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Wednesday, May 13th, 2009
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3:57 am - I'll More Than Likely Eat You in the Morning
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I am surrounded by endings and beginnings. Occasionally I am struck by the urge to reconnect with people I've dropped out of contact with, voluntarily or otherwise. It's true that I'm not really as much the vindictive monster that I once was, rather now I am a man who admires silence. So that kind of puts a damper on my whole scheme of getting back in touch with certain individuals. Oh well, some times it really is best just to let sleeping dogs lie.
I've come to understand a great many things now, and this understanding has brought me some measure of peace. If I were going to leverage this explanation into the form of contemporary emotional analogy, I would hazard to say this is what people feel like when they "find God", as it were: that center to their being that allows them to move freely through the world. I just decided to do it without prostrating myself to imaginary thoughtforms of dead civilisations. Go me. Oh and don't bother to ask, you'd never believe me anyway.
I'm hoping this will be the last limbo Summer I have to drift through. Next year at this time I'll have graduated and will more than likely be on my way out West. Conventional happiness is not something I can ever obtain, something that I do harbour a small amount of jealousy for in regards to the majority of the human race, but I think I can carve out something that will make the remainder of my days here tolerable, if not even enjoyable to a certain extent. And people call me a pessimist.
I am treading old footsteps; a path worn into the weary ageless bricks of creation so deep as to be utterly invisible to any whose feet have not felt these same stones before. I could grumble about the circumstance being less than ideal, but humility and compassion are a big part of this, for whatever reason, so I'll just deal with it. Some come to save the world, others to destroy it; I just want a burger and a bus home, thanks.
Here again I'll play forgetful and erase the contours of your face, the scent of your skin. Here again I'll play the fool and smile, saying everything's alright. Here again I'll play wise and ascend, drifting through familiar darkness so bright it burns my eyes.
Here, again. I'll play. I can never resist the game.
Love,
-Gar
current mood: wat
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| Wednesday, May 6th, 2009
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1:31 am - Horsing Around
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Sing me a lullaby and I'll drift wayward into the welcoming arms of dawn, one more dozing blackbird cast before the furious dreaming sun.
I've had an absolutely evil head-cold for the past several days, and even with the increased laughs I've obtained telling all my skiddish friends I have the swine flu and rubbing and drooling all over the them, it still hasn't been much fun at all, thank you very much. I'd be in bed right now but the frat-boys next door appear to be having a furniture-tossing competition. My money's on the coffee table.
Finals week, or whatever. One more year after this. I measure time in experience, in ways the past has shifted to reveal the future. I count wisdom in these revelations as one would number the purposeful minutes leading to a secret rendevous with a passionate lover: breathless anticipation accented with dread that something so beautiful can never last forever. This, battlecry and epitaph: nothing you love shall last forever. We love because we know we'll lose, so it becomes the sweetest irony ever formed.
I'm beginning to think I'm cow-towing to some unspoken expectation whenever I write here. I don't really do into any of this with a plan; that's never been the style of this journal - but rather I'll just let the spirit of the moment carry me off in whatever direction it wants. That generally tends to hop straight on the D train to Angstville, but hey, whatever. My words only echo my feelings to the same extent a massive, underground cavern echoes the sounds of a distant waterfall. Its there, but so is the morning paper; I probably won't get around to paying attention to either of them.
Every once in a while beauty will strike triumphant and I'll be there, camera or pencil hovered to strike like a randy weasel. Life grips madness while we slip gentle, lets not all go to pieces in the meantime.
P.S. to all you aspiring (perspiring?) furries, Randy Weasel would be an awesome name. feel free, on the house.
current mood: tired
current music: Break it Down Again - Tears for Fears
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| Sunday, January 20th, 2008
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2:33 am - Moments Lost
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just for one second
I don't want to be here anymore
I want to stay lost in who I was
remembering that toxic invection
the warmth of Summer and absent friends
within the bounds of a photograph that
I can never hold in my hands.
I can remember you
AND the scarecrow
AND the tinman
AND the lion
and you were there, and you and you and even you
all like a dream caught brief during a Saturday afternoon nap
two hours that last a lifetime
I watch for the word and wonder. I wait, soft as cornsilk, splayed about our forgotten fingertips. I am no man's destination, cast about furtive glances, this has been glancing rebounded imagination: that I should talk and you should listen. This is penance and pride; cast not your virtues before me, I just swept the floor.
The sculptor brought my broken frame to life; marble never meant to move as such. An unliving thing, proven discord never graced heavens frought with sunshine rankled waves and light. My countenance stares a shipwrecked sigh, blotched meaningless against eager faceless masses. Apothecary, Alchemist, Anethema; shun as you will, all the world shall burn this silent fire, raged before the single match of hope. I tear the bloody stock of emotion, paint it thus within your greedy grasp, splayed before everyone an even mixture of electrons. Convienence shall equal necessity in this goat-headed god's electronic age of anonymous cyber-sodomy. Fill the gaping hole of culture with the bleeding cock of homogeny - see if I even care how it tears, vacant and leering, down my throat, coating my ideals with political slime. My love has fled from me, like birds before the twilight, broken to a thousand raucous cries against the coming night.
This is my regret, when I allow myself to feel. This is my wandering heart, laid bare for all to see.
This is me, looking back at you, looking away.
This is how we say I love you.
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| Tuesday, January 15th, 2008
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1:38 am - Happy Fucking New Year, You Cretinous Hive of Filthy Smeg-Monsters
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January is a month of ghosts, but not the steeped in sheets going boo kind, not the hidden behind gravestones or in closets kind, they are the ghosts kept behind the prim and proper doorsteps, the glamorous coffee table ghosts of the rich and unfulfilled. January sets its teeth into the naive and unsatisfied among the masses, those who see only the steady passing of another year as the opportunity to stop drinking coffee or alcohol or cigarettes; changing diets, cars, clothes, spouses - the subtle nostalgia twisting deft as a disinterested knife is completely lost. But that's OK. That's why January is a month of ghosts.
Classes start tomorrow - or today, rather, as midnight has come and gone. I can't readily admit to any Resolutions, not in the traditional sense anyway. I'm too much of a firm believer in the inevitability of all things; everybody changes into something sometime somewhere, you can't stop it or rarely control it, it just happens. Our sense of perfection is in a state of perpetual decay, never set to stone or steel, it shifts and fades as the years drift by, until it becomes compromised and alien to who we once were. This is also OK, because decay is part of evolution. The supple silk of youth gives way to courser threads at once yielding and gentle in their wisdom.
