I’m sorry I have to go poop
“This should be the busiest time of my life yet nothing has changed with the wind, still I watch the pollen float and the flowers quiver to the never-ending pollination; I want what’s given to be heard to the audience that never existed, the you was always me, always me, always us.” TDA ~2k11 on the silence of TCoM
That’s a good line Justin if you were one to die in the misery of what you thought was there, is there for you and us and I and those around invisibly seen in and out in and out all it takes is the abandonment simultaenous to the joinment / creationment of the thing you set out to do a long time ago.
And my dear friend, the product you wish to create, the never-ending reach you see it as, was never out there, was always in here, right around, always here never there alwyas here never there always here never there always here never there always here never there always here never there the feeling inside your head and your stomach now: the rotting from the inside–it’s real! You are rotting to the audience that never existed. You are rotting to the idea of “want”ing that audience to exist when it will not. It doesn’t matter though! It never did! The real work. The work isn’t the audience. That is a byproduct. We don’t need to sell either. Selling is a byproduct. Being praised is a byproduct. “Feeling like you belong somewhere” or “feeling understood” are byproducts…of the work. The work stops when the product is the byproduct.
When the byproduct is the product this, as you see it and feel it, as you know it, is a never-ending continuance of neverness. Wantness. Fragmentation. The dots will never connect. The proof of creation scattered. Without the context who cares who gives a damn. Not even you! You know it.
The Chronicles of Mania is a monster. Of your creation! And the burden! Of creating such a truth in your lab. Of being the byproduct of labwork. Of fear and such. How misunderstood. How you understand how misunderstanding that work is. How you have carefully made it contradict. How unfinished it is. How it is not expressive. How capped it has been. How little is known about the 12kevent of 2k13. How no one knows. The few that do know so little! And how important it seems! How debilitating it seems to know how little is known and expressed. To look at manicdreams.net and see what it is on the Internet. How the stage falls short. Behind the stage? How about the stage behind? Is there a behind the stage? Is there a way to answer the question, “what kind of art do you do?” Is there a way to understand this question. Is there a way to understand others create too but just not like you no no one does that. No one sleeps like you either. No one feels like you do. no surely not. surely not no surely not no that reach. This isn’t to say you will be always miserable. Not to say you will not find the shape to compliment you. the one you fit into. the passageway to that full self, that full artist, that pro artist henry you’ve seen and known that one time
Life began with .032578% chance for the (and our) 44th universe. The 43 prior to this universe existed without the observers (life, humans). The 44th universe has done two things: given the universe sight to its system, changed the laws of order, and will expand forever, some point in the future having no matter, forever, expanding but nothing inside nothing being the rule. No exceptions.
Free to be with God Alone. But with God, and with Society, thou shalt be punished to the degree of current means. For now and here, the punishment is real forever to be understood as something else, forever proclaimed by the punished to be other than that. Here now here now here now look there is credit and credit where due but how often do we rely on the fruits of our labor as opposed to the labor itself. The ugly fruit and the taste I taste with you all brings a gentleman back to the real cause and the real work and the work and not the printing or the selling or the sharing but just the work and the trust in the work itself. To say at one end fuck your rules and to say at the other end I am free and I am with God and there is nothing anyone or anyone can do to stop that or share that or steal that from me and us and you to say to both ends yes this is the way things are and the way things will always be for it is not bound by rules neither you nor i nor this nor that and we must proclaim the boundary and the line in the sand, we must set up our nests and defend them with our lives because never I promise to any of you to myself that you God & society are capable of muddling about.
I don’t have much time to explain. Our triumphant return will occur.
I know I’ve explained this elsewhere already, but out of obligation to “set things straight” and to “protect my work from censorship,” I am called here right now to “make things clear” as the artist of a work “I’ve already completed.” The R word, or “Rape,” as I see it (the word), & have used it, is not limited to one kind but is (the word) multi-faceted & capable of describing something terrible, the worst, an external forced onto the individual. To be clear, and I really hate to be doing this, but I’ve offended at least one, and been probed already with electrified cattle prods so here it goes, “to be clear” I will speak in third person: the artist first use of the word comes within 44v1:Universi, where he quotes Layne Staley from the track Nutshell,
My gift of self is raped, my privacy is raked.
& yet I find repeating in my head
If I can’t be my own,
I’d feel better dead.
Here, inspired, the artist sees a heroic artist describing the same feeling he feels, the feeling he feels society has forced him to feel, and the word used is rape. C. S. Lewis, “Friendship is born at that moment when one man says to another: “What! You too? I thought that no one but myself . . .” So here, right in this moment, the artist became okay with & accepted rape as THE descriptor for a very specific situation, what he feels & knows to be what he’s felt & known for some time just without the way to describe it. And yes, Layne may have been talking about Heroin, but we are expanding here. Expansion is my job and purpose.
Rape also describes the artist’s bout with psychiatrists and 6 years going by with dozens of experimental drugs being forced into his mouth again and again and again and again. Thousands of pills, thousands of times, forced into his mouth again & again and with fucking awful consequences that ruined lives, ruined minds, ruined spirit, almost killed a man and have killed many more, FROM SUICIDE. The event being SO AWFUL & PROLONGED OVER MANY YEARS, people KILL THEMSELVES OVER IT. JUST AS HE NEARLY DID, MORE THAN ONCE, MANY TIMES MORE THAN ONCE. SO DON’T TELL HIM he doesn’t know because oh yes HE KNOWS or that he has no right because OH YES HE HAS THE RIGHT it just happens to be the only word that fully encapsulates the pain in one word. We are EXPANDING the language. As in to say this RAPE word is NOT EXCLUSIVE. It is neither my fault nor my advice to hang onto such a word as exclusive & fight when other people use it differently, especially if their different use is backed. REDUCED DOWN, YOUR PAIN IS NO DIFFERENT THAN MINE. So yes, it comes up in 44v1 and the artist had earlier talked about how he identifies the artist as being female. “Give her some credit will you,” he says in the Unthesis, and so, here in The Progression, you have the dark figure (the masses of society) raping the artist (always a she, give her some credit will you). So, having said all this, DO NOT BOTHER ME WITH WORDS LIKE YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT UNDERSTANDING MY SIDE OF THE STORY. THAT MAKES NO SENSE BECAUSE I AM THE ONE CREATING IT.
I *really* dislike defending my art. But I’m willing to die in the battle for it. I *really* dislike proving my art. But I’m willing to express myself at all times for its truth. Bottom line: I’m sorry you have pain. If you are not interested in understanding mine then go on and close the book there are billions of other things for you to see and do not done by me.
And where to begin. Where will it end? The course of MDN! heads forward. Though we anticipate life-changes soon. MDN! will change with it. The head will stay forward. It will remain steadfast as we integrate & assimilate with general population, as we “lead the life of normalcy” and produce a sober, abundant kind of prolific unnormalcy in the art of our self-expression. And as we work alongside general population, as we type on the keys they type, and sit on the chairs they sit, and have eyes eavesdropping into our local production of public transparency on the world’s greatest stage–like tiny flashlights putting hardly noticeable dots of light onto the stage we’ve been toiling at for so long. And so what for everything? What of the Visual Progression & the what-nots? The backordered items backlining the outside back layer of my mind. What of the remnants? Of the pasts & the what-nots? Of 447s.com? Of The Network? What have I been doing? Why has there been a lull here. Have I been active? What is Operation Monarch Raven? Will 3nglish ever be released? And such? And things? To settle the score and achieve relief, officially, my activity level is on path for prolific production. A good majority of it has been local & yet to go public, though all of it will in time. As far as this project goes: the deadlines are good & the accountability piece helps, but the content itself I think is not right for this medium. And what for these words & to where is their purpose? It doesn’t seem like they are supposed to end here, on this page. Or maybe it does end. Maybe this will be the last of the last, a conclusion to the experiment held in suspension for all to see for all of time.
* * *
And who is to say–or not say– or even think! all of this thus far, this as in to mean all or everything done up to this point in SST, is just the PREFACE to the grand work coming! A day or less ago I considered why vehicles and such shatter when the train impacts–the train being a slow moving, relentless type, not one blatantly to suspect of such power & momentum, especially head on or facing 4w4rd, one realistically would never think nor consider, not even contemplate the magnitude of what is behind it, what was said before it, “pre-And.” And what of the train’s successor? And that of that’s successor? Where does it end? Where does it begin? Did it have an end? Will it have a beginning? Where are we. What is the real context of things. Can it be established? Will it be? How?
Where to begin…with the good or the bad. I needed leadership. I needed the role of a dad to be leader. Financial supporter wasn’t enough. Bread winner wasn’t enough. The money created opportunities but look at how those opportunities were treated without leadership! I know we’re all just doing the best we can or could, but dad…he was absent, he was not the leader…there was no leader. Brother fell suit. Mom wore so many hats. Hats that couldn’t have ever fit. The role of the father is, as I’ve been reading, to the child & to the family, the leader. No greater opportunity of leadership will pass a man. For the child, for the family, no greater possible leadership figure will exist, compared to that of the dad. And like, all those hours I spent in my room sleeping. Sleeping off the time. Punished in there. Time traveling…Maybe it was good for me though. Maybe having no direction allowed the kind of room that no exists: spaceless, timeless, & unlimited-ness. All that sleep… All those games…. Both are still a part of my life though I’ve made conscious efforts to put a stop to it. The only game I play now is soldat.pl; sleep I still try. But its embedded. It’s removable. Maybe after lots of therapy. But like I almost mentioned…maybe there is good in it. The way the opportunities of childhood were blown off; the way those teachers had no influence. My creativity protected. My freedom internalized. No one to follow. No one to disagree with… it might have been a blessing. And we’re talking about myself too, now that I’m a Dad. Maybe the real blessing will be seen in my child. It will be irrefutable: the blessing. I don’t know completely how but I know why, where, when, & what. And it’s not about retribution. Or making anyone feel bad. It just is. Detached. I’ve forgiven. I’m just really trying to anticipate how. Because I know how important I’m about to be. And not to use my example as what not to do, but in terms of leadership…We shared moments though. Like when we would go to the charlotte checker’s games. How I’d fall asleep on the way home. The basketball games…But when I got cut from the 7th grade team where were you? Where was anyone? I don’t know the smallest things are so to big to the child. And the child needs that leader. I’m going to be that leader. I might not have money. I don’t. But I will have leadership. Of the house. For this is my house. And for me and my house, we will be spiritual, we will create, we will support each other, & we will advance our collective nest. Collaboration. Involvement. Trust. Creative outlets. Positivity. Intention. And who is to blame? I’ve haven’t asked but I bet that leaderless life began before me, before you became an adult. When you were a child. Did you have a father figure leader? I have never asked. I don’t blame you. It’s the chain. It happens to so many & it’s so hard to break. Generation after generation. But, maybe with all of the financial support, you created an opportunity for me to break the cycle when or if I recreated. You caused an awareness. You allowed that space. And what of the other 50%? Of my DNA. I’m whole brain dominant, that’s how you shaped the way I work, mechanically. To balance out that creativity with logic. It’s a real beauty of a blend. It’s hard sometimes to assimilate with society. And to follow the rules of others. To follow at all. To obey. I see it right through it. It’s taken time and lessons but I’ve learned how to do it. Because of the abundance. Now as we discussed I am much less the potential artist than mom. That’s because of the logic. But, again, as discussed, she chose something else. I’m not choosing something else. Creating, leading, inspiring through prolific abundance of words & visuals & family. Making magic out of thin air with our hands. And our voice. And the way we do things. It’s no one’s fault. I forgave a long time ago. I forgive. I forgive you. And I love you. I will always. I appreciate everything you’ve done & sacrificed. And how you tried your best. Thank you. Now it’s my turn. For the hive!
