11:29 AM - Amused by the headlines I can spout crap like the best of ’em...

Gary
HEY!
Wanna fuck a kid
Glitter
Disheveled by has been
A Vietnam story

OMG!
Did he really?
Is he that one guy?

A show up for the D-list
Self defiled;

But a few short centuries ago
It would have been a-OK

HEY!

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11:47 PM - APOCALYPSE WHEN?

APOCALYPSE WHEN?

Three fucking tours
And the fire sounds like
Fireworks
On the fourth of fucking
July

I love the smell of napalm in the morning

This is the end
My only friend, the End
Again

I love the smell of nerve gas
In the mourning

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8:08 PM - SNATCH

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Shhhh! I'm trying to be quick here. I have no time for conversation."

"But, seriously, what the hell, dude? Are you out of your fu…"

"Shhhh! You'll ruin my concentration! I have to concentrate really hard on this one task, this one thing, and everything else is incidental. Don't bother me until I'm done."

"But we might not be here when you're done. I think you should stop and we should discuss this while discussion is relevant."

"I'm at the precipice of discovery and possible application. If the worst happens, nothing matters anyway and we'll have failed. But if I succeed, if I can snatch this energy out of nowhere…"

"There's no such thing as nowhere. You're screwing with something you can't even see, something you can't even fathom with all your brilliance and all your capabilities. You can see how to get to where you've never been, but you may not be able to get back. And you're taking us with you. We may not be ready to go."

"You don't get to decide that. I have the intelligence to use what came before me to get to a destination we've never reached before. If we can, we should. If we can, we ought. We will."

"I'm going to shoot you in the face."

"Go ahead. I'm incidental to the linearity of this process."

"Linearity is an illusion."

Bang.

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1:15 PM - DEFINING CONSEQUENCES (a brief excerpt of a bigger idea)

The air is heavy, filled by the exaggerated breath of billions...

"Wake up."

"I have no clue how I got here."

"That is incidental."

"I thought it was existential."

"If there were more than you, it would be existential. As it is, there's only you. Therefore, it is incidental."

"To what?"

"To how you got here."

"Oh. Then what are you?"

"Part of you."

"Am I hallucinating?"

"You're projecting something, that's for sure. Whether or not it's real depends on its consequences."

"The consequences for whom?"

"You."

"Who am I?"

"Now that's a good fucking question."

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12:05 AM - 37 Days Sober & the Consideration of Self Neglect

May 21st, 2008

Looking into the mirror I discovered the evidence of my recent down time in the form of a breakout, an incidental analogy of maturational stagnation, the literal fallout of several consecutive days I didn't bother to wash my face with CCS Kick A** Acne Treatment for teens. Although I managed to bathe at some point on most of these less enthusiastically met days, the tiny pressure points threatening eruption from my skin expose my half assed process of submersion in a soapy bath and the quick, efficient scrubbing of "don't you fucking touch me there" places and always, always, always the hands and feet (because there's something awful about having dirty phalanges). Still, I became distracted enough to skip the ritual necessary to avoid days like this, days on which pressurized chemical intrusions burst through to my reality with a vengeance. I'm well aware I must scrub my face at least once per day with the miracle acne wash I first obtained on eBay, but some days, well, you know. Some days…

Grabbing the rubbing alcohol and cotton balls, I scrub until my skin feels brutally clean, taut yet somehow older. I moisturize to obliterate the reminder; I'm not apathetic enough to ignore the surface evidence of senescence, although not vain enough to constantly slather myself in the camouflage of make-up. Not at the present moment, anyway, and once the harsh, drying effects of rubbing alcohol appear on the facial scene, moisturizer is the logical second step, the artificial return to smoothness externally applied. As the fluid sinks into my pores I almost feel normal. To consider the matter to a more significant depth would require many intense sessions engaged by the mirror's reflection of my pupils, but they are the most unforgiving part of my biology, so I decide to leave that for another day. I'm momentarily stunned by the conscious consideration of the impending potential return of the mood that culminates in a disinterest so blatant I allow a plague of preventable pimples to emerge from my otherwise healthy skin. Apathy and misanthropy have erased the best of my brain stem, so I function behind eyes alone, where I can be standoffish to potential meaning, where I can subjugate it to the nether regions of my physicality, covered in the bile of self-destruction, under the foot of a socially resistant rapport. Beyond the cushion of mind numbing escape, I'm temporarily blinded by the invasive light of realization.