Maybe I'm finally learning what's really important about being alive, maybe I'm finally coming to appreciate beginnings and endings and the hounds of change that snap at the heels of both. Perhaps it is that quality of forgiveness, or sadness, or any of a dozen emotions burning quietly down their half-lives; that dim radiation the only memory from a distant explosion. The ultimate survivor of any tragedy is laughter, and I cannot look back at any event in my life thus far without some level of amusement.
So its 2008 and I'm still alive and making noise.
That's certainly something.
current mood: gonna eat
current music: your head
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| Wednesday, December 26th, 2007
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10:36 pm - Merry Christmas!!
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Hullo Livejournal!
I was going to make a big, wanky, thought-provoking post about echoes and existentialism, but none of you fuckwits come here to read that, right?
Of course you don't.
You come here to whine about whatever is going wrong in your life, or detail what you just did with whomever or whatever whenever, not that anyone could possibly give a shit. Every mumbling Neanderthal reading this mistakenly thinks they are the center of the universe, myself included. I would never dare to raise myself above any of you, my dear readers, because by publishing these words I admit to having a desire for someone else to see them. A writer writes so that the reader can read, otherwise we are all just shouting in the dark.
If I were going to go on with my usual invective shtick, this is where I would then proceed to call all of you slovenly, overweight, gaping pustules upon the ass of the earth; god's faggot children and your mother's regretted abortions, etc. But the sad fact of the matter is that most people do, in fact, have numerous redeeming qualities, even if rationality and logic don't tend to number among them all that often. I would further continue to say that the Internet is the pinnacle of man's irrationality - here we have a reasonably ordered network of machines that can unite the world digitally and what are we doing with it? Surfing for porn and desperately searching for someone to love our hideous bodies.
Maybe you're searching for that perfect African amputee midget to cram his twisted foot-stump into your cheesecake ass; hey, its a click away on the Internet! Maybe dogs on dogs on nuns is your thing; no worries, there's probably a Yahoo Group for it (although i'm sure yahoo groups are soooo two-thousand-four by now, i'm just not hip as to what the big new thing is, sry). No matter how technologically advanced humanity becomes it will all continue to be focused around boobs and dicks; around no longer being lonely or feeling isolated. We are such the fucked up social animals we are: hanging our "hug me pls" posters from the craggily ramparts of our individual fortresses of solitude.
We are the recursive vomit of our ancestors. There is nothing new, nothing original, just the repetitive rearrangement of past ideas. I cannot say anything that someone else hasn't said in at least some variant way, and neither can you. We inevitably tread the same ideas and, consequently, the roads by which we arrive upon them. And there is nothing wrong with this. It is, in fact, a good thing. Life isn't a motherfucking popularity contest, where we constantly try and out-do one another in witticisms or ideas, life has nothing to do with impressing some guy you met with clever phrases and witty remarks (yeah me, i'm looking right at you in the front row as i say this, you big oscar wilde wannabe faggot). Appreciating originality is a lost cause, so quit with the whole "oh that, that's just so, well you know, so yesterday. its just not funny anymore". Yeah, I get that its just uncool to like anything for more than three consecutive years, Internet, thanks. I still think ninjas and pirates are funny, will occasionally do the "oh noes" joke if I so fucking feel inclined, and I still think somethingawful is occasionally funny - and you know what, Internet? You know what, all you pretentious art fags over there in the corner with your witty disdain and clove cigarettes? You can all stuff your opinions up your recursive, cancerous asses. The next person that tells me such-and-such isn't funny anymore for whatever fucking arbitrary reason, I'm going to tear their guts out through their ass and use them as a sock puppet for my cock.
Anyway, I sure hope everyone had a great Christmas! Boy, do I ever hate this fucking holiday. I mean I really do. Not that I really needed to tell any of you that. But just in case anyone didn't know: I fucking hate Christmas. Maybe its because I find Christmas too commercialized, maybe its because I'm an asshole. It could be any of a number of reasons! Actually, I'll let you in one a little secret...
just, you know, between the two of us
every angry slash and invective stab of phrase here on this little journal is me trying to atone for every time i've ever made an ass out of myself from being in love with some schmuck. as if i could wipe away the fruity words and love-sick foolishness with rage and malice. that's some sort of fucked up sublimation, right there.
I don't really think it works - the whole rage erasing love thing, I mean - but boy
does it ever make me fucking feel better.
current mood: choke on my cock, you miserable fucksticks
current music: eno - long way down
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| Friday, September 7th, 2007
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12:28 am - Til the Stars Fall
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The world is full of heartless wonder, terrible and vain, creeping crafty around every corner. Life has set its jaws hungry for our skin, all supple scent and rifled sinew; it can no more dream of a future devoid of our rent and broken bodies than a dog can learn to ride a bicycle. We are caught, cast in amber, frozen solid forced to play this game of stones and stories. There is no joy beyond the brief illusions we give ourselves over to - love, warmth, friendship - each and all deceit dressed to pliant desire upon tongues grieved for bitter, yet fast to dream of sweet.
Fateful and distant I spend each day, waiting with such gentle patience for the end of things. I have become unable to count the days, such as in my youth, when such hope was a fair and fruitful blossom. The present moment, wrapped snug in the promise of the immediate future, has become my drug of choice, my excuse to blind my failing eyes to an impossibly bleak and pointless existence. I burn for no god, no man, no rock, nor tree, hill or dale - the reason that fuels my fire stands independent of the vacuous rationalization modern man has so scampered and scuttled about himself to drive away the ravening dark.
The sooner everyone wakes up and realizes the universe is a horrid, frightful, hungry, godless gargoyle perched parched and preening, eager to tear and devour all that we love and cherish, the better off we'll all be. Instead of spending our meager existence howling laments over how there's no ambiguous deity to hold our dicks anymore, perhaps we should all just grow the fuck up and take a bit of damn responsibility. I know how terribly convenient it is to go off on a child raping rampage and then just say "oh heavens, well obviously [insert evil god of choice here] made me do it!" Sorry bucko, the last train to Fag-Town just departed, and it had all your faggot gods on it.