The truth of all of it occurs when I reflect on being half of what she is, in terms of the artist & art. I am exactly half. Of her whole. The level I represent is 50% the level of hers. At fullest capacity, at “The Artist Henry,” I am still 50% less than she is, my mom is, as an artist. 100% of my inclination, talent, and if we are to believe a “gift” is involved, a gift for self-expression through tangible mediums comes from her lineage. Yet she represents half of my DNA. Thus, as you see, I am only half. From the start I recognize I’m already much less talented, gifted, and inclined than at least one, by a long shot–by half. Written & visual: half. Maybe not written, but she is still quite good. She might be double. I might be right there with her on that. Maybe surpassed but lets not assume. Visually & intellectually without a doubt half. The thing is she stopped the pursuit of 44 well over a decade ago when she began her iconography practice. And she never publicized or gave credit to the power of her words. Her paintings, though outstanding in concept, form, and technique, were and have been held privately. 50% less but I’ve made different choices. My choices might better fit my lessened skill. “Prolific,” Henry says, again & again. Maybe the word count will make up for the real lack of the other half, the other 50%. But what of the other 50%. How does it make me different, in a positive way? There is no doubt I am significantly visually inept in comparison. There is no question about it. Giving myself 50% in comparison is almost prideful because a single digit may represent what I’ve got. Vocabulary: 50% or less. I’m being nice to myself. I am incorporating aspirations (of studying the dictionary & syntax again). In a way all of this is to, kind of, apologize. I am not the real deal. If I am the real deal then damn, we let a realer deal pass right by us. I’m not hating on iconography. Tradition and technique is all I see in that practice though, and I don’t do either of those. Inspiration & abundance will be my attributes I guess. I think what I’m reflecting out loud is a coming to truth moment: “I am not the one.” I can’t be. I’m much too less of already one– however talented, inclined, and gifted she is, was, & will continue to be. So here we are. I have to work with what I’ve got. No kidding it’s a lot. Abundance in many forms. Perfect timing. Stability. Unpredictability. There’s hope on the horizon (the child). My 50% with her 50% (the poet) might recreate a version 3.0, and the real player deal closer may rise far beyond any of his or her predecessors, ahead of all successors, far far beyond them all carrying the flag higher & stronger than neither my mom nor I could ever have. If it doesn’t work out like that I believe it will have been by choice. Supported either way, always here, never there, forever & ever. I love you guys!
“I will date this because the date matters. So I’ve voiced the alarms somewhere with hypersubtle-t my physical health has been on the decline for some time now. Led by choice frankly. Both nutritionally & exercisically. My pursuit of art, right now this second, feels strained & hopeless. At this second, I have some doubts as to my actual talent. It’s not that I am worried about where all of this is going (MDN), it’s that I am saddened by the possibility of not exactly being good enough to reach follow through “done!’ completion with the grandiosity & dreams; that the doctors will have been right about the fantasies & delusions…”
It’s the natural progression of things for an artist: to first create in the dark then find light. To find homes for their creations. In so far as MDN! is concerned, this described transition has occurred, from first to second, from darkness to light, for multiple pieces now in display. To both streamline & fuel the process of prolific creation we will open an intentional space where my public darkness is let known to the world as available, purchasable light.
A day after this entry I will have begun my day with coffee. I will feed the cats while the coffee brews. I will fix the automatic drinking cat waterfall by rinsing out the pump with hot water. I will pour the coffee into the cup then add half & half, into the cup. With fingers I will pinch out natural cane sugar and drop it into the cup. Out whither from this cup I will drink as I sit down before the HP & install WordPress into theunsanity.com, a domain I’ve held dark for years. I will play with the site. I will have set an intention to create the space where I let known to the public what original works of mine are for sale & for how much.
The day marked as this entry I will have gone to Goodwill. I will have picked up More Things. I will use These Things to create onto, into. Days later I will mark them for sale indefinitely until sold. & so on and so forth. It won’t stop here, neither there nor here will it stop, indefinitely, for as long as I shall live. My word has begun to be impeccable.
Antoine reaches for a smartphone from his back pocket. As he reaches and twists his right shoulder he says: “I don’t know why, I don’t know…why, but for the past ten minutes I’ve been thinking about survival…in a way I’ve never thought about it before.” And more so than the thought itself, Antoine, after sixty years, wonders where or why the thought never thought before took so long to be thought. All of a sudden; ten minutes ago. For the past ten minutes and for next 83021 hours he will think in this way about survival. A semi-permanent shift; until the next shift occurs. “Survival,” he says while reaching & twisting, “survival…for some people survival is food & water, meal to meal, and shelter. But for us, the highest privileged, survival is getting that time to read a new book… for the people who live in ready abundance, survival is the possession of infinite choices & not-talked-about-limited-time to spend however they like. In a way, a large population living right now has transcended the needs & requirements of life, because of the abundance, and will either live to advance the universe’s knowledge by creating or live to detract from the universe by dispersing their life’s energy over time through a short but full series of breaths in the pursuit of take take taking from the earth & each other for luxury & benefit by All The Things. Twisting, “It’s incredible, really..”
I forgive, myself.
someone, somwhere, perhaps here or not, is counting on you to rise, to continue, “despite it all…” and though they may leave you and never return, and though they may, it is up to you not them to continue for the need of the alleged. “When people say people are counting on you,” it means people are counting on you, somewhere, at least someone is, at least one, somewhere…allegedly. And when they say they care, and when they say, though if you do not hear it, though you may not be there, someone somewhere was and heard it, if not another than the sayer them-self, heard it through their voice or their head or maybe in the mirror out in front: not so much a “hello friend,” but a like, “i believe. you inspire me.” kind of thing, very powerful with periods and sharp ends with silence to follow and long stares absent of facial gesture in between. It’s so easy, if only they knew how to motivate.
A counter-productive, awful film absent of feeling, lacking in directing, and counter-useless to contemporary society. It has no place in this world. It is a sick twist of fruitless frames & poor intention. Does it even have an intention? What is it’s intention. The book is phenomenal. The book is a document. The book has power. The book is genuine and serves outstanding purpose. The movie is a sad example of so much wrong with the direction of our culture. The book is what it is. It is a historic document. The movie is a cover. To sell. To resell. To promote separation. To rewound. To captivate mediocrity. To negatively influence. To cause harm. To do nothing good. The film does nothing good. It neither does anything good nor is it directed, acted, or filmed good. It is not good. Examples such as this define the opposite of good. It has no place. It may be celebrated, as it would, but for the sake of all that is worthwhile this is beyond not worthwhile. It is anti-while. The book is brilliant, and significant. Though it is ruthless there is a magic to the document’s document: it retains its place in history, as being in the past. The movie however does not. It brings things artificially to the present. The movie was filmed a decade into the 21st century. Why are we creating things such as this! Why are we celebrating them! For fuck’s sake cast off this shit into oblivion. Read the book, burn the film. 0 out of 10. and shame on the director. and pity on the audience who sees anything of value.
& it might as well be the size of a warehouse. or the town of charlotte. or the carolina mountain acres. or the united states. the western hemisphere. or both hemispheres. the planet. and moon. the sun. even the solar system. even the galaxy. the galaxy cluster! the cluster of galaxy clusters! the universe! but though it has no limits in this way, in the feeling of its size, and of its importance, it is confined to a certain physical space, that is to say, everywhere not there is unsafe for the act of creation. everything not done in there is vulnerable to the attack. to the interruption. to the assault. to the resistance. to the demands. to the needs. to the everything not. here is the space but having the space sharply then defines non-space. and so you see, once the space has been made the other 99.99% space that you inhabit becomes no space. So by creating space you actually lessen space. The key there here then is to have no space, not even a walk-in closet, but “to adapt,” they say. That is, to be able to work & create under the pressures of others and their demands and their things & disrespect and fruitless entertainments & distractions and smart phones and cat videos. You may grow dizzy. You may fall ill. But in the process you adapt and retain the universe as yours though trying it always is regardless of the level of abundance. Where there are people there will be no hope for you. Neither this nor that, not the pounding drum nor the empty vibration emitting from an absent human captivated by mindless pleasures on their small screen simultaneously demanding so much. Click. Clank. Clock, hopeless.
“Brilliant!” Eduardo knows this film is genius. Clearly, a film for the contemporary. A film that falls under Henry’s flag of ‘Relevantism’, the self-titled successor to Post-Modernism. “Things are catching up,” and for the first time, that Eduardo has seen, mainstream shifts, before his eyes & ears. There it is. Just as we and he look and have looked into the doorway waiting for the arrival of relevancy and waited & waited it has appeared. It is here. This film is proof. It is proof of all the things. It is relevance perfect contemporary sex education & STD prevention film. It is all right there, it follows but how many see it for what it is? Does it even matter if it’s seen for that? The subliminal message is strong enough. And the soundtrack is brilliant too. Brilliance and Relevance are this film’s winning combination. I give it 9.5/10. It has been docked .5 for the lack of “ABSTINENCE,” message at close.
You’ve given me something to think about. I feel the need to go dark for a while. I’ve got to reflect. I need to be alone for some time. I need space. I feel like this question mark I’ve seen in my dreams. For moments there, though I knew an out there existed, there was nothing more to the things said & done publicly, internetically. As in the moment of creation & its broadcast are or were one, me putting it out there for me to consume. All things returning. This being a sole enterprise. But now there are others. It’s not just me anymore. And I don’t know how to handle this. Like I said I need to reflect. I need to go dark. Just for a while. Just for a. Just for. Just.
To know more,
to no more.
Alfred, known to friends as “Al,” had made the biggest mistake of his entire life. And it goes further than he thinks. We know that this mistake is not just the biggest up until this point, but the biggest he will ever make, ever. We see the data of it all. How his life changed then & where this mistake leads him. We know how he would change it all if he could, right now or later, given the data of the great plan. Do all things start small? They did for the universe. And how expansive things grow! How quickly they fall out! Nothing is nothing and the scorn for which Al endures as a result will not be forgotten, neither by him nor us, the great collectors of information. If a tiny bird falls from its nest. If a tiny bird is injured and will not survive. If an intelligent hand ‘ends the misery’, so to speak, or ‘stops the suffering’, in a word, a much greater loss occurs than just of the alleged ‘pain’–the loss of information! Hence all of us are the great collectors of information existing to collect all information. To simultaneously report back. To know and understand greater amounts. To reduce ourselves to smaller things. To return to smallness. To be small. And in the case of Al, he refuses & will live to deal with the hard consequences of leveraging his size as an advantage. He himself dies in the future of large tumor growths not quite as large as his ego but enough to make it long & painful. The end.
