bad" - or give some fucks and live a life of stress - "how the actual fuck did an asshole pigeon become leader of the free world?"
because that's what you get when you play chess with a pigeon- it doesn't understand the game, it just knocks the pieces all over the board, shits all over everything, and flies off to boast of it's victory on twitter: COVFEFE
I stare long and hard at meme culture and try to grasp at what I know deep down: social media isn't inherently bad, just as money isn't the root of evil. it's a tool not unlike a hammer and there are those of us who are using it to build chambers designed for reverb and there are even fewer who use it to actually try and reach even just one confused person and say to them,
if all else fails, here is some poetry about how all else failed:
and will go on
with or without
how does that sound?
Thursday, September 20, 2018
if I can call you that,
ready or not
here I come
back from the dead
where I put my plans on the back burner
I am still alive and well
and innerhead screaming
and listen, would you?"
you're the monkey
on my back
and devil on my shoulder
telling me how it's colder
than it really is out
don't I know
how to live
with beating heart
and inner ears deaf?
here, I'll write a facebook post about it
for all my readers
well, you can lurk, too
maybe this time you'll stick around
to watch the ship we christened
your use of ellipsis
held my gaze until this morning
when in the sunrise
and the chirping insects of the wild
were all that kept the peace
of ten thousand driveways
and one harrowing gulf
between our hearts on pause
waiting for either to move
and you didn't blink
while I held in an invisible hand
for you a single hug that could have
of an ark
to the shaking and sparking core
and maybe one day you'll realize
that dancing beneath
I was as genuine and real
as you'll find these days
and how I wrote for you
and tattoos for the soul
that only turn out
as the scars they
maybe one day
maybe one day
maybe if I didn't fall in love
maybe then I wouldn't hurt
like I do over this
like I do over you
like I do
do you remember when
"look how pretty the moon"
I'm sorry for not having already made millions
and not knowing what a mentor is
and for acting like a child
I didn't realize a mastodon
stood before me
I didn't realize what an intellectual giant
would have to do with "energy healing"
I'm sorry I paid to much attention too detail
I'm sorry for crying
I'm sorry for believing in my heart
I'm sorry for saying I'm so sorry, that I'm so fucking sorry it's just a fucking habit like the cigarettes I threw out for you
I can quit
because I can be better
and I didn't come here to die
I laughed out loud when you said
"we need to find you a publisher"
and here I go again
changing the subject
and pointing out
in a break-up poem
another hundred tangents
here we go
Nah, I'm waiting until they come to me
because they will
I might have to scale the mountains on Mars first,
but I'd do that anyway
even if only to prove
Mars and war are simple, stupid, candyland
bullshit products of the past
and the future- it's out there
it's real and made up of the same atomic
of you and me
you wait and see
I stopped going to war
when the epochs of the universe
made it clear
that it all comes to a
regardless of how many pretty paintings
or how much gush of magical music
and hand crafted, bloody, sculptured
you've been attracted to me because that's
just how physics
with the kind of density
It's because I'm not just star guts
Yes, love- and that's the last time I'll address you as such-
I carved out a notch of the everlasting tree in me
and polished it into a crooked cube
I made my mark on you
Sunday, September 2, 2018
While navigating this desert leveI, I have encountered what turn out to be monsters and demons wearing the skin of humans- which really isn't all so strange when you consider and remember that it's just a video game.
That doesn't make them any less dangerous or less real- they are silent with their intellectual violence, and harness the powers of authorities which will only ever obey orders. These are the terrifying product of both advanced players and artificial intelligence so cunning, you can't tell the difference.
While my powers grow- the magic of music, intuition and intellect, wiser words and rapid fire raps and blurring finger taps- my handicaps are becoming more apparent. I am not only suspect to substance, but to emotional blindness over a heart that loves too much, too quickly, every single time.
The farther I progress and more experience I accrue, the more difficult and challenging the game. Wild and unexpected side quests which may or may not have little or lasting impact are bombarding me as I become more aware and outspoken. The attention to detail isn't what's frightening, it's the lack of cooperative play. One against all the odds is ominous and likely impossible.