In this cracked and broken time I spread the ashes of your love about my naked feet, painting symbols obscure and arcane with focused fingers and narrowed eyes. Grind the gears and give the guts their due; for no man shall ever remove his fate so forcibly - whether by emptied sky or closed fist, his will shall render the gods from Olympus and the devils from Sheol. I shall sit and listen for the distant concussed echoes of your triumph or failure, for the blaze of ascension is only matched in luminosity by the fire of the Fall.
I shall sit and listen til the stars fall.
current mood: your mom
current music: Dave Neri - Emperor's Theme (Outro)
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| Wednesday, August 22nd, 2007
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1:54 am - I Like Shoes
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The end of all things; it beats a steady, staccato rhythm, cold and heartless - it is the essence of the modern world. We have become machines, you and I, weeping ageless melodies of wistful regrets etched beautifully into the worn steel husks of our beloved technology. All that we have built crumbles around us; yet, instead of mournful lamentation, we exalt the screaming decomposition of our idiot-headed gods, blasphemous and pure against the cascade of plunging bombs: destruction lighting twilight to mid-day shadows.
I have become the past; pain so sweet it stands before itself, twisted and glorified of mutilation. Whatever tears have been shed, they become an endless dirge of rain, stained without hope or necessity - simply dazzled upon the thirsty earth to feed an unknown emotion. Is it this moment I wish to capture? So heartless and pure, it threatens to tear the lithesome threads of extravagance. How false, how self-aggrandizing, how so very human. I have become a drowning man beneath a cascade of invisible water. No one sees under the impeccable surface, like the soft, perfect face of the moon. Silver sheen with delightful deceit has become my tongue and cheek.
Maybe tomorrow I will awake and find a miraculous amnesia - all the regrets washed away by sweet Lethe, cold and presumptuous. I would aspire to be as blessed Sisyphus, dutifully pushing his boulder forever up that mountain; forever graced with a purpose and being, never having to doubt or wonder at the focus of life. That I could ever hope to touch such perfection treads such a danger as I would cry out in the darkness, left to grasp at something unattainable, unforgivable, unforgettable. All those that cry pure beneath the shrieking eye of god have but to tear the crimson coils bounding such meager flesh, wholesome lies made solid before this beggers bounty. My dreams are ash; my cries holy.
Before that copper tang lit the dirt, before I was shadow, there was a hunger and a happiness. There was all held tight within that howling regret, so fast bones could only be fearful marionettes, cast forever puppets upon egregious dances swept hopeful yet absurd. The echoes only dwindle, forever strong against logic - they shall never fade, nor shall I ever be able to forget. The supple curves of his face, the sinuous smell of his flesh; all shall be forever branded before the mind's hungry tyrant. I can only scramble the sacrificial appetizers before the eternal main course - I have become prisoner to the most disastrous of all human emotions.
I have determined to live through my destruction, however; the conflagration of logic burning hotter than the twisting hell of emotion. All things will be written as useful, granted time and grace enough to translate into perpetual forward momentum - occasionally faltering, but never ceasing. I have stripped the skin of joy for the armor of reason. I have cut the throat of hope, but kept the eyes, sweet and moist, held before my parched lips.
As all things are ever ending, so they are continuously beginning. The future blooms fragrant flowers from faded skin, cut and winded from a rigorous past. We cannot tell, we cannot know, but we thunder forward just the same, for we are logical animals - steel and sinew beneath the twilight.
Steel and sinew burning bright.
current mood: shoes
current music: The Decemberists - The Island, Come And See, The Landlord's Daughter, You'll Not Feel The Drowning
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| Friday, July 20th, 2007
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4:51 am - Useful Precision
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At the end of the world I hummed soft, broken melodies beneath a sky washed by twilight. I always thought that by being clever I could escape the petty ravages of being human; that I, somehow, could transcend the simple, faulty emotions that burn us all like curious moths. Instead I found within myself the virus of the common man, the everyman, haunted by the ghost of human frailty, gin-struck and stupid at dawn; unconscious by noon.
I tire of the old metaphors: monkeys build a cage around themselves they cannot break; the fearsome industrial machine oiled by the blood of the workers; all the perils and pit-falls of modernity. I stand beneath a sky falling perpetually backward; I have no hope nor rock to cling to. When the prospect of madness becomes like the finishing stroke of a very long sword fight, sanity turns into a game won not by skill, but tenacity. It is this frenzy of motion that is distracting and soothing; the practiced movements that keep a mind alert and unaware, however fleetingly, of the past.
I am no longer certain of the old adages. I am no longer certain time heals all wounds. I think that maybe wishful thinking on the part of the injured. We perceive time as a linear string to enjoy the distance between events, and as an aide to forget them. Nothing is ever so bad with a little distance between it and ourselves, and our perception perpetuates this happy illusion. Its the illusions we cling to in the end, building complex mental cathedrals to worship simple distortions in reality like pagan gods, given over to wine and reverie. For nothing is so terrifying as the monster of existence waiting outside our holy shrines.
I know I'm fighting a losing battle with sanity, a war every philosopher and metaphysican knows he will eventually lose. But I begin to gather a greater understanding of madness along the way, the rich and textured tapestry of thought as it rots and withers away. Madness is when you cease to fit, when you become unglued from the collective opinion of what the world is and what it should be. Madness is finally seeing the objective reality behind the subjective, revealing the complex game of smoke and mirrors for what it actually is: an old fun house in New Jersey.
"Why are we here?" gets asked a lot, along with "What is our purpose?". Its the corner-stone of many philosophies, most of them really boring and made up by dead people. Philosophy is only useful if it can do one of two things for you: solve your incessent, underlying questions of existence, or get you chicks. None of them do the first one and only a few do the second, and that's only if you're cruising the local college scene on a Saturday night with a suitcase of Bud in the back of your 1998 powder-blue Chevy pick-up. Don't forget the roofies.
Purpose is rubbish. You shoud change your purpose like you change your underwear: frequently and while no one else is around. Humans are meant to be dynamic creatures, never locked to any one set of circumstances, always willing to move off in another direction if necessary. By that same token don't get caught in the equally unpleasent trap of change for the sake of change; purpose is meant to be dynamic - containing aspects of truth - not simply a means to an end. Consider the vaster purposes of your life stretching above the smaller day-to-day ones; think and move carefully without hesitation. Space the distance on a relative plane in steps and walk them precisely. Chaos blossoms from precision; order from assumption.
