I wonder how much damage I do to my writing ability by watching TV as opposed to reading books. Even my own policy states clearly that TV makes you stupid, and books make you incomprehensible. I suppose there is some irony to be found in that I frequently seem to be both. I like to read. I have a tendency to gorge when I read, skipping whole sentences in an effort to absorb the core meaning of the passage. Sometimes I'll feel like reading only dialog, and I'll have my eyes skip to quote-marks. Other times, I'll feel like soaking up descriptions, and I'll look for long passages of solid type. In both cases, I'm terribly critical of what I read. I often feel as if I am listening to the author read to me, and mentally I'll chide him or her for their cliches or predictable plot twists. I live to reach those parts, or whole books even better, where I feel myself sucked in completely.
I absorb TV in the same way I absorb anything. I absorb it, let it run through me, and eventually I shit it out. Most people would be most familiar with the ass end of that process, wherein I'm talkin' shit. Back in the PC Accelerator days, that would be called "keeping your finger on the pulse of pop culture," and it was an Ouroboros that all pop authors participated in. I like watching horrible made-for-TV movies, cop shows, old sitcoms, after-hours infomercials, Sunday morning religious programs, documentaries, 80's action movies, moralistic noir shows, and so on. I like it all.
Somewhere in all those stories there is a tapestry of human connection waiting to be woven from the laughter and tears, boredom and excitement they inspire. I can't help but hear the whispering of those threads when I watch, or listen, or read and try to pass on the cords I inevitably tie together. You're reading one of them right now, in fact.
I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
I made some more progress on the Denali post-mortem today. It's a lot harder than I thought it would be. I think I'm going to have to recomposite about 2 years worth of old website entries and try and make up a timeline. What's increasingly interesting is having enough documented information to notice actual patterns. Places where I lived, and how I lived, and people I knew all changing and reflecting on each other. I've only recently become aware of how much of my perspective is founded on relationships and emotions, and not thoughts and plans as I had previously maintained. I would say that is the largest and most poignant discovery. I create myself from my relationships.
Whoa. Heavy shit man.
It's a super day out! I want to go to Hawaii, YAAYYY YAAYYYYYY! I want to go to Hawaii!!!!
It's hard to keep both hands on it. It's glossy sheen makes it hard to maintain any kind of grip. The serpents body runs around my torso, it's head nestled in the crook of my neck, licking my ear like a lover. Soon there will be little left of this struggle. I've felt the contractions with each attempt to move, and my shifting excites it in a basic, primal way. My shallow breaths are just enough to maintain this conscious train of thought, and at the same time let my killer know there is still work to be done.
It all seemed so simple. So sensuous. We locked eyes and immediately knew each other. There was nothing to be done but approach. Two blossoms of speckled infinity absorbing my heartbeat and I came and came into it. I lost the first breath of many with the first slide of contact, which shivered me with an ecstatic breach of anticipation. The endless caress of those coils wrapping me took a lifetime. Still those eyes remained during the length of my lust and it's embrace. It and I became we and closer than can be without distinction. It was only when the speckles of black obscured my vision of my love that I instinctively resolved to resist. My death would only interrupt the rapture of our endless gaze. That could not be.
So I draw breath and push and languidly resist the sleeping end my one desires of me. I hold it's thick wrappings enough to still the pulsing colored spots for a moment, then another, and another, each less than before. Tears creep from my eyes, keeping pace with each pulsing hug, and my grimacing smile forces them to run salty into my mouth. My deep, throbbing, short moans are the best I can offer my murderer in response.
Lick on my ear. All I want is your vision. Breath and less. Your face in kaleidoscope. Sliding hands. Your smile in the corner of my vision. Breath on my ear. Your endless touch on my body. A crack and pain and warm running from my smile. I'm getting cold, and you are so warm. A sheath of darkness covers my vision.
And still I see you.
He wakes up in the morning, and mixes his first cup of coffee. The scent of roasted beans fills his house and mixes with the occasional smell of morning breath as he makes his way to the shower. The hot water hits him, and the steam makes his lungs feel heavy and sickly clean. Scrub and brush and wipe and dry and it's pull on another suit for the day. He glances out the window. Another grey, overcast day. A random with a parka walks by, oblivious of the weather, or anything else. No matter. He grabs the coffee and pours his cup, black, no sugar. It crawls into his belly and starts a stomach acid revolution, but that is nothing new. One grimace and he's downed it and is ready to absorb the day. He gathers his briefcase, his coat, his glasses. This is the longest part of the day. Five minutes in eternity. He sees his dead wife, and lives an entire lifetime again in that moment. He hears the voices of approval pushing him up the ladder of success, and the corresponding payments he's made from his childhood account. He feels the sag of his face, and the weight of time draped on his flesh like a wetsuit of bill collection. He looks at his watch. Two minutes to go. His eyes lift to see the door and the familiar white paint and wood grain is more familiar to him than his own skin. He draws a breath like sliding a blade from a wet sheath, long and labored. With a look behind him, to see if there is anything forgotten, he is met with the quiet comfort of his living room, and the irony of the name is lost on him. One minute. Time to face the day. Time to get your game face on. Time to see things through. Time to go. Out he goes, one step at a time into the breathless face of existence.