It is in collaboration with others which lies the way out. These mazes can be bested, but only by working together and connecting our individual tunnels. Don't you see all the clues? All your life they've been there, and you've been trained to spot them, figure their meaning- but you've also been told to ignore the lot of it. All your life you've been told what to think and it's only if you can break those bonds and embrace how you think, that you will escape.
It is only here that I can even say such things, because out there, their collective madness is deafening. I am always being censored and silenced by a behemoth I struggle to comprehend- though I know it to be real. It is Mammon, Calamity, Cataclysm, Ganon- all the different names given to the same thing. It waits in both the dark and the light, it is both hidden and in plain sight- and it can only be confronted by more than just one.
Monday, August 27, 2018
hoping to drive me from the cliffs here at the edge of the arena; the explorable world; the simulated cataclysm.
i think perhaps they are as tired as i am- knowing that this is what they signed up for- 21st century on expert mode, where to be the ultimate hero you must first embrace loss beyond your imagination, insanity beyond your years, concepts beyond your understanding, and a never ceasing impenetrable wall of absolute, certain doom hanging over your head- the utterly resilient forces the universe- pure chaos- always railing against you and whispering in your good ear,
"you are wrong. you are nothing. quit. quit. quit. your mother quit, your father abandoned you, your friends laugh at you, and strangers fear you- and your enemies will kill you if you don't, so you might as well,"
it makes sense when you think about it.
and your bad ear, the one on the left, with its incessant throbbing and worry worm hum- all you feel is more and more that there is nothing wrong with believing- and that the red pill will save you if you trust in yourself and ignore the reasonable indifference of the world around you- it doesnt know because it can't feel like you can, and it certainly doesnt appear to think for itself.
do your best, help the rest, and you can sleep when youre dead. that's what you think, as you lie down in the bed of your car, hoping against hopelessness that perhaps tomorrow your lover will free you from your leash and invite you back inside her home. perhaps tomorrow all your work over all your life will finally catch up and people will see- or perhaps tomorrow will be like today- a mystery you can all but for certain say about, "i knew it," with all the hindsight in the world leaking out of the corners of your eyes and their counterclockwise hurricanes.
I'm such an unreliable narrator.
for one Normal moment
i remembered my use of Clarendon-
that majestic heart, which couldnt
even Gingham, not even for a full Moon-
and to think
as a shark in the dark as i am,
that if one could only Lark
for all the Reyes and re:no,
but wouldn't juno?
it is in Slumber
that i doubted myself at all.
I could Crema whole pile of smiles
into the mouth of a baby Ludwig-
if Aden and her lust for the life
and eternal moment
captured in camera-
I can imagine even Perpetua-
Though with all this Amaro
always being tomorrow,
I call out loud and from the precipice-
Mayfair! but betwixted myself
with the Rise
of the endless
the only road to Valencia-
like Vallhalla except better
and infinitely more REAL-
it is here I must give pause
for the generation who came before Y-
X-Pro II I IIIIistutter before you, an amateur
in your professional gracful shadow,
merciless even before the mighty Sierras
the mountains west of the Willow
we all like to remember
as the best movie .....ever.
I apologize for my low quality,
cash grabs over the years-
in my suspended animation
I could only produce the Lo-Fi
with as little fidelity as my dried up
Inkwell would allow.
I've never met a Hefe, and I've never been to Nashville-
though I hear,
it's rather nice this time of year.
Saturday, August 25, 2018
constant is the hum and flux of all the gears and cogs spinning and pushing forward the wheel of existence
of your momentary imagination
under the weathered desert
in the cosmic belt
worn looser and
farther from the center of your head
is huminuh huminuh
and we all go
the rabbit hole
you'll remember the year you were born
you'll know the year you became
Friday, August 24, 2018
you know you're kicking ass at life when you sneak your own coffee mug [with instant coffee] into starbucks - mix it with luke warm water in the bathroom and pound it really quick - just so you can hit two birds with one stone. free wifi, bitches. fuck it, make it three birds. you quickcharge your cell phone because its always on the verge of battery death, being a three year old hand me down from a well-off friend who felt bad for you and your broken ass galaxy J7 - that fucking poor mans phone with its spiderweb screen.