Follow the money, it will lead to the lies. Follow art, it will lead to the truth.
Follow money to the lies. Follow art to the truth.
Lies will be lead by money. Truth will be lead by art.
Follow money, it leads to lies. Follow art, it leads to truth.
Where there is money, there are lies. Where there is art, there are truths.
Money changes the intention of art. Art does not change the intention of money.
We don’t altogether have too much to say, but the form dictates it…”having lived out my life, once I am dead, my life goal will be seen as a simple thing. I did my best to aim for prolific production across many mediums. This is all. Yes on the day to day I grew to find positivity & joy, & reproduced, and did the things required of me. In the end though, once it is all done & said, I will have created intense depth by creating so much. And even when the struggle hits & the days pass without a word or line or drawn face, we had or have done or will or are doing the best we or I can to be prolific, to ruthlessly, sometimes blindly, put out there what it is that comes to us in the night, in the day, on the shitter, by the creek, at the brown desk, using the 700, poolside, in darkness & in light. And the search continues. I am thankful for 447s for giving my ambition at least one deadline per day, although we understand we must surpass even this level of output if we wish to ever have been considered prolific, when it is over, when the time has run out for us to create here on this place, at this time, at that time, for however long, as much as we can, on this day, on that, on those days, on the coming of days, to it all we pledge, at the least, our best despite it all!”
The most beautiful woman: “that’s mine,” she said. And he knew two things, perhaps three. The first is a question: “can we truthfully claim ownership of anything?” The second is a statement with feeling: “but nothing is ours.” And the third is this: “however, though we cannot claim truthfully, can we actually? As the law of Universi states, ‘I am a part of the Universe, thus I am Universal.’ So yes, if done right, we may take claim to everything & everyone if we accept ‘mine’ as the synonym for ‘universal’. To say that yes, this is mine, this is one, this is you, this is ours just as they & Justin have said time & time again, to each other, against each other, for each other, in all of all, all things being one.
Leonard. ‘No, no no no.” Leonard said, eyes downcast & chin pointing down, eyelashes down. The projection of his head said “on the verge of paradigm shift”–not that Leonard was open to change, like as if to say his hands were empty, because they weren’t– they were full. So full Leonard here was seen on the verge of too much. & the collapse. Leonard doesn’t collapse. It’s the things that do. Are dropped or caused to be gone. No no Leonard just changes. From full to empty, hands for the next thing: the next medium, the next influence, the next friend, the next lover, the next work of art, the next thing. And when we watch him close off with his eyes & chin, arms & crossed shins, and those words No, no no no we remember what is coming for him and we say something like, “Yes, oh yes oh yes,” because as the creator of Leonard we know there is a plan for him. & for his journey, as told by us. Neither he nor I know it. We could not predict it. Neither he nor I. It just is. The natural way of it always makes sense though, this we both know. At some point it will make sense. There are no exceptions. We cannot expect quick turnaround. I mean, we can, but then believing in a masterplan would be foolish. We are not foolish. There is no reason to expect quick turn. Expecting it to turn quickly around is the kind of thing Leonard doesn’t do– because it is a deprivation of faith in the great plan. So you see, in knowing of the great plan we in a sense rise beyond our timed limitations: we focus & do our best with the best intentions of doing our best, & we trust that every single thing happening, or happens to Leonard, or to myself, to the deer a hundred yards away, to the decomposing lizard in the backyard, to the struggling family, to the prospering, and wind, and sound, & so much more is the great plan processing. We are in the process of it’s great plan. If you & I die one day unexpectedly, or expectedly depending, we will have either known or not known trust in the process. That maybe the time is coming soon or it is coming late–the time in which our voices are heard globally, perhaps irrefutably, universally. Goodmight Leonard, “Goodmight,”
Richard and Carlos had opposite views on the subject of trust. Richard believed, and openly said, “trust willingly, at all opportunity, to whomever, wherever, again & again even if things go awry, or betrayal occurs, even repeatedly. Trust & never let go of that trust. Be a vehicle of trust. For what damage occurs take responsibility. If your trust is abused, consume that abuse & grow weak but remain strong in trust. Trust is a given, there is nothing anyone can do to violate your trust, because it is automatic & irrefutable. Always at all times, you leave everything on the line. You accept & will process all consequences however good or bad they may be. Never wavering, you trust in all things, at all times, no matter what happens or happened.” Carlos believed, based on a loose translation from spanish to english, “Trust thyself and no one else, neither no one nor nothing has your trust. It is yours and yours alone. Do not trust in her, in him, in them, in us. Son las nada. You trust in you. In you there will never be any form of betrayal. You cannot betray yourself. You give the same kind of irrefutable trust Richard speaks of, except here you concentrate– all what he stretches out– into you and yourself. No one will betray you–they never had your trust for which to betray. Just as people do not have it, nothing else does nor will either, never. You do not trust the ant walking on your leg. It’s not that you expect it to bite. It’s just that you don’t trust it. You will flick it off if you feel like it.” And to which Richard appreciates the ant line because he understands the views of Carlos. And Richard also sees how differently he would treat the ant on his leg. How his body is a vehicle of trust, “And so let the ant bite if it feels like it. I or we will absorb the pain and carry on,” “Carry on,” Carl says again, as he wavers between the options.
So I’ve been experimenting with Art & Loss over the last year or two. Yesterday I was to write about it, as it’s been on my mind again & again. Because of the new ways I’ve lost. And you know the craziest thing happens: while I am writing about the various ways I’ve lost art I stumble into, somehow, a new form of art loss emerges: “The Art Lost in Translation.” I have no idea how it happened (how the writing became backward), as it was written blind, and I tell you a tiny fraction of me believes I wrote it backwards. And immediately upon completion lost the memory of doing such. Not to say it was written forwards then slowly reworked to be backwards, but that I straight wrote the entire thing backwards. A small part of me believes in that possibility. Just a small part. It is the absolute strangest thing. Universal teachings are infrequently so clear, so obvious, so useful. It is remarkable & I am unable to overstate how confounded I am about it, when I think about Art Lost In Translation, how fucking beautiful & 44 is that! It’s so isolated though. But look here, it CAN be understood, with a little time & a little patience. Manic Dreams Network has a chance after all. My friend told me she was an art history major, & I told her I was going to make art history. I am, & I will, for yes art is lost in many ways but it cannot be lost in translation. Luckily that’s all I ever wanted to do, was translate. We’re good then, “carry on,” Carl says. Thank you Carl.
Unintentional Loss of Art: It comes as a shock, when you lose it. First there is panic. Then denial. Then anger and blame. Lots of that. Then sadness & despair follows. Denial Again. M<ore sadness. Perhaps a depression. More anger. Afgter the emotional states have come & gone an imaginative recollection occurs. A survival tactic. “I will rebuild it, perhaps the artist will say subconsciously. He or she knows the art lost can nevert actually be rebuilt. Only non0artists would recommend that, he or she knowsx.It’s the rebuilding of a emmory of the art. How good it was, how important it was, “my best work…”
Art for Moneuy
L=b . .emit ni ecifircas eht htiw yako & lufetargt eb lliw tsitra ehT .epacse reven ynam hcihw ni eno ,hguorht og ot ssecorp yrassecen a spahrep si ti .,ruetama si siht :lanigiro eht gnisol &trA fo gnitide revO nO
.tra ot tniop rehto on si erehT .laitnetop noitaicerppa fo tuo–nosrep taht ot krow taht evig lliw tsitra eht ,sevlesmeht od yeht naht erom krow reh ro sih gnitaicerppa enoemos seciton tsitra eht nehW :noitaicerppa rof gnivig nmO
.esruoc fo eerf rof ,enoemos ot tra eht tfiger dna dnuora nrut ot neht yako s’tI .syawyna tra ruoy ton yenom ruoy detnaw yehT .detaicerppa wb lliw noitanod ruoy ,esuac a rof sti sa gnol sA :renniW eht gniddibtuo & snoitcuA n
.si elyts siht lufituaeB .dna no evom ot detcepxe dna dewolla si tsitra eht tey tsitra eht fo traeh eht sah tI .pihsrenwo-non ,tnemehcatta-noN .noitubirtsid fo dnik siht fo elpmaxe na si neht itiffarG .gnitaerc drawot ecnats ekil-eert rieht ni laedi si & ,etarapes si ,noitnetni sah sesol yllanoitnetni ohw tsitra ehT .emoc ot si tahw rof moor ekam ot sdnah ruo ni si tahw pord tsum ew nehw semir ynam era erehT .ysae os neeb reven sah no gnivoM :trA fo ylanoitnetnI nO
“…struh ti dna ,evol fo tuo ,si tsuj ti ,esrow ro retteb eht rof si ti yas ew nac rehtieN” .tsom eht stceffa ti & tsom eht struh tI .yaw namuh tsom eht si evol rof evig oT .noitubirtsid tra morf flesti edulcxe t’nseod tI !struh evol tuB .evol fo tuo evig ot ,truh doog a ekiL .lufniap tsom eht si siht :evoL fo tuo trA gniviG nO”…ereht tuo rotaicerppa na deedni si ereht uoy llet ytlderussa I hguoht” ,rettup eht yb dootsrednu ton si ytuaeb sti esuaceB .eid dna rehtiw oT .eid ot tesolc eht ni rewolf demossolb a gnittup ekil si ti tra reh ro sih edih ot sah tsitra eht nehw ,nosaer revetahw roF :trA gnidih nO
.lufniap tsael eht si siht decudortni ton si yenom sa gnol sa tsuj :trA gnidarT nO
“…dnatsrednu uoy epoh I yrros m’I” ,tonnac I .yenom rof ton ,oN .etaerc ot sruoh 5.3 koot ylno ti hguoht taht rof siht edart naht sruoh 08 rof seirecorg gab rehtar dluow I .sselecirp si tI .yas lliw ehs ro eh “,siht lles tonnac I” .eulav yratenom sessaprus krow eht sleef tsitra eht nehw tniop a ot emoc lliw krow ehT .yenom htiw nigeb lliw lla ti fo noitnetni ehT
And it’s not to say there isn’t hope in the world. It’s not to say it’s like a TED talk either. The audience will only endure the call of a reality check if there is an optimistic delusion coming, preferably at the end, before it has room to be undercut by the speaker or the audience pre-applause. The applause is a, like, finishing effect. It closes the chapter. It washes away the rebuttal. It cleanses with hope, despite it all, despite everything before it. Is anyone listening?