I drempt of terror. I was in a high-rise where I used to work - in a previous dream. I tried to explain to my father, who was there, my fears of being pulverized inside a falling building, but I could see he didn't get it. My kid sister didn't want to sit on my knee and look out the window (which would have calmed me). I felt rejected and I went to the top of the building where the high-class restaurant was. I was told I'd have to sit on the floor, in an aisle off to the side. I said I didn't care. Famke Janssen was in the restaurant, eating, and I briedly stopped on the way to my aisle seat, but she turned to look at me and it was a look of rage. I backed off and sat. Eventually, the wait staff brought my dinner - and it looked damn good. I'm settling in to eat, and I look up for just a moment and I see that Denali is standing there, dressed up and looking surprised and uncomforable. She mentions she's there for dinner with "Hannon" (?) and I say nothing. The dream ends with her asking me "what's your problem?"
I woke up saying "What's MY problem?"
Maybe that doesn't sound like terror to you, but I've been awake for 20 minutes and I'm still shaking.
Trite. I know it. I know it sounds trite. I hear it in my head and it comes with its own laugh track. That's how trite it is. But I have a hard time arguing with results. I'm feeling things now. I know a quick rundown of my blog would seem to show that's nothing new, but it is. I see couples at the bar and I feel their giddy anticipation and their intimate circumference. I listen now, more than ever, to people talk and I can feel their interest(s). I'm eager to start my day, and I'm less terrified of going to sleep. I hear the longing train whistle and I almost cry, but don't, because I feel it. I dream of Denise and wake up as if returning from a trip to childhood haunts. I am at a party and I can laugh and hear the laughter and it's not bittersweet. I'm feeling it. Them. Me.
It is such a powerful current that I'm afraid of getting swept away, and then without stopping I feel that fear and it's ok. That rhymed, kinda. I don't feel like I own my feelings, nor do I feel like they own me. It's more like we're sharing a condo in Miami and we've both agreed on how to stock the kitchen. It works, and although sometimes I worry that it might stop working, I feel that too, and it's ok.
I have loved a lot. I am loving a lot. I have and want love.
I have hated much more, and I am hating less, and I'm going to enjoy the stragglers as long as possible.
I want to fix what's broken, and create what's missing.
I picked up a mosquito-hawk by one leg today and threw it out the window, and felt good that I saved it from being painted over. I was painting the wall it was on, you see. But it flew back and stuck itself to the wet paint, and I laughed at the absurdity of both of our actions. Silly mosquito! Silly me.
Since my credit card got stolen last week, I've been patiently waiting for the new card to come in. They said it would be about a week, which in my mind is a little more 20th century than I like, but ok... I'll live. Or so I thought.
As yet another reminder that I am out-of-synch with the whole world, nearly all of my recurring billing took place, you guessed it, this week. So I have letters and emails up the wazoo regarding non-payment and it's not actually worth calling up to explain because any second my new card will be here and I can just straighten everything out all at once.
What a pain in the ass. I really hope the fraud people talk to me so I can tell them the story and maybe they'll find out who robbed me.
*completely unrelated* Last night I had a really bittersweet dream about being with Denise again. We broke up almost a decade ago. Do these things ever get done healing?
Zoeys party is over. What an emotional roller coaster. Why don't I start with last night.
I decided to go out and drink my way through friday night. I headed down to Jupiter, as usual, to see what's what. It was dead as a doornail, with a massive proportion of folks being over 40. That's just not my scene, and I decided shortly after showing up that it was time to roll. I headed up to The Bear's Lair, which is basically the campus bar. Lots of student types there. I feel old as a motherfucker there, so I usually boogie out in no time. I ordered my usual, Red Spot, and hung out at the bar drinking alone. After a while Diego and Mel, my pals, got done setting up for the DJ and came out to play. The game at hand was a drinking game based on ping-pong. Essentially there are no rules to this game aside from that if the ball lands in your beer, you need to pound it. If the ball just touches your beer, you need to just take a drink of it - but the ball in your beer is the main goal.
Despite my big talking, I suck at ping-pong. I ended up guzzling down at least three pints. I don't remember a lot of that night, but what I do remember is being stopped by police (for my friend smoking weed) and getting my ass beat by Micah. He's a lot bigger than I am, and I think I started shit with him first, but in any case he laid a beating down on me. My arms a scraped to hell, my ribs, chest, back, legs, and so on are bruised to pieces. It hurt a lot. Especially this morning. Don't get me wrong, it was a lot of fun. I love to fight, even if I lose.