A chair has a purpose: it takes up space and you can sit on it, therefore it exists. Man is much the same way, only a chair cannot change its purpose; it will always be a chair until such a point as it is destroyed. (I'm sure at this point some smart ass will point out that you could set things on the chair and use it as a table, at which point I will break a leg off the chair and stuff it up your ass. This will invalidate my argument but make me feel better.) Because of this most people are about as interesting as their furniture, and in the case of Victorian homes, decidedly less.
Now go do something useful.
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| Thursday, July 19th, 2007
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2:31 am - Fred and Marvin and the Big Scary Tar Pit
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Fred and Marvin were walking through their favorite place in the whole world: a dense tropical jungle in what would eventually be modern day Seattle, millions of years in the future. Instead of skyscrapers and highways they were surrounded by tall trees and dense brush. This suited Fred and Marvin just fine, because they were dinosaurs.
Fred was a fire engine red Tyrannosaurus Rex and Marvin was a bright yellow Stegosaurus with a purple afro. They were best friends and went everywhere together. Today they were in the jungle having lunch and Fred was angry. Fred got angry a lot.
“Marvin!” Fred growled. “I'm angry!”
“I can see that, Fred,” Marvin sighed. “What are you angry about?”
“I was talking to Izzy earlier, and he said that our lives are pointless!” Fred howled, his tiny arms spinning small, useless circles by his sides.
Marvin groaned inwardly. Izzy was an Anklosaurus who lived on the other side of the jungle. Izzy was also an Existentialist who enjoyed getting Fred worked up over philosophical dilemmas that Fred did not have the brain power to understand. Marvin didn't like Izzy very much.
“Fred,” Marvin swallowed the tasty bunch of leaves he was chewing. “Our lives are pointless.”
Fred immediately stopped stomping and hollering, turning to stare at Marvin in horror. “But, but why are we here?!”
“Well Fred, no one can really answer that question except you,” Marvin explained. “We must choose our own destiny. Maybe a better question to ask yourself is: 'are you happy?'”
Fred stood very still in response to the question, shutting his tiny eyes in concentration. Marvin waited patiently until Fred finally opened his eyes and said: “I'm not sure! Why should we be happy if life is pointless?”
Marvin was suddenly struck with a great idea. “Come with me, Fred.”
***
Fred and Marvin emerged from the sweltering jungle into a large, open area. This area would have been quite lovely with its breath-taking view of the mountains and cool, crisp breeze, had it not been for the giant tar pit that dominated most of it. A thick, acrid grease filled the air, and the constant “bloop bloop” of bubbling tar was very distracting.
“I don't like this place, Marvin!” Fred was trying to hide behind the Stegosaurus, which wasn't working very well because he was so much larger.
Marvin, however, was not going to be dissuaded from his purpose for coming here. “Fred, you say you are unhappy with the fact that life is pointless?”
“Y-yes!” Fred looked back over his shoulder towards the jungle. He considered running away, but he really didn't want to leave his friend alone by the sinister tar.
“How would you feel if you were in the middle of that tar pit?” Marvin gestured forward with his head, because he had no hands.
Fred gave a girlish little shriek and danced backwards: “I wouldn't like it at all, Marvin!”
Marvin nodded, “So you're happier being over here with me on solid ground?”
“Yes, I am very happy to not be in the tar pit!” Fred nodded with enthusiasm.
Marvin smiled and began walking away from the bubbling tar, Fred eagerly followed. When they reached the outskirts of the forest Marvin turned and spoke: “You see Fred, happiness and contentment can be found anywhere at anytime. The easiest way to be happy is to simply be aware that something worse hasn't happened to you yet.”
Fred nodded slowly, tilting his head sideways in thought. “I think I understand, Marvin. I should be glad right now, no matter what my problems are, because they could always get worse!”
“Exactly Fred. I'm glad you understand.” Marvin looked up in time to see a brilliant shooting star tear across the sky, directly above them.
“Look Fred, a shooting star. Make a wish.”
And Fred did.
current mood: asteroid
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| Monday, July 16th, 2007
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2:36 am - Desolationism
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Desolationism is a form of Existential philosophy that postulates that there is always a deeper state of misery that can be achieved in life; that the “bottom of the barrel” is, in fact, not even close to the bottom; that the suffering individual can always fall further into anguish and despair. A state of happiness can then be gained due to “something worse” not yet having occurred to the hapless individual.
Desolationism works on Existential theory; that is, man's “existence” proceeds his “essence”. A man begins life with no set purpose or destiny, and through his interactions with the world assembles an identity and destiny for himself. His existence is more fundamental than any concept of definition for humanity: humans create their own reality.
This freedom creates a double-edged sword. Everyone is free to derive and apply their own meanings to their life and reality, but they also must take responsibility for their own actions, for good or ill. People tend to turn back to theism due to the realization, and consequent fear, of this responsibility. Those that have neither the patience or belief in God tend to develop a paralyzing “Existential Angst”: they are overcome by the fear and inherent pointlessness of life.
The Desolationist responds to this crisis by recognizing that while things may or may not get better, they can always get worse. Because they have not, in that moment, gotten worse, the moment remains pure and the Desolationist finds himself in a state of happy relief.
Consider the situation of a man standing on a street corner having just witnessed a terrible auto accident. The average man will begin inventing clever rationalizations to combat the growing horror within himself after having been party to one of the darker examples of the limitless possibilities of existence. This is a common trap, as any attempt to impose rational order upon a decidedly irrational universe tends to backfire upon the individual in the long run. The Desolationist just accepts the inherent meaningless of existence and is happy a flaming tire from the twisted conflagration of automobiles didn't fly out and hit him in the face.
Desolationism, like Existentialism, rejects reason as the primary source of meaning in life. People make decisions based on what holds meaning for them, rather that what they believe is rational. While common Existentialist thought tends to express the freedom gained from reason and meaning by focusing on the fear and anxiety produced by the knowledge of one's own impending death, Desolationist thought appeals to the individual to do just the opposite: “Be happy while the sun is shining, for any moment could bring rain.” Desolationism still promotes an intense awareness of the meaningless absurdity that is the universe, but does not peck at it constantly like a murder of hungry crows over a dead beaver.