I'd avoided the space behind my refrigerator in much the same way as I've avoided myself for at least seven years, probably longer in regard to the latter, but it occurred to me this spring would be a good time to investigate the former and discover that which lay behind and beneath. It was a healthy yield of filth, dirt mixed with mouse shit as our house has always had at least a few rodents running around inside its walls. We live next to a field, and in the little fuckers' defense, their home was drastically diminished by the infiltration of suburbia onto acres and acres of what was formerly Kentucky farmland, but that doesn't stop me from catching them on sticky traps and bashing in their tiny skulls. The bashing is necessary, not tribal or personally therapeutic, but merely humane given my chosen method of eradication. Once, I didn't realize a mouse was caught on a trap in the garage until the next day when I found it had managed to chew through its leg in search of freedom, a desperate, innate grab for survival in spite of significant physical, personal detriment. The evidence was left detached, bloody and ragged on the sticky surface of the trap. After that incident, I stopped trying to catch them for a while, feeling guilt likely rooted in my Catholic upbringing (Julie understands), and they were so prolific in the months that followed it became common to see one or two of them booking across the floor daily. Behind the refrigerator must have been their designated bathroom. It was a bitch to clean, but easier than looking in the mirror, easier than digging into my organs for the truth of me, which seems infinitely filthier than mouse shit and much, much harder to clean.

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11:42 AM - MY PSEUDO FRIENDS (EXPANDED REVISED VERSION)

I’m not exactly sure how many people profess to have had imaginary friends as a child, but I definitely did. I actually had many simultaneously and I not only spoke to each directly, but I also facilitated conversations between them because some were aware of the others and some were not. When I was approximately four, I had a significant amount of trouble with two imaginary boys who always spoke in opposites; yes was no, no was yes. I was forced for the sake of clarity to constantly translate their meaning for the rest of the pseudo bunch. For some reason, there was a divide between the two boys and the rest, so I set myself up as their mediator.

I don’t recall many more details of the experience, and given my age I’m surprised I remember it at all, but certain aspects are still surprisingly vivid, such as being with my grandmother in the apartment we lovingly called "Roach Heaven" (erroneous title given the bastards never seemed to die), playing on the canister vacuum cleaner as though it were a horse as I directed the wayward actions of my imaginary crew. They all seemed to have something wrong with them I had to correct. Apparently, I was a tiny control freak who needed a few more toys.

Another part of the experience I vaguely recall was my mother’s eventual negative reaction to my faux pals. I don’t remember Mom’s exact words, but they were likely similar to other parents trying to completely ruin the imagination of an innocently psychotic pre-schooler (and if you’ve ever been around the little ankle biters, you know they are ALL psychotic at that age). Her confrontation, no matter how she phrased it, marked the first time I can remember feeling self-conscious. It was the first in a long sequence of criticisms she would level at me throughout my formative years. It is one of those events I recall in an attempt to fully understand that which has made me who I am. It is one of those things from which I long to be free as I learn to redefine my self in my image, rather than the image projected upon me by socialization.

I still have conversations with those who are not actually with me. If I know you to a significant degree, I likely have spoken to you as though you were sitting next to me, and I may sometimes forget whether something I have said was in the real world or my imaginary one. My reclusive nature prefers the illusion, but my social side sabotages it through blogs of honest self-exhibition. I suppose, theoretically, I lie somewhere in between.

Eventually, my crew of self-created buddies dispersed to the aether and were mostly forgotten, but the truth is that I simply ceased to externalize self-generated conversations and began conducting them inside my head. As a recluse who still maintains a certain degree of humanism, such illusions seem to be a necessary diversion. I don’t actually mind. As a control freak, I really don’t need access to a real human being to be social, strange though that might seem as I divulge this to real human beings. It is my desire to connect, but my strangeness precludes the culmination of normal relationships.

Conflict is my guide. Imagination is my salvation. Sometimes people meet me here. More commonly, they don’t.

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6:20 AM - QUANTUM REBELLION

QUANTUM REBELLION

I’m too clipped and clinical
Dressed in probable algorithms
In which I proceed to the anomalous
Just to spite certainty
Because even the end state is followed by
Something.

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2:40 PM - RECOGNIZED

RECOGNIZED

It takes quite a few years
For a spouse to morph
Into a stranger

Quite a few sober days
To see the danger of denial
The truth beyond reprisal
That stands in the doorway
To keep me here
When I long for something, somewhere, someone
Anything else

It takes a lot to abide the lies
When truth minus whiskey and weed
Humps my passionless leg
And I give in to the pitfalls of self-restraint

For years I kept my eyes closed
My mouth as dry as my vagina
My cunt to clean and clothe and avoid
Masturbation the surface event of a sexless existence

I've forgotten what it means to be satisfied
Stratified by expectations and negotiations
And the multitude of broken promises
Diluted by spirits drunk by a partner disinterested
In me who once protested the mass and pissed in the holy water

I thought, eventually, divinity would flower from within

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11:40 PM - RAISE HER

RAISE HER

Pinprick to wrist
Base,
Thinner
This skin

In vein
Ambivalence
A pulse there

Suspended cut
Lingers,
With urge to
Amend

The hole
In the end
Impulse wrought there

Currently listening : Antics By Interpol Release date: 28 September, 2004

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6:13 PM - IN DURING

In an elevator
Dancing
I was asked,
"Are you happy?"
And I said, yeah,
Now that I'm dancing,
But not before
And certainly, not after

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