The last student enters the room. He is pleased to see the professor has not arrived. Yet. He takes the last seat & he unloads some papers from the bookbag he brought. From the front pocket he retrieves a handful of pens. In that handful there was a marker. He puts the marker back into the bookbag. He pulls it out again, “to doodle,” he thinks. Three seats across a beautiful girl in her early twenties, thick dark glasses, long thick curly hair, brushes back her threads to expose full eyesight. She has already begun taking notes. The hallway is quiet. The classroom has whispers and chair readjustements. A spider hides in the corner. The professor walks in, papers are flying. A briefcase not quite closed. A trail of papers. If one were to look down the hallway from where he came one would see a trail of papers stretching back to the room in which he came out from. The Last of The Readjustments. “Good morning class. How are you, how are you feeling? Good. Excellent? Good. Today we will think about this, tangibly somehow with concrete expression: what if we were to be told that opposite states are simultaenous, as in to have one is to have both. For example, if we were to be told, in a sense, there is no such thing as happiness. Neither that nor is there sadness. As in, there is, so to speak, no spectrum of degree between opposites, that if one understands or feels in a state of happiness one also knows, simulatenous, the equal state of opposite in sadness. To be told, in a way, we are better off believing in wholeness at all times. That our “states” will always be 50% of the truth. To say, and this will help, that if one is happy sadness can be had at the ready–it’s not even around the corner, it’s closer than the corner, it’s literally right there–and if one is sad happiness is right there too, And further, we are told, if we were told, thinking of it as a choice is altogether too difficult. That we do not have enough control over the variables to depend on choices. Instead we are asked to think about wholeness. And to be extreme in our happiness , and in our sadness , simultaneous , and be whole , be all things at once…” “Universi,” the pretty girl says slowly while looking up slower still in the opposite direction of her wettening hole down below.
In 2018 Bieber retires from the stage. He unexpextedly abandons the tour. He abandons the managers. He leaves behind the sponsors. He leaves his gold watch. He removes the diamond studs & leaves them behind. He doesn’t pair the studs together; he takes them out & casts them away, fuck where they fall it is heard that he says. He doesn’t say goodbye. He doesn’t reveal his plan. He just leaves. he walks away. “Not that I walk away for good. I am not in exhile. I will return when I want,” and in this sense Bieber frees himself from the simultaneous shared time of uber fame & fortune paired tightly with the concrete of dependents, co dependents, corporations, audiences, & retinas magnetized for a fall or a rise or a fall. “And if I choose to pursue table tennis, or mixed martial arts, or visual art, I will go into the practice fluid, & with the knowledge of this: in order to be taken seriously I must and will practice and achieve until the irrefutable occurs. Just like I’ve done before, perhaps I might do it again, without extras.” And it was all very simple. In 2018 he left the stage. He now with a debit card of unlimited funds, and a license, insurance card, wrapped together in leather sheaves inside a leather wallet, justin walked away from the stage in pursuit of another. God bless your fortune anything is possible.
It was precise, is routine. The breakfast was finished, his day begins. Just outside his window, several yards into the grass, two black ants march to this new adventure, this new day. He opens the door. Jack closes the door. Birds chirp but begin to lose there way. The ants, they are marching blind with intention. A refridgerador opens, Things are taken out. Jack closes the refridgerador. A bird flies into a window. A car crashes. A tennis game has begun. Jack sees a tennis game end from his window. With his right hand he turns the blinds…close. Thirty miles away the left trap of a youth tightens & knots. It has been pulled. Pain will exist. A coffee cup will be filled. Jack drinks the rest of his coffee. He places the cup .29 millimeters to the right of where it was before. A drop shadow occurs in real life. A bug loses its way. A tree has fallen. Jack turns on the dishwasher. A mosquito is swatted. A mosquito is injured. It dies. Jack sees it die & feels regret, “as if I didn’t have enough red to share,” & many miles from his sight somewhere someone forgives him directly.
the times are nigh! and to when do we have faith?
Ayre, in this moment, so fluid it is that we are, yet still there is the trailing worry for mnot living up to the prior work done and posted in the Progression. we have not full belief in this expression as practice, and though it is practice, we feel a hestitation in our willingness to write, a hestitation that is based strongly on the idea that our words are not good enough. that perhaps we know that these words will be used unfiltered in the next saga. that we are creating a body of work based on unediting and flowing thought….this has created a rather daunting aspect to the tapping of these keys, one in which i will face with seriousness, serious expression. Tand there will be much seriousness, and the gfear factor will not bother us. neither will it bother us, nor will it deter us from our truest self and the knowledge of this being the perfect expression, as is, because there is no one else who can express this as I, even if it is shit.
and when we focus too hardly on ourselves, perhaps this is when things go awry. Instead maybe we should refocus on all of the lovely women’s asses around us, how beautiful so many women around us are, and we focus with dead, staring eyes into and beyond the pants into and inside the beauty of each vagina, and into the idea of this hard dick peentrating them all, and leaving within them all replicas of myself turned fluid, all so deeply left within them, and then packed so, deeper, so deep. and the idea of watching it come out, from all of them, and knowing, and watching their knowing faces what has just been done, and who then might they create, their chance to create their own rendition of mysef, how beautifuL!
and when pervasion fails, I will move to something else1
the music changes. It feels dream like. it feels helpless. A reduction of environment. A blossoming of hate. an inspiration to destroy. these are the things around me, these are the things rising within me. not erections, not fantastic delusional and possible ideas and actions, not hope, not love, I feel can only be described as feeling of hate for that whcich surrounds me. I have conformed; I have integrated. I have been approved. the mask has been approved. and to that which I hold onto, my actual self, my belief in words and expression, this has never seen more persecution than it does on this day, at this time.
I wonder if that was recorded. its okay, you have to work and you have to express. I found the right music, it only took 500 or so words before I found it. I got through the red and the ugly, and the hate. i expressed it. it was real, but now that its done and out I carry none of it with me. yesterday I became so angry , either from the environment or from the emptiness of my stomach, and yelled at the top of my lungs. the very top. My voice carries and it carries exdspecially sharpo whe nI yell at the top of my lungs. if a hardcore band needed someone to do vocals i could do it, if they would let me hav ethe mic. “How I love to have the mic. I love it. the idea of stages. Of microphones. of caprtive audiences. the dream. what is the dream. I have to branch out. I must complete the journalled, and post the en crypted, and get done with it. I cannot sleep with this body any longer. a child comes. time is abbundant, love will be too one day when the child comes. I must create it now but I will have helpt o create that love very soon. for now I must walk in the darkness, alone, and get things done. there are hanging projects. the tree grows by adding millimeters, so must I , add milimeteres. a few words can be an inch. a few z’s reaps nothing. she is right in this sense. I have to stop running away to the sheets. the dream prisons. and I feel encouraged. and I feel together. and i do not feel stupid or inadequate anymore. I am back and I am centered. after only maybe 600 words. 600 words separated me from the freedom, and so easy was the switch once the switch had my attention to turn. Pressfield says the hardest part about creating or writing, or whatever he said it was about, was the sitting down part to do it, the act of beginning it. Once it begins, he is right, the “this is what I was givien life to do, and though the environment may attempt to convince me otherwise, I know fully, with everything, with everything, you think you’ve seen passion and that ive displayed passion before, you haven’t, for all of that stands as a speck of a man compared to this juggernaut of assured dly divine giantisism in the passion I feel at this time, and the centerdness, I feel at this time. give me a keyboard for 24 straight hours. we will call it, 24 hours. A work done, in a days time. no sleep. 24 hours. non-stop. no eating. just words. the whole time. and music. bathroom breaks are fine, this apparatus is mobile. i do not need my eyes either. take my eyes. give them to my mother. that feeliung in your nose, right before you begin to cry so hard and with so violence,. and that feeling swells up into the corners and a smoothness of clean water begins to come out happily . let me cry again. ;let me see these poles of despair and hope again.
a filmmaker has shown interest in documnenting the 12k event of 2k13. the k120 taking a flask of holy water. How long does a monster wear the clothing of sheep before he breaks or before he loses his cover or before he goes mad or before he begins to kill, out of desparation, bnefore he bgins to kill himself because he knows he is not like this he is not living his life the way it was meant for him to live and the pressure of it all and the painful reaction their skin causes to my skin and then but when what happens when it all comes tumbling down and he or it or I break with a madnesws filled with such violent disposition and search for the thing causing it and the search for others like him or her or it and when none can be found what or what or what what happens, a suspense, and sadness, and the hanging of heads or the rise perhaps to a stillness. and the ease of which the clothing unbelonged falls off, adn the green skin underneath proves purple, and, and it shines is worth something, and its or his or her diference means something and its okay for him or her or it to be different and have ideas no one was ever heard before, and the ugliness is a king that in time can be loved after the truth of it has been seen, this intention of…living purposefully, and there could be no happier moments with a face as stoic as this.
a new beginning, aghain, for it is a new day. A new day to forgive and let go and see people for what they are. a new day for the looking at mirrors and sinpectioning of missing hairs , a new day1 for words and works and a new day it is1 the clouds pass so quickly on this day. the trees as stoaic as mine. as mny clouds. My clouds pass just as fast. they pass faster. everything I write uis set to the mood of music, I have no control over it. the trees are not as stoic given second cglance, they quiver just like I do sometimes. to think I am not changing1 how absurd.
I’ve said too much already. Are you still there? I’ve said too much. There’s not else left much to say. I’ve gone done run through my vocabulary three times. No more words. Nothing new. Too much. No? Not enough? Too much? A spider bites down on his right testacle. Maybe there is still unpublished words we can publish to make up for the nothing. I’m just not feeling it right now. That’s all. I’m uncomfortably uninspired. I’m using the wrong medium.
“This is the hour,” he told himself. He tells himself as he lights a long skinny cigarette. The end burns & smoke is inhaled. A woman watches him in the distance, her right shoulder lined with red dress leans against the grit of an aged, brickened building gone seen too many nights just like this. “This has got to be it…” the lips tighten & pull to the burning end. His movement triggers a light to be seen by the woman. She sees the smoke rise. He feels the smoke inhaled. Busy. The cloud of his efforts is seen. “That irrefutable thing…” he continues to voice, now inside, out against the wall with the red lined woman now approaching his front. He turns away from her & begins to walk away from her. She pleads for him, “hey mister,” sounds of hastened movement follow, “mister, mister…” He pauses. She pauses. He turns his head. The shadows. She stretches out her arm. Her fist is closed. Her fist uncloses. A dollar bill. The wind takes the bill from her. The man lets it pass. “Thank you, but no thanks, ” the now stranger says as he turns away again. He turns & he tips his hat & he turns, “that irrefutable thing, what is it, what must I do, how must I live to see that day of the irrefutable doing. I rather would die here in the serious calm knowing I’ve out & done pursued it to the best of my ability. And to have achieved and overcome despite the falling short. It’s not my time yet but it will….” & as he walks she follows, “mister….” And at what point will the distractions end. Will it even be a point? Her dress begins to fall & he hears it drop. Bills begin to pour out from her vagina. “Not another vagina story!” someone says. The thing is, the thing about it is there is a concern, “I am concerned. Not so much with the direction but with the options behind me, & the concern of what they would do if I turned around & accepted the things in which the real interest is absent. I am altogether concerned I won’t make it all the way to the promise land though I know we are headed right for it.” Mister….mister….