In this respect the Desolationist seeks a “perfectly irrational optimism”. He will hurry from a burning building, decidedly happy when he finds out the street outside is not on fire; he will smile in the face of death because it brings an end to his suffering, whether by oblivion or Elysium. His strength is the quiet assurance that tomorrow will always follow today, no less as varied and virulent with possibilities.
In conclusion, humanity continues to engage in a titanic struggle to shine the light of reason into the endless shadows of irrationality. The Rationalist cheers them on, certain in his heart of the inherent order within the universe. The Existentialist scoffs at such a display, also certain in his heart that not only is the universe completely irrational, but so is the mind of man. The Desolationist buys popcorn and enjoys the show.
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| Sunday, July 15th, 2007
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4:18 am - Until the Stars Fall
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From nothing we spiral into existance. Like displaced clay we mold ourselves, furtive and stumbling at first, then with a gradual increase of skill. Youth is sculpted in timid, shy, graceful creatures growing solid, forboding beneath the steady beat of an empirical hammer.
We become the tragic creatures beneath soft admonishments of
I never really loved you
Lets be together forever
I'm leaving
Every October sunset painted fire
Burning down the golden road
Into another haunted memory
One last Summer
Til we push away
For seperate shores
Life is the pursuit of elegence. We are born dying into a world of infinite possibility. Every step richochets wild, disturbing the sleepy tendrils between us. I have this image of a city at dusk and
He presses an image into my hands. An old photograph, worn by
Age. His hands are smooth and he is
Beautiful.
How I have come to love this graceful decomposition, washed down among flat rocks who blanket every sandy situation. I've gotten him in my head, like an insistant
Parasite I used to
Love to kiss.
I have been coming to this river for years and I still can't find that specific spot where the crows sit silent and you
just find me watching and waiting for the birds and bones
to gather endless amounts of dust.
I have been driven to fade, convinced of such a luxury in convience, that I was distant stone and steel, could not
would not
should not be convinced.
I would drag down beneath another cold Autumn sunset, blissfull dreams of wolves and ravens playing poker, like something
You'd spy in a tacky
Hotel room. But I rather
Like it.
Mabye I have fixed a pointed
Bone
Of contention into that image
Of you looking at me
Looking at you
Sorry about that.
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| Saturday, July 7th, 2007
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1:34 am - Frothy Greasy Midget Horse Sweat
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Writing is a bit of a quest of me, to impart the unspeakable vision into spoken language across the gulf between my mind and yours. It's an impossible undertaking, I thoroughly recognise this, just as the grail was a completely perilous quest fraught with heavy armour and homoerotic knights. I cannot enumerate the specific set of criteria that exists to form the parallels of thought, the walls if you will, of this vision that rises in the morning and falls away in the evening. I would have as much luck imparting my particular view of the world upon all of you as I would firing a Brazilian tree frog into orbit by stuffing it up the rectum of a twelve year old Chinese boy and lighting a firecracker in his mouth.
There was a time when the world was just a sunset, and within that endless evening existed all the lovely things in the world, like coffee cake, watermelons, and greasy midget porn. The cities spun beyond the reckoning eye, gold and glitter dusted down to twilight, resting wild below mountains of steam and sorrow as those hideous lights filled an empty sky. In moments the work of millennia came to an end, resting upon the busy backs of children and cockroaches sent shivering into the nuclear season.
I was a rock, you a mighty general, with your guns and boys and horses, parading in endless circles from campaign to campaign, the sweet frothy loam of sweat and blood whispered down upon my patient face that last, muggy Summer day. You spoke of utopia, driving those luckless scoundrels irrevocably forward, forcing them to shake the disease that so wrapped their fragile concepts of war and strife. I alone knew of your resounding doubt, I alone knew the unpleasant truth you hid behind your proud words and painted horses. Humanity can never exist in a peaceful world.
We came to rest, among the broken bones of the world, burning and dreaming, fused within our fallen city. I remember your laughter, the way the sunlight was always kind to you, so I was never ashamed to die at your feet. All that moves past us now, drifting down with the sun, evaporating like steam from the endless rivers of consciousness that carry us away. Time stretches away and becomes the prison of our ideals, at once we are forever this moment, standing monuments to a freshly slain epoch.
We play out these echoes across the years, each century that passes, brushing hands, building empires. The cities are all different, but the rubble, the broken bricks and haunted laughter, are the same. Across a thousand points in time, bleached by the sun, cleaned by the crows, waiting out eternity.
Heaven is a quiet place.
current mood: H. R. Cuttinstuff
current music: silly string
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| Monday, July 2nd, 2007
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2:31 pm - The Wonders of Science
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Some people ask me, in between screams usually, as I'm carving off their eyelids, what I do for inspiration. It tends to sound like this: "Herr Doctor, what do AAARARRRARAGGHDH you do for RRRAAAAGGGHHH inspir-", well they are generally unconscious by then, but you get the idea. I'm always especially wistful whenever I receive this question, so much so that I'll even lay down the electric drill probe for a moment, and that never leaves my hands while I'm working.
"Dinosaurs in top hats," I always try and be honest with my earnest questioners, I often find having a man's blood on my hands (and clothes and shoes and ceiling) does that to me. "I find the auxiliary oscillation of those gyrating scaly tails and gleeful tapping canes shall put me in rickets evermore, gentle sir!" The screams are my only affirmation, but I know full well they represent a great and hearty amount of approval.
During my afternoon work I often like to turn on the television just to have other sounds besides the yowling and drilling in the lab. While watching an absolutely fascinating documentary on parasites an advertisement for a new weight-loss product caught my attention. Now I'm a rather thin man, personally, and have been all my life (except for that bit part in Caligula back in the 70's when I had to gain a few hundred pounds), but none-the-less I still find the American fascination with crazy contraptions to solve what is essentially "cake-in-mouth" disease.