So today I was less than on point. I spent a majority of today recouperating from last nights foolishness. I knew that I needed to go to Zoeys party tonight, and so my convelescence would only last for a few hours before I had to get my game face on and get movin'.
Not to worry. I got my shit together and got ready to go. I hit the party at about 7PM and promptly passed out. Sometime I woke up and mixed myself a vodka and redbull, designed to snap me into party mode. It worked, in a way. I woke up enough to make an impression on the crowd, as usual. I was surprised by the number of people who knew who I was even though I had no idea who they were. I mingled. I danced. I wish that I had wore the tight-pants that were the theme of the evening.
Arg this sucks but I'm too drunk to finish the story. Maybe later...
"Veal chops? .... you don't say."
"If two people love each other, but they just can't seem to get it together, when do you get to that point that enough is enough?"
"Never."
Yep.
One of my all-time favorite CDs, Paris' "The Devil Made Me Do It" had gotten a scratch on it about 4 years ago which made it pretty much unplayable. I downloaded some of the songs off Kazaa, but found that there really wasn't much Paris available. Oh well, I sucked it up and moved on.
Today I decided to see if I could CD-rip the songs off the disc and see which ones might be clear enough to listen to. Whoa. Not only did the cd-ripper CDnGO have no difficulty ripping all the tracks - but they sound PERFECT! Color me impressed.
I don't spend a lot of time talking about the foolishness going on with IP law, but is there -anything- better about having a CD in your hand, rather than having mp3 files? (and please don't tell me about other, higher compressed and better sounding formats... that is not my point and you know it.)
I'm watching the final episode of Dawsons Creek. I have absolutely no idea what that means, but I'm pretty sure it's a sign of the apocalypse.
Here's a tip if you're going to put your picture up on hotornot.com: Do not post a picture with you next to someone who is much much hotter than you.
Just a FYI. You know I'm always looking out for you people.
I feel like I should write something. I don't really know why, exactly, but I guess I'll wing it.
Whey-ull, I guess today was one of those markers in life. Denali finally cut me loose, and for better or worse, it's done. In some ways I guess it's an end of an era. What ever will I write about now? My muse of a decade has moved on, and I suppose it's time to sweep up, turn the chairs over, and turn out the lights. I've talked with a lot of people today about "what it all means" and so on, and I guess I haven't deviated a lot from what I originally thought, or said.
I don't want this.
I know in a variety of different ways that things will be all right, time will pass, all things come to an end, and so on, but if I have to stick a bookmark in this particular passage, it would be that I don't like it, and I don't want it. Please forgive my comma abuse. I've written a lot of Part 2 of my Denali passage, and Part 3 is practically a no-brainer (especially now.) I'll still post it when it becomes ripe. It's good shit, and I've spent a lot of time both awake and asleep conjuring it up, so I'm sure nobody will be disappointed.
It's quiet now, and I'm alone and yet not at all. The night speaks to me as it always has, with one curious distinction. It's comforting. It's not the usual harassment and torment. No, it's just silent and unjudgemental. Calm, even. I've been slowly sipping Jack over ice, and I can hear all new sounds in the emptiness. I hear the sounds of my friends in a mad rush, all clamoring my virtues and validations. I hear my fathers voice from the depth of his armpit, resonant and wise. I hear forgiveness and a cleansing wash of abandon. I hear cars passing, and people engaged. I hear my tears trembling behind my eyelids, and louder the balanced metronome of my heart. I hear Joe walking the Earth. I hear a tremor imperceptible, changing my life beneath me and merely tapping the tint of my visions. I hear the boldness of the tock and the timid cry of the tick.
And I'm listening still.
Good-bye and take care of yourself.
Maybe I'll post about this later. Maybe not.
I am looking forward to tommorow in the same way I would look forward to being fed feet first into an enormous meat grinder. But, as just about everyone I know has pointed out, it is my choice to go. I'll get up early and get dressed, and try and live with just tea instead of coffee. Fucking tea. That's weak. But the last thing I need is chemicals making me jittery.
And on a completely unrelated note? If you use blogger, dont EVER write a line that is longer than the width of your window with no spaces. All the buttons at the top (options, upload file, etc) are put at the rightmost part of the top window (where you type your posts) and there is NEVER a scroll bar there. So the end effect is that your post will put the buttons you need to delete, or repost, offscreen. Again, with no way to scroll to it. I eventually figured out how to do it, but it just sucks to be stuck there, so don't.
Whoever stole my credit card, I hope you enjoy it while it lasts - because I'm going to find you.
A fine japanese meal, watching X2 at the new AMC with the sweet ass stadium seating and pull-up arms, driving to jupes, drinking a beer and a shot of whiskey, and fucking like it was the last night on earth. These are just some of my favorite things.