During the move from there to here the k120 fell apart. The ‘Ctrl’ key, bottom left location, fell off & locked its ability into permanent engagement. Thus when I tap the letter A the k120 responds ‘CtrlA’. And I get it, I get what it’s saying & meaning. K120 knew I had backup keyboards: the 700 & T3A002. It knew of my attachment, to it, to k120, and it knew in such times of radical change–these times– control must be lost, & the one who forgoes control must be okay with losing it, must adapt. I’m not sure if the story of k120 has been written yet so I will go ahead & carve out this piece of non-fiction for the first or second time. So you understand. First, where does the name “k120” come from? It doesn’t come from being crazy. Sorry to disappoint. k120, as with most other things I name, is the model name. And so you know, for the other things when the model name doesn’t exist, or if the model name exists but it’s deemed unsuitable, I look for a sequence or pattern & create the name based on my findings. Sometimes there is a gap of interpretation. To mean I at times, with meaning, draw connections & make conclusions to bridge it, to, for example, notice a damaged corner unmasking the material underneath, then to draw the connection between the way the damage splinters in sections of 3, & then to complete the process by detecting the name through an intuitive, at times blind, tapping movement of finger ends against key heads. So, as it rests, k120 is the model name. It is printed in the top right hand corner. White letters against a black surface. Now how did k120 gain significance? Prior to August 2013 it was just a keyboard. No name, no significance. It had use & purpose, as a keyboard attached to my main computing rig, but this is all. It worked through The Chronicles and 44v1 and the things. I do not remember how it was acquired. Or when it was acquired. Now, for the significance piece, & I apologize I am running out of time. There’s only eight or so minutes left before I must put this down & abandon. Only three minutes now. The shower must be fast. The significance of k120: in middle school I acquired a flask of holy water. In the day of August, before I began the divine translation I opened the flask for the first time and dumped its holy contents onto & into the soul of k120. It was a direct pouring, right into the keys, & with an ecstatic euphoria the keyboard was blessed. And in blind style, I put my fingers down onto the wetness & viciously translated for minutes as the holy channel of god.
….on & on & on, and off,” Franklin had concluded his morning’s thesis, the one in which he woke up to, in the middle of, to the acceleration for becoming something more. That, or by waking up he became less. Either way, Franklin reached a conclusion: “There is a separate self inside that only exists when I sleep and for exactly 7 minutes immediately after I wake. That separate self, which by now is foreign having been awake for nearly 2 hours 16 minutes and 37 seconds–41– lingers to complete a transition or ‘passing of the torch’ to the self responsible for…living in the world & doing the things to survive. Two selves. There is no ego. Both are capable of past, present, & future visualization & contemplation. And of imagination, pain & pleasure. To which serves the other’s purpose? We find it is a mutual relationship. The thing sleeps to regenerate. The regenerated thing actively survives to sleep. It’s just that simple. To extend, while there is still time, both are able to connect divinely, also which is more widely known as creating Universi. Together, these two selves, if looked at as a collection or pair coexisting, create Universii. Now, in these two worlds, there are distractions pointing toward the much lesser ‘Shared Reality’. This is the world of psychiatric medicine, media outlet fear blasting, consumer-driven fat shaming, religious overbearing correctioning, & the list goes on but I am running out of time. We are able to be steadfast & undistracted. Did you see the transition there? Between ‘time. We’? Just like that the choice for us is there, to in a sense abandon direction & fall into the 44th dimension–” & just like that Franklin merged into the active self, the one known as Franklin, a sound & face & role. He needed to shower. He needed to go to work. He needed to eat. His body needed him. The unamed sleeper needed him, at this time & on this day, to go ahead with it and complete half the share. And Franklin will. He will. “And though I will, it’s altogether important for you to know…I….I….first need to play a video game. I hope you will understand. I need to drink an excess of coffee too. And shortly thereafter I need to stare off, & feel disconnected,” Frankling concluded. And he did. He did all these things. & more
We created space. To how much each requires space, is it dependent or universal, this is the question not to be answered at this time, on this day of days…on The Status of Things. Larry packs his socks. He folds them first in halves & presses them with an aged right hand. The deep blue worms just beneath his thinning skin move to the adjustments of pressure along the ends & folds of his socks. As he quietly packs them. And pauses, to stare off. He reengages the socks. He pauses to stare off. And just like this Larry spent his morning, all two hours before, “I must leave soon. I am leaving…I must go soon, I must go to work.” His teeth, now unbrushed, to be brushed soon. Cleaned for future stains. Breath cleared. Disheveled describes his hair. Lost is his demeanor. We find him at the intersection of intense presence & abstract absence. He comes forth & leaves just the same. He is here but then he is not. This is The Status of Things for Larry. Weeks ago he left the hair of his head behind, to be flushed–& it was–and it will clog a future resident’s drain. He is the ascending part of a rollercoaster; he is the descending part of a rollercoaster.
There’s something about her. When she gets her nails done & plays that guitar… no guy, no girl, no child can withstand her beauty, & and the way her hair falls. And how she looks down & out, down to her instrument, out into everyone’s soul. Definitely mine at least. I see it on the faces of others too. We all are in it. With those beautiful hands & those colors she’s made a web of aesthetic sound neither I nor you nor anyone or anything will ignore or resist or take for granted. In that web, there’s us. If we were to take a vote–on the feeling about being in her web–, we are cool with it. I’m not sure if she’s planning to eat us but okay if she needs to I will be first, “no I will be first!” It’s crazy I tell you, the way this chick has all of us locked in a free world mindlessly pursuant on staying stuck. Some are recording her music, others have fallen asleep listening. I mean, this could be there lunch break–I see briefcases beside them–and it would appear they may have finally just said, “fuck it! i’m not going back, I’m staying right here. I am not going back there is a choice and she’s shown me there is always a choice fuck this briefcase! Fuck these clothes!” And I shit you not some of them have taken off their clothes and literally thrown them into the wind. I saw a man’s pair of pants tumble down the sidewalk & land on the head of a sleeping homeless man. Another woman who had already undressed–I kept my clothes on– started dancing real slow next to Sarah & her guitar. And the woman dancing began to open & close her legs, slowly & quickly, revealing & hiding between them an incredible vagina gaping for the taking, tightly closed for rejecting. & I shit you not I felt so inspired by her & it & Sarah & the penetrable structure teetering in front to ask her quite plainly if she wanted to have sex & we did, right there, in front of everyone. Men, women, & children, all in front, all in reckless euphoric abandon. Hypnotized. I know I know it’s hard to make sense of what I’m saying. After I came inside & softened I wouldn’t believe it anymore either. Hence this is why I tell the story: to trigger the memory of what occurred! But it is or was like, this girl and her guitar opened up a shared collection of human sense. All who heard her play stopped & became one with it. I was the first to sit down next to her. Not long after another joined, then another, and it was like the area of our influence grew exponentially. And we were all responsible for everything, down to the detail, down to the great looking vagina, down to the tumbling pair of pants destined to be a new hat. Everything became one there’s really no other way to explain it.
writer writer be my friend today, be my friend, be my solace. in these times. It’s a song! “My gift of self is raped, my privacy is raked….If I can’t be my own, I’d feel better dead.” the mood to these writings is in the music, I say that. I talk about it. and its selected music. I overidentify with the unplugged version of nutshell, because it speaks directly into my heart of hearts of hearts. Its how I used to feel, or still do, at times, on this day perhaps, with the sun cast over my lap, the acer resting just above my knees, the k120 just below my genitalia, the red wrire connecting me to the ascer, the sounds to my innards, the jacket touching all over my chest and arms, a hug from the eternally material. the reminder I will die and lose this sense. and these things we fight over, these things how silly all of them are and were and of all the time wasted. everyone doesn’t think my art is stupid because not everyone knows about it yet. and when the silence strikes, the music settles, our fingerts brace for the oncoming onslaught. there is no space between these keys I cannot find. I will locate them all, however long it tkaes. I will work and tap and tap to this blessed keyboard and find what it is God will have me do. Maybe its fiction. Maybe its not. Maybe its long periods of sadness and self-pity followed with jubilees of destiny and promise and hpoe. what is the difference between me biting my nails until they bleed out of inspiration to distract than one with their smartphone playing on facebook aor creating new circles of friends to avoid the ones in freont. How is it any less different. and I know things are fucked up, and biting them until they bleed is fucked too, but damn look around you everyone is doing it. On a massive scale getting more massive. the text on foxnews.com is just text, though it may inspire fear how far does that fear consciously travel, it being so far away. billions are without water and my piece of shit self complains about something obnoxious.; and my piece of shit self slings insults to destroy . I HAVE IT MADE. true yes, america carries within it a wide spectrum of living, but its all the same really. a 100k car will do point a to point b just like the 7004 craigslist car. and then the sonig of gold comes. the blood has thinned and stopped. It begins soon…
here it is. here I go. this is it. this is the kind of song I like, this s the song of hope. this is the song of smiles. the smile given, the smile taken. the hand waving hello, the other hand receiving it and sending it back, the smiles connecting. smiles. a topic. the king of smiles . this sit. there;s so much to do. do you see? How the music makes itr? My foot begins to tap. Tap tap tap. 0it’s almost over. we only have one spotify account, and she will be using it soon. the music will cut….soon. or maybe i will just stop on my own. the jubilee is done, and over, now the violins come on. and the periods of music missing, the ones without hope.
March 11th, 2015, the day of my cancelled dentistry appointment. furthermore, a day with these thoughts: I really should get going with this work. I will get going with this work. I’m feeling good. the keys feel good. there’s stacks of things to scan. and compile. and to let go. and I must renew 447s.com, I will renew it this afternoon. I will will renew it afteR I get up. I think I will make a website for it, very simple, 447 words a day. Maybe 447s things a year. But we will start small with 447s words a day, on this site. that would be nice. this will be nice. it is going to be nice. it is nice. its a good idea. it will be a good action. it’s agood action. I feel good. the sun is on me & the various dots inside my eyes are sliding about, sliding around aimlesslty to the sounds i assume ithey hear. I was thinking about the progression, earlier. I feel good about it, and ready to let something go. I was looking into my apartment through the blinds, on the other side, the outside of the apartment, on the deck, looking in, through the blinds, and I was reminded of the dream prisons. I had an immediate urge to make a post on MDN! entitled dream prisons. I connected this thought to that work oni did on trazadones. How the contexts have changed but it is still the same. the blinds remind me of the dream prisons. there’s a richness inside but all I can see is the reflection of my small head at the bottom and a tree shining darkly in the background. Both are stoic. A wasp buzzess around and interupts the stillness. Or perhaps it does not interupt. it adds a focus. a wind chime slowly turns to the wind. the tree is unmoving. the small face, unmoving. a blur below, perhaps hands, appear to be working. appear to be still. without interuption, focused. feet tap and keys tap and music taps. ideas play out. there’s an ambition to lift heavy things and gain muscle today. the black dot distracts my focus., and I begin to wander into someone else. and as he layed there, absorbing the sun and the stoic reflections caught up in themselves, a determination or assuredness made him feel good. No where to be at this time, other than here. Inside the challenge awaits, he preparing at the gates of a castle he elped build. the dream prison close by, if but a look and it would bring him into his temporary death., into the place where real dreams are paused or illed or forgorgotten or dispersed or substituted for still stoic movements, a mind still engaged, but nothing really to remember, and noithing tangible and nothing done or advanced, just stillness with a small focus somewhere, kind of blurry, not sure but perhaps. 491 words in the course of two songs. 4 minutes to produce 500 words, 447s.com is tangible. so is the progression. I want it all done today1 And what of the collective progression? do we throw this together/ no, we throw them online in fragments, then with precision, like a sutoic surgeoin moving hands but nothing else, aq small focus but god damn it is a serious one, the focus, carefully meticulously intentionally performing what is his currnet claim of value to society. the playlist is getting dated. I had to skip 4 songs. Only 16 or so are on it. that’s 255 of my songs are no longer current. the practual material of the progression was completed a long time ago. months and months ago. does the surgeon have it in him to work on such an aged piece. he will likely need violent confidence. dismember, edit, adjust, do these things and more. will it come quickly like the ideas or pass slowly but assuredly like the clouds in the reverse distance. will he be able to afford a car by the time his child arrives. a thought. the profressional, a thought. such a beautifulk world this is, physically. and so beautiful it is down to the smallest things. the way everything works together. and the shifts that occurr. A man’s testicles reducing in size out of evolution .. A woman walks her dog. a drum beats in his ear. A Buddha statue sits. An hour glass fitted to recford 7 minutes of time sits, showing recordation and a willingness to begin anew given the small focus neede. A skin fungus monopoly begins to detororiate.