Most of the commercials are dull, only involving some pill or another, which only has potential if some clever scientist slipped in a retroactive mutagen. But this device, this Lap-Band, this has potential! The surgical procedure consists of attaching a silicon band filled with saline around the upper entry tube into the stomach, constricting the flow of food into the digestive track and creating a smaller "secondary" stomach above the first one, much like a cow! Brilliant! This secondary stomach will, of course, hold much less food which will slowly pass into the original stomach where digestion will continue. And that's not all! The device is connected to a sub-dermal port where saline can either be injected or removed, just in case you have a pesky social gathering like Thanksgiving/Roman Orgy to attend and don't want to seem rude by not eating five times your body weight in Cheesy Things and Fried Chicken. This is truly better living through science! In fact, I was so engrossed in the advertisement that I completely forgot what I was doing at the time, which happened to involve the installation of a tertiary bile gland into a mermaark (cross between a mermaid and an aardvark, scary creatures, all tits, scales, and hair) which would allow it to vomit corrosive liquid at distances exceeding twenty yards. Long story short I had to get another mermaark and a new tie, but it was well worth it! I immediately phoned the company and requested a box of the Bands, my mind is practically boiling over with all the wacky things I'll get up to with them! I haven't been this excited since absinthe was made legal again back in '86.
I'm actually thinking that instead of ratcheting the band around the esophagus I will, instead, place it inside, thus using it to expand the tube leading into the stomach, creating a vastly larger secondary stomach! What a wonder that would be! Finally humans can experience the intense joy of what it feels like to have multiple stomachs, just like a bovine! Never fear for longing a mid-afternoon snack, just regurgitate a bit of breakfast and chomp on that for a while! Humanity's eventually evolution is finally upon us, my friends, and we all have the Lap-Band to thank for it!
Now that I mull it over I might use a few on some of the less complex experiments - the Bangerghast comes to mind first and foremost. I've been itching to see what prolonged oxygen deprivation does to that variety of critter, and I think this device provides the perfect means to that end. I'll have to expand it a bit; Bangerghasts have extremely thick necks.
Now you must simply pardon me for a bit, I need to go find where Hobbes has crawled off to. His venom is well-suited towards the paralyzation and capture of villages. Ta ta for now.
current mood: chipper
current music: chasing spiders
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| Sunday, July 1st, 2007
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3:15 pm - Weasel Cannon
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A couple of things, really. I mean that's usually what it starts as, just a small thing here and there, and, before you know it, there's bags of pudding and half-dead hookers everywhere. There's an important lesson somewhere in that emaciated mountain of love-rotted flesh, trust me. Coke nails and cockroaches, on the surface nothing in common. But dig down, below, both scratching, scrabbling away from legions of tiny men possessed of tiny minds and terrible sympathies. Every rage crashes down about our shoulders, giving us just one more reason to carry that hatred a few extra feet. It may burn the hands, but nothing is sweeter upon the tongue.
People ask me why I hate NASCAR so much, so I tell them: it's all about wasted potential. Just a bunch of cars, all the same, same engines, ZZZZZZMMMMM around the loop, again and again. No weapons, no experimental technology, no questionable shady deals behind the scenes to try and take out other drivers before the race even begins. What needs to happen here? Well I'm gonna fucking tell you. One. Experimental engines. People come to these races and watch them on TV to see the giant, terrible, thunderous explosions. People say they don't, but they really do. So we increase their number with crazy impossible smoking, bubbling, churning, space-warping engine technology that might as easily disintergrate the entire stadium as power some skinny, beer-guzzling redneck's cockmobile for the duration of the race.
Two. Weapons. Or, more specifically, the WEASEL CANNON. Nothing is more dangerous that an angry weasel, particularly if outfitted with tiny crash helmets and fired into the cabs of enemy drivers. The barrell should be ajustable enough to accomidate badgers, muskrats, and stoats into the ammunition considerations, because you just never know when you might be short on weasels but still have a left-over bag of badgers from last night's badger jamboriee. Because the name of this game is always being prepared like a boyscout bringing along a tub of vasoline to do his grandma in the butt on her sixtieth birthday because its grandma's birthday and grandma gets what grandma wants you pug-faced little stallion you drive that throbbing manborghini up grandma's scoot-shoot.
Three. Road hazards. That's right, I want to see god damned landmines, oil-slicks, gravel pits, false tracks of road, illusionary walls, the whole fucking enchilada. America is made up almost exclusively of the distracted obese, so why is this fucking sport so popular? The tide of violence in media is growing steadily larger, like the bruised and swollen shaft of an abused cock. Come on America, you filthy, cum-drenched whore, I'm counting on you.
Shine like razor-wire in the devil darkness.
current mood: sounds in my head
current music: your mom
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| Thursday, May 17th, 2007
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12:38 pm - Cock-Slapping Porn Regimen
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What does time give us? What of ethics and morality, divinity and the sinking, post-modern sensation that the world is going to hell in a handbasket and we're all seated right up front, next to the sandwiches? The days when people would do right for one another just for the sake of philosophic belief that it was the correct thing to do, the decent thing to do, seem to be largely behind us; so much of humanity riding fast upon the autonomous wave of religion and the blind deities that surf it, with their insane edics and unreasonable doctrines. The world would be a better place if everyone just told whatever god they believe in to stuff it and took a bit of responsibility for their actions. If I was some sort of divine entity leading a bunch of people I wouldn't want them all to be spinless dogs barking at shadows and looking to me for reassurance at every turn.
To put it in its most simple form: for Man to evolve, God must die.
This isn't a new concept, certainly not to philosophy. There have been plenty of men lost to the bones of history that have believed similiar things. I'm probably not as hardcore as they were: I think religion has a place, along with all the various gods and goddesses. I think they enrich our lives and culture. At least in a polytheistic society, that is. For some reason when monotheism comes on the scene people get the crazy notion in their heads that "my invisible friend is better than your invisible friend, so therefore DIE INFIDEL". You get the picture. People are competitive by nature, at least when you have a bunch of gods in a patheon there is some sort of implied co-operation, rather than the jealous hysterics of the demiurge, or whatever meglamanical psuedo-deity you want to look at this week.
I'm a big proponate of personal guides and spirits; you know, those friendly non-physical entities that, for whatever reason, hang around and help you out. You can make your own gods and goddesses if you like, the universal power source is exactly that: a giant light socket. He's not really interested in us, He just keeps the power running. Small spirits work better for humanity; give us anything big and we're bound to be so filled up with the need to tell everyone the "Good News" that we'll jolly well bash their heads in until they listen. It's for their own good, trust me.