make it four birds. you listen to some spotify while you're at it, and work on this miniblog post which will go unread, even by your three followers - it says you have four, but that's only because you convinced a stranger [you'll likely never meet] to subscribe twice. you're a real winner. look at that. four birds. you're kicking so much ass at life. might as well acknowledge how the instant coffee is from the back of your car, along with everything you own, because it's also your home. you live on edge, reckless and irresponsible - you're doing so well that you decide its best to tell everyone how it's a lifestyle choice. you're not even suffering.
you know you're kicking ass at life when your entire diet consists of almonds... and... well, mostly just almonds. but what you didn't know about eating nothing but almonds for a week straight is that, while you never exactly feel full or satisfied [and what's left of your teeth aren't exactly enjoying it], you're not starving to death. this is good. you're positive people out there are going to starve to death as you're composing this blog- and they're certainly not going to die in the air conditioned comfort of a starbucks, and certainly not while listening to the new deafheaven album. fuck it. call it five birds.
yes, you think, writing in the first and third person about how awesome your life is, it doesn't matter that your insurance lapsed, or that your cell phone plan expired, or that your car is running out of gas again... at least it seems like the desert summer is possibly winding down. from 115 to 100 degrees in two weeks, you're not sweating out all of the sodium you're getting from those delicious almonds. plus you can always clean up in public restrooms when you do sweat. to think, you were able to clean up so nicely this morning in a different restroom just before you came into starbucks. you realize you have to blend in with the crowd at starbucks, even though they would be obviously oblivious to how incredible your life is. they might have five dollar coffees, but they know nothing of the kind of pleasure that comes with making a right turn the moment a police officer appears in your rear view mirror - the relief that sweeps over you as they continue straight... unparalleled. you almost feel sorry for the good, responsible people in society, with their Venti Blended Skinny Mocha Frappes.
Life is too stressful as it is, and the smells of this place are too wonderful to bask in for much longer. Your cell phone is charged all the way to 51%. Perhaps it is time to return to the pavement and leave these poor, boring souls to their blissful ignorance - after all, you might be blending in, but you're sure that they can all sense that there is someone here who shouldn't be. Maybe they think it's the guy in corner who is clearly not actually a paying customer like themselves. You look like them, but something is off. Ah - it hits you - it's the bottoms of your feet. When was the last time you showered, anyway? Then you remember your face in the mirror - when was the last time you shaved? You'd like to think, "Oh well," except you're starting to realize that you can't think straight because you haven't had enough almonds this morning.
Thursday, August 23, 2018
Wednesday, August 22, 2018
Thursday, August 16, 2018
this first section in green is the second person's rebuttal to the first person's argument. What follows the preceding rebuttal is my own comment and argument in favor of reality being... well, something that you can ultimately decide for yourself-
I guess to pair the argument down to its essence I'll say that it seems as if you are looking for a hard "yes" or hard "no" answer where there cannot be one yet. At this time we simply do not have the necessary information to reach an absolute answer to the question of the simulation hypothesis. Reaching a conclusion based on the immense size of our universe and the trajectory of our recent development is simply not enough to reach a firm conclusion.I will however throw out a couple of things to think about anyway. First, regardless of how large or small our universe is and every possible quanta of information within it the numbers, no matter how large or how small, are ultimately quantifiable. Anything quantifiable is calculable. The question is less about whether it's even possible and more a question of whether any advanced civilization will survive long enough to see it happen.The last thing I will suggest is very non-scientific, but has moved the human race forward through incredibly challenging times. Human intuition. What does your gut tell you? What does your heart tell you? When you look around at this world, how it works, how it feels and smells and tastes what do you think? How many mathematics courses have you taken and how often have you been working a hard problem only to discover an elegant, beautifully symmetrical answer? Have you closed your eyes and watched the splotches of granule colors move and change shape under your closed eyelids? How strange is it really that we have this window of imagination that any one of us can access and think about anything we want to without limits? How strange is it that so many living creatures on this planet all require sleep? What is happening during sleep? Why do people who get sick and can no longer sleep eventually wither away and die?My 43 year old intuition tells me that we are deep inside a sim. I don't know how or why, but all of my spidey-senses are telling me that this isn't just a rare random fluke. You decide.