Bitten nails. Half open zipper. just kidding its zipped. shorts buttoned. fungus prominent red circles against pale skin, all over the chest and inside the arms along the inner biceps. down the hands. aspecial shampoo prescribed to kill it after year old colonization. It’s never been this bad before. or good, depending on who you are. if you were me, It would be bad, if you were the skin fungus it would be good, or was good, until now. I have this new kind of shampoo body wash that will allegedly request bags to be packed, a request with no alternative options, to pack its bags and I don’t use my thumb I don’t use my left thumb at all to typeI us e my right thu, I use my right thumb . what can the the left thumb do. it just does nothing. My left ring finger is very inactive to. really the fingers I use are the left index, the left middle, very occassionaly the pink, and on my right hand i use the thumb index, middle, and maybe the thing but not really. it is just a combination of four fingers and my ruight thumb that do all the typing. I have to reavel a good deal of distance while typing.
and then there was light. “I am in a mood,” he said, outloud to his friend. “I am in a mood. disenfranchised. it feels like, it feels like i’m rushed. I’m high level, somewhere, but itsw not here. i am high level at something, but I am not doing that something, at this time. somewhere I am great, but not here. I am great somewhere but not here. I feel disenfranchised. I feel like I could be something somewhere but not here. to be more positive, and to be stronger, we drop the negatives. for example, “do not be afraid to be amazing,” turns into, “be amazing.” now, to take this a step further. “don’t be afraid to,” does have value. it changes the sentence. so, to keep the negative in there without sacrificing the positive integrity of the statement we say, “Be amazing. do not be afraid to be amazing.” or if we wanted to take it a step even further we could say, “be amazing. don’t be afraid to be amazing. be amazing.” and even further: “Be amazing. don’t be afraid to be amazing. Be amazing god damnit1 be amazing! what the fuck are you waiting for! amaze1 ! amaze god damnit1 klol.
henry adjusts the earbud in his left ear.
we are calculated not cold. we are warmly calculated, the chaos appears as an illusion masking a horror of order. if only they knew how orderly things are! if only I knew! it’s not my conscious self that organizes this elaborate puzzle.
a reversion to practice. why the keys don’t type as fast as they should, why the words don’t come out like they shoud. I’m my greatest fan! “Hello friend, ” she says to herself in the mirror, everyday, every morning, every night. Hello friend hello indeed hello. I feel strong1. I feel strong somewhere. I know I’m strong. I think it may not be with the K120. Not right now at least, the words are lagging. I mean, it’s not me who lags. the machine, the screen lags and the screen isn’t capturing the words as i put thtem in. It’s like there’s this delay. and i know the delay isn’t the machine, it’s me. but i need more computing power! i need nutrition. I am malnourished it’s true but I am eating healthy at this time. thai cabbage salad, edmaame & carrots, rainbow kale the fucking works. and a giant thing of chocolate milk hey a niggas gotta get calories.
When it comes down to it the interview is about two things: first, belief in yourself, second, convincing the panel or interviewer to believe in you as you believe yourself. You make them believe by believing. You believe in yourself, and through this unshakeable belief, you believe in them, the company, the person or persons, because when you are hired or brought on you know things are good now but they are going to be even better when you come in and mix things up, positively, collaboratively. It all comes down to belief. It really does. Everything else is a distraction. All the things. First find & focus on the belief. Second, have it with you during the interview and use it to convince them to believe as you believe. You convince by believing. That’s it. What you say is a byproduct of belief, whether or not you possess it, and if you do have it, what you say will be what they need to hear. And look, not all jobs are right for you. Not all environments are either. With the kind of belief we are talking about–the kind that knows– it’s like this irrefutable thing no one can actually argue against. The interview turns into something else, when someone walks in with belief. They don’t always get the job. You won’t always get it. But, now listen but, but I promise you after you’ve left the room those eyes of theirs will tell the story. It will be a look like, “wow.” Hey, after all, they are as desperate as you. Their last hire sucked, did you know that? This is actually the third time they’ve tried to bring someone in–all three ended with disappointment. You know, one other thing, the downfall of all three was their attitude. They kept getting the interview piece wrong, the interviewers were getting it wrong. They were looking for the things. And asking about the things. And getting stories. And interpreting stories. Really what they needed, or need, what they need is to have someone who believes positively. The only way they were going to see that was when someone walked in with it and carried that shit with them all through it. True, they may fuck up again and botch the hire. But hey, you weren’t cut for it maybe, or maybe you were. I tell you though, those people will come back in some time and wonder either outloud or in private or public circles how you would have done. People can try their hardest but what is really being interviewed. And what is in our control. Is anything? Just belief, that’s right. Come into it.
Richard blocked out an area of his canvas with a 2B pencil. He’s right handed but sometimes uses his left. This time, or that time, he uses or used his right. His traditional hand. The hand he uses normally but not exclusively now has a residue of graphite from a deep unintentional smudging. “Ruined!” for just a moment, Richard pulls out a black eraser bought earlier in the week, when he had money to spend or waste. With his left he pulled out the eraser from the drawer and handed it to his other hand, the right one, and with the power of two fingers he unblocked and partially shaded out the section of his new, discounted canvas. The base of his palm continues to smear lightly across the canvas as he erases. Richard notices, “Damnit!” More erasing. More unblocking. More retreating. He stands up. He goes to the bathroom. He comes back into the original room and looks outside from inside. Greenery, balcony, flowers & sun; a bird flies by and another follows. A cat stretches and whiskers catch the attention of a piercing ray of sunshine light bravely forcing its way through needy leaves and unestablished plants. The reflection of the sun of the whisker catches & passes to the movement of the cat’s body, and to Richard’s. Really there was only a half second to see it. Richard was back in his chair just as the cat had finished settling into his upright seating position, facing inward, in the direction of a Richard who then & now has his back to everything but the canvas. He forgot to wash his hands. He gets up again. He goes to the kitchen. He washes his hand with soap. The other hand gets little attention. Together they click, apart they beep. He dries them. He sighs. He goes back to the canvas and retrieves a partially full coffee cup now cold. He microwaves it for 30 seconds. He pulls it out of the microwave and adds a bit of coffee from the still on automatic pot. He adds a little milk. He adds a little honey. He licks off the excess honey of the glass honey jar. He puts it back into the cupboard. He goes back to the canvas. He sits down. He looks at the canvas. Someone had been there already. They left before they even started. Richard begins to think, “I don’t want to do this anymore.” His stomach gurgles from too much coffee. He takes a sip, then a second. He puts the cup down and picks it back up immediately again and takes a third. A bird chirps, another moment passes that didn’t quite go right.
i get it “Google” is the city name
August 23, 2013 1:50 am
We may think of staging as recorded practice with purpose. As if we were to stage & the audience to be there all through out, all along there to witness the improving practice, the solidifying yet evolving purpose of the stage as it grows, as it is being set. Fluid & dynamic, we may think of staging in this way. Incredibly important. The stage is incredibly important. The show which lasts a minute, although brilliant but improvisational, with no practice, no staging–just use of the stage as it exists (e.g. the internet’s stage)–will end after that minute is over. It will end & the show will end. Because there was no staging. Ah the staging! Imagine you there on stage. On the paneled wooden floor with items scattered about & across. A chair here. An amp over there. Books and boxes and text and things about across and around the stage. It’s an active place. There’s no dust. You’ve been active. You’ve been moving and gathering and sitting. Speaking and playing and crying. Out from the stage you can see nothing but blackness. It is so dark, so black, blacker than #000, the moment the edge’s floor ends marks the space in which you cannot see further. Neither can you see nor can you hear what is beyond. You know something exists out there. You know it is fluid & dynamic, and potentially human. Everything done so far quite possibly, could possibly have been done before someone(s). From the very beginning, from the moment you arrived with the things, to the moment right now has been recorded and kept, and open to viewing. But see this is why staging is so important! All those items on stage–they take considerable time to gather and sort and make use of and practice with and get ready for and to create the space of your act. Without this preparation there is no legacy. There is too much information right now to achieve legacy without staging. Fame yes, short or long lived, but legacy no, not without. Days after virality has hit, the hit changes to a weight from all the new things already more recent, which the 3 day old thing now rests underneath. It is so sad to see the famed cling to that thing days or months or years ago. Clearly there was no staging for them, for it(s). They had no time. There only being one item, one act, & it was over, for them or for us. To conclude, virality is easy and leads to fame. Staging is difficult & leads to legacy. How do we know the difference? Is it creating for an audience or is it creating for a well-done stage? I don’t want to think about it anymore.