So where does that leave us, should all that come to pass? Lost and forgotten upon this green earth, left to find our own way and philosophy without the guiding hand of some deity. Some of you live this kind of life already, free from the yolk of religion; in fact a good majority of the world does nowadays, just a by-product of the Information Age, I suppose. You can tell the parts of the world that do not because they're mostly on fire.
Even those that forsake a belief in a god or anything that can't be measured on a spectrometer, generally still worship something, be it God Money, or God Sex, or God Whatever, that basic need inherient to our funny, little pink bodies is still there. We need some sort of extra motivation, we can't seem to just live for ourselves without some giant, metaphysical fist up our collective asses.
The point? There is none. We live, we die, hopefully in the interum we get to laugh and screw each other a bit. Life can be a dreary procession or a mad-cap gallop through a forest full of angry bees, the choice, as always, is ours. The world has much to offer, ranging from the most esoteric philosophies to the most hard-core sciences. I have high hopes that the vast majority of you can pause in your daily cock-slapping porn regimen to do some extra reading; it is well worth it, I assure you.
current mood: eat your face
current music: Simple Minds - Speed Your Love to Me
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| Thursday, May 10th, 2007
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8:57 pm - Pointy Ambition
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The semester is over, or it will be tomorrow. I could cast my reflections about like so many sheaves of wheat, glittering golden in the last lingering light of these lengthening Hellishly hot days. Whatever. I did pretty well I'd say. Wait, is that emo? O, voice of the Internet, bane of my black, corroded heart, pls advise.
I'll probably be working for the IT department this Summer, I'm just waiting to hear back from them at this point. On top of that I'll be taking a few more classes over the Summer term, so I'll be here on campus until I find an apartment and extract myself from this miserable, monkey-filled Hell-hole. Actually, once everyone leaves it should be pretty nice again, at least until all the cheerleaders show up. While I could conceivably bitch about this subject for some length of time approaching forever, I don't really want to.
I need a hobby. I'll quantify this by saying I need a hobby that I actually enjoy; I'm not entirely certain that I can affectionately put writing into that catagory. Writing is something that I'd rather put at the bottom of a well and lower bottles of lotion down in tastefully decorated baskets so I can toughen up it's skin for wearing while I do my hoochie dance. I'm thinking I may get back into playing the piano, mostly because most people expect writers and musicians to be a bunch of witty, acerabic, foul-mouthed bastards, which means I won't have to go through the trouble of altering my self-image any. Nothing would make me crankier at this point.
And what of those halcyon days, now gone to distant echoes that live only in dreams and memories? I tend to notice the arcitechture within my dreams more than the people within it. Massive, complex, spiraling structures unable or unwilling to exist upon our simple earth; alive and reassuring in their permanence. There's a juicy tid-bit for any psycho-analysts out there; people change and fade, but a building, a stone, the ash and dust of the earth, will exist longer than the majority of our life-spans. Love can topple any building, but those same stones will stand at its death and far beyond; silent sentinels stretching evening shadows.
Does this forgive the bitterness? The ennui? That sad feeling that persists when you stop long enough to actually notice it? Depression is such a simple, common word; I mean Christ, everybody and their dog is depressed now-a-days, it's like some kind of new fucking fad. Something to go along with the eyebrow rings, tongue studs, and head spikes; now everyone can be a manic depressive running wild across an over-pass screaming the inexerable joy of life right as they plummet over the edge into on-coming traffic.
No, I'm speaking about something closer to an existential crisis, which is a phrase philosophers use to make women think they are more interesting than they actually are. I'd say there comes a point in everyone's lives where they wake up suddenly, take a look around them at the nine-to-five world of drive-thru cuisine and scary cosmetic surgery, and something inside of them just snaps, or starts hollering at the top of its lungs, or something equally distracting. Has this happened to me? Absolutely not, I'm much to aggrivated to be bothered by something so trivial as the impending doom Humanity has so carefully wrought against itself.
In truth, I am the same as every other trite, vapid, waste-of-skin out there in my emotional state. I'm tired, lonely, angry, frustrated, and just generally impatient with myself whenever I find myself missing people or feeling sad. The only difference is I try to dress it up with verve and wit, as if my words might be a blade to weild against some big, annoying monster made out of old dictionaries and over-due library books.
What's the point? Life isn't about being happy or cheery, life is about being aware of your abilities and surrondings. Life is about possibilities, which number greater than the stars in our evening sky. Don't bother trying to be happy in life, it's a fleeting, fickle bitch of an emotion. Be excited and ambitious about life instead, that's the stuff that lasts.
current mood: bollocks
current music: Primative Radio Gods - Standing Outside A Broken Phone Booth
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| Monday, March 26th, 2007
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4:12 am - Pudding
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One of the reoccuring themes of this journal is that I usually never know exactly what I'm going to write when I sit down in front of it. In the past this was never that much of an issue; usually I'd just go with whatever was rolling around my mind at the time. Looking closer I think this may have been on purpose, as a big important lesson of writing is that 90% of everything you ever produce will be absolute shit. That's fine, most anything you do in life is not really about brilliance; brilliance is for lovely people with six-pack abdominals and perfect faces - the rest of us just have to muddle our way through based upon the much maligned virtue of tenacity. If I've just depressed a bunch of you: good. Reason is the cold water thrown upon the erection of youth. You are not a special and marvelous snowflake, you are just the same fucked up bag of smelly entrails suffering through the same corporial existance as the rest of us. Welcome to Earth, kindly keep moving along.
Writing is something one needs to love if any marginal success is to be achieved. I know, everybody and their fucking dog has written a book saying that, but it does happen to be true. I tend to love writing the same way a pimp loves his hoes: with my fists. I've done an excellent job of just ignoring anything to do with the written word for impressive lengths of time. If they gave out awards for the avoidance of writing novels, I'm sure I'd win one. At this point if I'm ever successful as a writer I would expect - nay, invite - all my more serious writer friends to stone me to death for being a lucky, undeserving bastard. I am probably the laziest, most undisciplined writer I know, and this mostly stems from the fact that I have trouble loving this thing I do with words. Most of what has brought me back to writing in the past has had more to do with stubborness than anything else. I can be a very stubborn person, just ask my ex-boyfriend. And here I thought I might actually make it through an entire entry without mentioning a past failed relationship. Well I suppose that'd be as strange as a Furry Con without someone shitting their pants.