Thanks Rose.
It all started so nice. Those first few months were just thoroughly succulent moments. I had waited so long, and to finally get to spend that intimate time was an unparalleled release. Here it is years later, and all I can say is thank god it's finally fucking over. That's not to say that there weren't tons of awesome moments, nor to overly bemoan the annoyance and tears and confusion and frustration. And I thank all the friends who helped me through it.
But I'm glad it's over. Tonight, just before midnight, I finally finished Baldurs Gate 2: Throne of Bhaal. I can only estimate, but I think I've spent about four hundred hours playing this game. Considering cost (about 100 dollars, including Baldurs Gate 1, 2, and the expansion) I'd say that was an astonishing return on investment. Pardon the guesswork, but I'd say that puts me in the 1950's somewhere. Roughly 25 cents an hour.
For the 2 people who have any idea what I'm talking about, I finished as a good guy.
What's going to happen to Frankenfamily now that Sonic Foundry is Sony?
Anyone have his email address? Phone number? Anything?
*taps on glass* is there anybody out there?
I'm a 4. I think Rose is a 2, and Denali is a 1 or 3. Joe is a 5.
Unlike Horoscopes, where other signs are applicable to me and so I don't particularly give my "Scorpio" brand a lot of credence, This shit just plain spooks me out. And the more I read - the more spooked I get.
Envy, huh. *shiver*
*update* Better sites, and resources.
So I haven't been drunk in a while. A long while. And now I am. Big time. I am sitting here slugging down whiskey (Jack Daniels, natch!) and trying to surf my emotions. It's been working all night. I was over at Jupiter running my routine of hard-core humor. I had the crowd laughing their asses off. I mean it. They were crying with laughter. It was basically a lesson on how to give a good blow job, but I didn't pull any punches.
That was great. I was great. I was loving how much fun and laughter the group was having. I laughed too. I was that funny. So funny I laughed at my own jokes. And I left and felt drained - like there was a feeding frenzy of me. Yeah, I chopped myself up to make the chum to feed the sharks. I wanted to. I have no excuse. I am there for that sort of thing. I exist to make people laugh. I'm the hanging man. And I don't mean that as an excuse.
I love it. If there is one thing I can do in this world, it's make people laugh. I see things and am not afraid to speak it as I see it - and life is funny. It's funny without embelishment. Someone questioned whether or not I was making things up and it was instantly clear that I wasn't because what I was saying was too fucking real for anyone to make it up. You could relate. You could see that what I was saying was parallel with your own experiences. The sounds of orgasm are familiar to everyone. Sure, they're different, but not really. You can hear the sounds of genuine primal gutteral grunts regardless of their origin - and they're funny. Gut-busting funny if produced correctly.
I produced. I managed to keep the laughs going for at least an hour. I know that the general consensus was that I should take my "act" on the road and just be a stand-up comedian. I think I could do that. If I wanted a life that was even more miserable than I already have, I would. I'd go on the comedy circuit and try to make people laugh for a living. Yeah. I don't think it's worth it. Selling yourself out for money is just not my thing. I feel pretty good about selling myself out for easy laughs, but the idea of turning a dollar on it just makes me even more miserable than I already am.
Sometimes I need to remember just to breathe
Sometimes I need you to stay away from me
Sometimes I’m in disbelief I didn’t know
Somehow I need you to go
Don’t stay
Forget our memories
Forget our possibilities
What you were changing me into
Just give me myself back and
Don’t stay
Forget our memories
Forget our possibilities
Take all your faithlessness with you
Just give me myself back and
Don’t stay
Sometimes I feel like I trusted you too well
Sometimes I just feel like screaming at myself
Sometimes I’m in disbelief I didn’t know
Somehow I need to be alone
Don’t stay
Forget our memories
Forget our possibilities
What you were changing me into
Just give me myself back and
Don’t stay
Forget our memories
Forget our possibilities
Take all your faithlessness with you
Just give me myself back and
Don’t stay
I don’t need you anymore, I don’t want to be ignored
I don’t need one more day of you wasting me away
I don’t need you anymore, I don’t want to be ignored
I don’t need one more day of you wasting me away
With no apologies
Don’t stay
Forget our memories
Forget our possibilities
What you were changing me into
Just give me myself back and
Don’t stay
Forget our memories
Forget our possibilities
Take all your faithlessness with you
Just give me myself back and
Don’t stay
I've recently discovered that I like Linkin Park. I'm now reassessing my views on modern rock and its legions of hybrids.
I also dreamed of dying twice in separate dreams last night. And not in romantic ways either.
Whatever happened to "cappin" on people?
I think the only thing better than being gutted and hung out to dry... well, that would have to be waiting a week for it to happen. I guess this is how dumbasses in Malaysia feel when they get caught with heroin or something.
On the up side, things are going to be a lot less cryptic around here in a week.