The idea of Present Telling is to know intuitively the present state of someone or something & then use a combination of deductive reasoning & imagination to predict the future & retell the past with the perspective awareness gained through knowing an entire spectrum, albeit a fragmented & spedread knowing, or perhaps, albeit, concentrated–like from 100% real shit concentrate knowing. The trick from the beginning is to create an atmosphere of intention. Then to heighten this atmosphere by asking that someone to commit a voluntary act of intention & of surrender to the opening process, such as touching a crystal ball with two fingers, “not those two fingers, these two,” you might say. To heighten. To bring down walls. To open doors. To close doors. Humans are a sensational species, the most so in this world. We are likely the most so across the complete stretch of this universe. Imagine a big city. Imagine walking downtown this city. We with simultaneous marvel have come so far upward; we with simultaneous marvel have come so far away from height. How do we surrounded by so much marvel created by a collection of individual minds not believe in the individual mind itself, as in, not believe the heights to where & to which it may go if asked with intention? I just, I just need everyone to know we are not heightened by buildings, smartphones, clothing, cars, houses, jobs, etc… everything not of the individual mind in its present state is the creation of collective minds whether it is of one individual combining past, present, & future, or multiple individuals combining within one or many generations of life. These things outside of the mind–the word “mind,” as in to mean right here the entire essence, potential, & spectrum of capable human marvel, spirit, soul, & intelligence– are there to assist minds, or individuals, combined or isolated, imagined or deductively reduced, in the coming together of a more powerful collection. Not physically, although it could be. The “status” of one’s life is not then to be relatively compared by measuring the excess or lack of tools, from one individual to another, although it could. As in, this verbage is getting complicated, the status of all things is shared. E.G., a gentleman owns a lamborgini. That lamborgini existed prior to his ownership. Engineering from other minds was involved. Imagination & reasoning. Things were extracted from the earth to build it. Many cars existed before it. Many lamborginis existed before “his” lamborgini became “his.” The mistake is to see the lamborgini as a status of an individual, the gentleman who now owns it, the one who has two semi-successful hair plants, two being necessary to cover a moving hairline, the gentleman who sees & owns & drives the lamborgini with a heightened his & mine, & not to see it as a collective status of human height. But again, & not to be negative, the height isn’t being used properly. It’s the wrong height, to be simple. Mind, not mine. It’s just true. it is.
Go ahead, ask him how he’s doing: ‘Well, ya know… I am The Most Blessed Man in The World,” he said with this beautifully aged smile of his, “And there’s good news: you can too, anyone can be as blessed as I am.” It’s like clockwork. There was absolutely nothing in form that could shake his divine connection. Not cancer, not poverty, not the death of a wife, not the pain of a stomach, not how a cold shower feels before you get in, not lower back pain, not uncertainty, not that feeling you get when your alarm goes off, not labor for money, not greed, not misfortune, not enemies, not the success of enemies, not forgiveness of enemies, not a hazardous driver, not a driver who made a careless mistake, not the book that drops from your hand, not the small line formed at checkout, not the long line, not unfairness, not the dispersion imbalanced,not the lack of knowledge , not the hot pillow, not the sagginess of skin, not the penis going limp for good, not the hare, not th o not thmk in the frnott wa of kineanot t nte gowrn, not the tablet’s inability to keep up with the speed of fast keys, not the sight of lost keys, not low credit score, not the way that person treated the other person, not the sale price, not the sale price being incorrect at checkout, not the thing that should be there but wasn’t, not the bad lies, not the lies of others, not the deadlines, not the treachers, not the bad bosses, not the friends, not the failures, not the lost competitions, not the reprimands, not the puim, not the fear, not the things never done, not the desires, not the money, not the corporations & ipotins, not the way they are going, not the looks, not the wrongs, not the rights, not the bedtime stories, not the horror stories, not the violence, not the vandalism, not the crls not the uusthings, not ust of hioo nothe mother,oate not orn te m, none of those things and so much not more, not the allergies, the movie ticket prices, not the government, not the neighbors, not the television, not the lack of anything, not the lack of nothing, not the low battery, not the lack of talent, not the oversuccess of no talent, not manipulation, not deceit, not corruption, not children, not teens, not young adults no. Nothing you see could shake his form. Go ahead & ask. He’s formless. Look at him. What you see doesn’t matter. How he goes, where he goes, what he does…none of it matters, not in any way does it matter anymore, for he, without question, is The Most Blessed Man in The World, & well, ya know “there’s good news,” he says.
To write is to know God.
The other day she like, forced me into saying it. I didn’t want to do it. I was embarassed. I turned red in the face before I even knew I was embarassed, before it occurred to me altogether I was embarassed about being embarassed. They were just words. Logically contradictory. That adjective or adverb is how I felt for a period of time, a short period. The emotions of the period passed into itself, in a forced kind of way, like I said, because it was forced–she forced me to say them. But only to the point where it would be understood that she would not give it a rest until I went ahead with it and said the thing she wanted me to say. And after it was done–it felt so unusual I have no words left in my vocabulary to describe–she made me say it again, and again, and again. As you & she * I expected it would or was or should, as we expected saying the words drew less & less energy to force them out. There was less hesitation. Now don’t get me wrong: none were easy. There was just less strain. The two corners of my mouth unfurrowed from their point of misunderstanding, as it was said again & again, they turning into nervous smile, shame then hope, perhaps curosity as a constant undertone to the entire event, and I’m only guessing here (it wasn’t filmed or documented, only recollected much later inside a storm of entirely different material) but maybe the eyes had a dilated look to them with lights hitting the pupils just right to create a choice-based observation of reflection or incredible absorption (into the pupil). And the being carrying the eyes is kind of, or was–if you trust my ability to recollect, then you would just know, damn belief right we’ll save that for religion–frozen like the kind of slow motion high-emphasis moments in film, the thing we talked about it earlier remember, and this emphasis so clearly, with a choice, is to the impending moment of judgement, when I or he or she would or did finally give in to her requests to just say the words, to say them outloud: “I am a good person.” We were embarassed at first for it being so difficult. Then the embarassment for being embarassed kicked in & we knew we wocltsof iumclne otherwise perhaps a major breakdown would be seen, perhaps walls or delusions or illusions or memory would be unnecessarily nuked. If it were walls, let us go with that the metaphor is easier, then we knew quickly there was a door and all we had to do was open it. To just open it & go ahead with it and go through. There was no gvn. Just an act of will. And courage. Encouraged. “Just say it,” she said, and so we did, five or six times in all, and it like worked I think kind of.
Jobe’s ears were constricted by a new pair of large headphones. Both lobes squished partly out the bottom, and the cartilage lining the tops of his ears reddened by the pressure of form & music. He lay on his bed with an open book face-down resting on a stomach breathing slowly, to the slow beats of his chosen music. The pain of his ears and the music of his device together gave him a freedom he would count on, day-after-day, many days & nights & mornings–whenever he could–to escape or assimilate or cope with the changing environment of his home & of his friends & of his body. “There is no control here–I have no control of anything, I never did…” Posters & magazine clippings, drawings & report cards, calendars & pictures of all sizes, of all sizes of everything, were carefully assembled with double-sided tape to hide the white walls underneath. Once put up, Jobe never took what he taped down. In a sense, there in his room with two focuses, legs crossed at the ankles, hands crossed & intertwined at his chest, open-book being temporarily finished rising & falling to a slow pattern of breath, he simultaneously existed in the accumulation of his past with a sharp pain in his lobes holding him hostage in the present, all to themed music, which he controlled with a flick of thumb. A barren, light brown desk vibrated to three computer fans, caked with years of dust, cooling a computer that hummed at its best & displayed graphic pornography at its worst. “To feel pleasure, to feel it now & now I do not want I do not know, I am in love but the girl does not love me back,” we hear from Jobe. He’s young. An older brother has grown past this stage of Jobe’s in a room adjacent, yet both are in their rooms, “for one’s own space is necessary,” Jobe’s older brother replied. And he too played music, from a stereo. His sounds rang out & vibrated & hummed against the painted walls, underneath the half-inch space between door & low-rise champagne carpet, into the hallway, down the kitchen, into bathrooms, into his brother Jobe’s room who had his own interests. The proof was there, on his walls, the words from his book, the way he crossed things together like his ankles & hands, his eyes when he shut them, pain & music thematically played to passionate, pulsing love heating his body for some current girl to ease the stiffening bone below, nothing more, but Jobe doesn’t know that yet, “he will,” his older brother replies. Somehow we’re all together in this, somehow.
Henry laced his shoes while Mother stood in the doorway watching him, feeling both happiness and sadness that her forty year old son, now even more obese and obscene, was still living with her, she an old mother of two. Her body was getting older and weaker by the day, though she tried to cover up her decaying Subject, it was understood that she would soon die. “Time passes,” thought Mother, her eyes drifting downward into the looming future, away from her terrifyingly obese son. Her back was stiff, her legs were shaky, her boobs were saggy, and her soul was over-saturated with an obsession of time passing; “My time has passed,” she says, accidentally, perhaps subliminally or unconsciously, out loud. The pain of time pinched her heart—the memories of good fading—caused tears to form inside her ducts and cascade, trickle down her wrinkled cheeks. Mother sponged her tears with a dry tissue and tossed it into the wastebasket adjacent of Henry. “Under and over, Goes Mr. Rover,” Mother was speeding ahead of time and Henry was retarding behind it.
A fatty jiggle rushed through Henry’s body as he defied gravity onto his feet. The ground quivered. Soon they would venture outside and into the unfriendly city. Henry and Mother, they survived only with each other, but their togetherness was a curse: Henry was handicapped without a handicap and Mother was talented without an agent, not one seemed to care about another, each one independent as the next, each more important than the other—
“Oh Henry, Mr. Face is waiting for us! It’s been ten minutes since I asked you to get ready, what have you been doing in here anyways?” Mother insisted upon being timely; she cared about people, deeply, as much as she cared about being timely. As a principle, she was selfless, thoughts and actions always belonging to others, never hers. Life and living was always about the other or another and never about herself. Bystanders and strangers accused Henry of taking advantage of Mother, but of course, their accusations fell to deaf ears—for Mother cared for Henry as God cared for his only Son.
“I can’t concentrate when you are there just watching me like that. How many times? How many times!” Henry pulled at the shoelaces, defusing the two and starting anew, he must start over he thought, a shoe must never be tied in a hurry for fear of it becoming undone in the wrong moment, like when being chased by angry children in pursuit of a bouncy ball now stolen. Mother saw what he had done and left the doorway. She still had to feed the cats and
In the style of non-fiction. I grew up being entertained by video & computer games. Sometimes the entertainment was playing video or computer games with friends. This was the reality of things. I, a hero, conquering tyrants & minions. I, a young boy, sitting & staring & creating dysfunctions in my body, forming walls & barriers. It was me doing my best then. So when teachers assigned books to be read, mostly if not all fiction, I refused to read them. It was not my chosen form of entertainment. I found them irrelevant. I already had my form of entertainment. Then, & still now, I do not or did not believe there was or is value in mostly all fiction writing. It is suitable I write this, or have written this on the toilet. It has come to my attention that my distaste for fiction & novels has created a barrier between myself & my best style: fiction! It’s true. Damnit, I am a fiction writer at my best. Look at The Chronicles of Mania–the only good pieces, in terms of writing, is when I write fictionally I think.. That time ago when we declared the style of “unfiction” has also created a block for us. It’s kind of been a safety vest for our writing. That is to say, when the mediocrity is apparent we find an excuse to protect it from a truth. This is also why the brown desk probably has sucked so far. I am not saying fiction is good, or the novels of our time are good– I wouldn’t know & will never know– I’m just saying that fiction is my natural, best style as a writer. For better or for worse. The voice of Henry emerges as a subconscious transition into fiction. We are to then cross from non-fiction, into unfiction [fiction writing almost based entirely on full truths], into fiction, which perhaps is the style of my treasured concept of “no limits.” It’s true. Carl got me thinking about it yesterday. & i like, just knew it. Rather than the overtones being so heavy, as is the style of nonfiction & unfiction, fiction offers play as the overtone, and leaves the heaviness as the undertone. That’s much more of what I’d like to do with my time here on Earth. No one is going to play with me otherwise. Hell, I may even stop playing with myself. It gets real boring after a while. Video games are best played with friends. Although they can be played alone, I prefer to play with friends. So all of this reduced: the universe has given me a signal to expand the way I write.