One of the major sub-quests of this journal was to eventually elevate me into the status somewhere north of Internet Gremlin. That takes a fuck-ton of work though, and frankly I don't see myself cut out for it. I strive everyday for something that people like ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) e_richard achieve effortlessly; that is, being a complete internet emo fag. Plus he's black, so that's like extra points or something, like spelling "quintessential" in Scrabble. The only thing I really have going for me is my scathing wit, which I shove dildo-like into the gaping anus of the internet, not really expecting to get my arm back, but always surprised when I do. I also don't offically care about anyone, and would probably be seen dancing a rather gaudy jig should certain people from my past spontaniously catch on fire while being devoured by termites. If any of you think this makes me a bad person, then please go on holding those beliefs close to your heart, it makes me giggle. In fact it would give me no greater joy than if my words struck some fantastic, throbbing emo cord of exquisite wankst in anyone that you immediately reviled me to all your friends and family as the ultimate downfall of Humanity right before throwing yourself under a passing bus. That last part is really important, so don't do the other stuff without doing that step, otherwise it's cheating.
Scorn is much like pudding; you can never really eat enough pudding. I mean, you probably could, but it would have to be an all-you-can-eat pudding bar or something, because it would take a lot of pudding. And I mean a lot. Like enough to fill the ass of a large draft horse. That's the kind of pudding ramifications we're talking here. Scorn and pudding are both like that; you just can't get enough of either of them. At least I can't.
So belly up to the bar. Seconds are on me.
current mood: stab you in the face
current music: Kate Bush - Morning Fog
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| Friday, March 23rd, 2007
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3:09 am - Making Love to Boys is like the Sleep of a Wolf Beneath a Flower whose Petals are Falling
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Here we have time, at once rushing us all by in one ever retreating moment. How odd my life has become! Like an unfamiliar painting by an artist of questionable virtue, the canvas speaks uncertain truths that wage continuous war upon the stains of age and decay. Above the brilliance of this empty sky I watch and wait for sunset, an end to the day's burning passions and the welcome roil of nocturnal dreams. In every distant footfall a thousand memories crowd, their echoes draw a supple glamour beneath the texture of this present moment, so that I might be reminded of all I have done and all that has drifted beyond my reach. A common man would call this hell; I am not a common man.
We are given one beautiful love in our twenties, one outlandishly far-fetched romance that succeeds at all cost. One manificent glimpse into what it is truly like to be alive and hopelessly in love. This romance is always brief, for some of us it drags on a bit, especially for those tenacious enough to not let go. Its shadow contines long after the lovers part and the romance fades, leaving a dispossessed stain upon the once care-free countenance of youth. Love ever after becomes a fickle and strange beast, rare and dazzling as a hidden desert flower. In the Springtime of youth crossing such a desert was but a trifle; now all said desert tends to give you is sunstroke and an asscrack full of sand.
I'd like to say I've become blissfully optimistic about life, but that would be a tragic fantasy the kind only found inside of novels with large breasted men upon the front. Life is much like a bucket of weasels wrapped with cobras; the snakes really aren't too happy about being wrapped around the weasels and the weasels are even less pleased about their serpentine bed-fellows, but they do have one thing in common: they both hate you. It's that common ground that allows snakes and weasels to work together, and believe me, when snakes and weasels put their minds toward something, shit gets done.
I suppose I'm skipping around a lot of obvious questions, like what I've been doing the last six or so months since I last touched this journal. Maybe I joined the circus, carving my body up into a disturbing variety of ink-laced images like a Southeast Islander while learning how to spray bile from my mouth like a human Komodo Dragon. I wish. Sadly it's nothing that interesting. I went back to school. Yeah, go me or whatever.
My heart is still an empty field, occasionally disturbed by the stiff fingers of unwanted memory. But at least it's warm outside.
current mood: fuck off
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| Friday, October 13th, 2006
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9:56 am - Evil in a plain white box
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Dear God,
I used to play internet video games with my friend e_richard, but then he got a Macintosh and now he can't play games at all! This makes me very sad and is also making me want to go back to my old habit of exterminating the Jews and Homosexuals, which You told me was very bad. I want to make You happy and not get sent to the Warm Place, but at the same time I want Richard to stop being such a commie pinko terrorist book-burning faggot.
Thanks,
-Ben
P.S. Could you also make him look a little less like a Muslim? Whenever we go out to any terrorist baby-killing parties he's always getting hit on by the other dictators, especially that slut Mahmoud. I was thinking if he was a little less brown that wouldn't happen so much.
current mood: sad
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| Monday, July 24th, 2006
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3:27 pm - BURNIN DOWN THE HOUSE
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In the midst of e_richard's and aotommo's "lover's spat" I find myself in contemplation of life, the universe, and foreskin. While having read very little of Objectivism myself (I think I have one of Miss Rand's books as a doorstop somewhere), I do find myself resigned to a great many of its tenets. Most people confuse being objective with apathy, and it is a natural mistake. On the surface they are amazingly similar.
What we choose to react against and care about shapes us as people as much as what we choose to ignore and disdain. In a world stampeding towards homogeny the urge to take a drastic stance on any random issue in an attempt to fore-stall that inevitable blending together is a natural survival instinct. Death, these days, comes not so much in the form of larger clawed predators of the physical world, but rather in the shape of differing ideals and philosophies that threaten to rend and change the delicate flesh of our psyche. Its an easy trap to fall into; man's first reaction to a challenge of any sort, physical or mental, is the standard "fight or flight" matrix. An arguement is either joined or avoided. Having an objective discussion about anything anymore without one party invariably being offended is disturbingly rare. I recall posting something in Richard's journal about how dead to the world we've all become. I think I was wrong. In actuallity most of us have just started to care about shit that is meaningless. In the long run the result is the same.
We are a curious species, set to build additions to the rotting edificial sub-structure of our ideals, instead of attempting to repair the damage. None of us can escape the hypocracy of modern life, least of all me, but I can do my damnest to try. I've been unreasonably emo about two people in this journal's long and sordid history, but I got over it (mostly) and learned from it (kinda). Actually I think I really did; now I just hate everyone, it saves on time.
So where does that leave all of us when the lights go out and the dead rise from their graves? Two words, my friends: Take-Out.
current music: Brian Eno - Unfamiliar Wind (Leeks Hills)
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