I missed the day’s deadline of yesterday.
Carl reached for his wallet and adjusted the toothpick in his mouth. The toothpick . His eyeglasses shimmered briefly as he turned his head, and adjusted. The skin of his face, now surfaced with small craters like the moon from childhood acne & post-puberty ciggarettes, glimmered from the light hitting his natural oils. His hair is cut short, like a military-style kind of cut, one that would be described as such from someone who is or has never been a part of the military. Carl at this time in his life looks like the older brother of the villain from the movie Terminator. His glasses are very thick but not thick enough to prevent his chararacter from reaching from the past & pulling himself into the present, so to speak, and well, here he is. This is Carl. Say hello Carl. “Hello.” Carl, how are you, how are you doing in the most general of ways. And, if you could, for us, answer this question in the most specific of ways, not as to blend the two.”I’m , I’m not sure what you’re really asking but I’m doing well. It’s my daughter’s birthday today & I bought this here cake for her party. She turns one today, and it’s been the greatest year of my life, & I guess her’s too.” And as Carl finished his answer, specifically that last bit, the glasses shimmered, the face wrinkled, his teeth parted with this grin that was timeless. Like in the movies, how they slow a scene down, they slow the framerate to allow a moment it’s greater worth, well that happened here. Everything just kind of slowed down, almost frozen but not quite. Carl, are you still there? “Yes, I’m here.” Good, I thought I had lost you for a second there. From now on we will speak telepathically, I understand your lips may be hard to move a tthis poiint. I understand too that you’ve got places to be & I sleep to be had. I have to work tomorrow. Do you work tomorrow? “Yes.” Okay, not to get this convaluted with sidetracking, I just want to express my appreciation for the moment we had, though it was more like a witnessing of a moment you had, me being the witness or facilitator to the event. My role being to ask the question, or create the dialogue; your role being to be transparent, at some level of guard down, to access some of the deeper shit going on in your life–then, together, you and I, our role is then to create this partnership of creator & creation, & we discover & share & witness the isolated event and commit it to memory, if what we’ve done or will do is worth it, and as you’ll agree I’m sure, “it was,” it definitely was. Thank you Carl.
Justin, listen to your heart, and listen to your mind, and your soul, your essence. Justin, listen. Listen to the voices, listen to what they say, hear what it is they are telling you, each saying to you, and listen. Listen when one says there is no room for rejection, listen when another says to you the things yet another already knows and by knowing just the knowledge of it, what it the first is saying is said without breaking the silence, without interrupting the next voice calling to you, this one pleading the words yet another already knows and has plead too much like the first and second and third and so on and so on the fifth as well to the silent slow nods of voice-head affirmation rooted all over the body and in the heart center and down the darkened slopes of eyes that listen so much to what they see yet listen not to the stacking dimensions over multiplying [illegible] to just follow your fucking self united & whole together listening.
Justin, listen to the quiet voices too, the ones afraid to be actually heard, the voices just as true yet nearly not as loud but definitely equally influential if not more so because their voice carries endurance and preservation from never physically enacting the words and never hearing their voice vibrate and never feeling their message see the heart or the mind or whatever it is that justin listens to what is it what is it what will he listen to maybe all he needs is just the quietness, or maybe the disruption or maybe a bolt of lightning can you believe they thought electric shock therapy was for him, for us? Listen. Listen to the other eyes and their other expressions you read people well don’t you you read people really well it’s obvious what they’re saying it’s obvious what their expressing you to listen to and what their showing you with the anti-magnet briefly attracted but pulled away eyes with a quiet but expressed knowledge of something obvious, something I should know and I do but I just don’t listen, Justin listen.
And listen to the lessons of your past but listen too to the voices turning away from it some in self-mutilation to change the truth and others sleeptalking and lucidly whispering lies of another something else and some just washing their sounds down with thought of tears others to the thought of those voices who relish in the wet pain & can’t seem to just hear the sighs of letting go all around and up & down his body and essence to Justin learn just learn please will you just take what was there and acknowledge most of what you thought was there was just that–thought–voices in such number massing against and with and forward backward and diagonally disconnected but obviously forged and inseparable like the simultaneous sounds of all of us wanting to be heard by the great sum of Justin himself who gets control who or what when is it my turn and my turn.
To the integrity & quality of one’s work, in all things, so if it was captured, and magnified, the care would clearly have been seen.
Vasari, so the question I see us asking, outwardly or inwardly, maybe it matters maybe it doesn’t, not us for us to know—just thoughts, is “am I special, I mean, am I actually special—I know, I am in THAT sense, in the sense that we all are special or in the sense our mom’s believed sense, of us—but am I, are you, we—am I special & outset clearly from the millions of others, who, undoubtably, are doing special human things, being unique & gifted in THAT sense, but are we, are you, am I actually, perhaps, an incredibly rare once every 2000 years kind of special, the kind who sees & dreams, never fantasizes, & is stricken with something no else seems to have, but he assuredly had however bottled inside or let loose the thing he sensed, you & I sense, She senses & sensed all along, that there is something. I, we, are onto it, are supporting its release one degree, one act, one wedge, one listen at a time, despite its resistance, & its fear, & its shame, & its guilt, & its disbelief, & its isolation, & its darkness, & its confusion, & its fanaticism, its craziness, its…And when we dream, what do we dream of, is it the happy times or is it the memories, or is it the fantasies that allegedly don’t exist…To be important..To be confirmed… to be assured… To be responded to… to be held & seen with the same kind of care & the same kind of instant understanding & that I’m not being difficult, I am being full & it will take some time before my full is had out for you & others to drink. And so it occurs again, to which object is the real or complete canvas? Again, where does it end, where did it begin, why & how & who & so forth & so on but for how long is it on & when does it “off,” & does it hang this way [NOOSE] or does it hang this way [CROSS] or is it this [RECTANGLE], or maybe this [DOOR], & at what point does the story end, does it end with the life or does it end with life in general. To be clear, when does the creation stop if it stops at all? Does it stop when the weathered sharpie says no more of this undry spray paint on wood I refuse to permanize your strokes any longer? And what of this life beyond 8, beyond what we know of 7—in other letters, what do we know of the “I’m”s beyond the canvas; where does it end, where does it begin, where did it end, when does it start, why is it here, why is it this, how was it done, why was it done, where does it go, who is it for, why was it done, who did it, who’s doing it, why was it done, why are they doing it, what does it mean…Henry clasped the rings of his binder closed & went off to work.
I feel right as red & I’m not sure why, well I know why, but I don’t know why the why is why I feel right as red. I got into yet another name-calling, human degrading, blame throwing, damage instilling, thread breaking, connection deconnecting, anger & hatred filled kind of loneliness sparking resentment resuming, life in the moment obliterating kind of dispute. & though this is or was here, the sun shines onto my canvas without judgement. & the bees fly. Who knew bumblebees & wasps were such great friends, are such. The heat of the sun can be seen. The flight of small insects can almost be felt. Sillouhettes of sun-shadowed things create the backdrop for this human to enjoy his & the life swarming around his vibrating self.& to what or when is the decision made to react & respond to the knife or hand out in front, perhaps a tool of red inspiration or perhaps one of friendship formation. Coming to the middle is an exhertion of higher self & with it therein brings a special kind of clarity, a sigh of actual presence, for what it is, that is, is there is no hand there is no knife, neither hand nor knife & this reduction is again an exhertion. The making of truth is felt physically. Just as wings of curious bees hold unpredictably still, so do our selves, & both the movement & stillness felt with frightening unassurance & chaos or, or and, swanlike patience, floating particle like presence, a complete surrendering like self at all times to the forging right nows littered with hypocracies, extremes, & contradictions to the beeps, or flaps, or red sight, or commands, frustrations & beauty that come with the territory of Simultaneous Shared Time, & gift of God, no limits—->
in the most serious efforts to retain my sense of self–who I am driving to be, in these moments of my life (THE ARTIST), I have spent what appears to be the extent of my monetary worth on supplies to further open the doors of my expression. And I told of my plans to the cashier, who had asked, “if I was a painter,” to whom I replied, “no but I am an artist.” & I described to her my search for mediums, & that yes, “I paint but only a little,” “It’s a new medium,” I said, “& what lately I’ve been pulled to is graffiti, & “how, there is this isolated tunnel, underneath a road,” & it seemingly stretches for miles,” & there I wish to paint the entire tunnel with words,” & interested she commented about how very long that would take, and & I said “no I don’t think so.” “But maybe, I’m not sure I said as my debit car declined. There was enough in my life to cover it, just enough I knew & she asked if I would like to try again, & with a fearing, flushing face, the kind of display after brutal rejection from the universe itself, I told her yes & prayed & prayed outloud & it prompted me for a signature (it didn’t do this before) & I said outloud, “it didn’t do this before,” & I signed it & hit accept & it went through. Kitty litter, art supplies, & a new pair of Ben Hogan’s: my self had been RESTORED.
And so I return home, & am like, “I’m so sleepy,” like NOT EVEN BEFORE I’VE ENTERED MY HOME & STUDIO, my bed & my dream-killer, my place of nourishment, my place of depletion, my space of higher purpose, my place to be private & do private things, & though I don’t have a room of my own, & much space if any to be chaotic with mediums & supplies & ideas, & though the ideals are not being met in any shape or form above expectation, GOD HAS ALWAYS GIVEN ME AN ABUNDANCE OF EVERYTHING, & it is only through my human intelligence, that I imagine my room, & my time, & an improved discipline, & perhaps even more leisure and abundance, & other things more like “ideals,” & not to say the clouds are always stormy, or tornadoey, or hurricaney, or absent, because you & I know the clouds shift in form, in simultaneous shared time, & that sometimes our written or visual or spoken or demonstrated expression reveals to us our current, present form & we achieve the under-standing of our own existence, as we sometimes need to do, as you & at times go ahead & relax our eyes & cast them away, to eliminate the illusions, & we stop the music other’s lyrics, & we quiet down & power down, & we stop with the untangibles–the unrecordered voices, the unfilmed looks, the landfill destined napkin art–& we make permanent the things you & I know for some great purpose we know exists found, unfound, defound, profound, defound, befound, nonfound, refound, & that it’s like okay, it’s going to be okay, the colors don’t always have to have meaning, choices choices in the expression are made. The control of how they are recieved <- is in the moment of creation. It’s so easy; just do the best, abandon excess rest, fail every test, & perhaps head west, to the carving out of new beginnings on something as legitimate as a canvas, then maybe they will accept the–our–choice of non-edit, & only then a super deliberate act of throwing the canvas into the trash could be made, it then truly protected from everyone’s hands, including our own, to modify or destroy, or forget, truly then, “yes!” is or would our intention of tangible expression of simultaneous shared time be had, is had, at that time, at this time, on this day, on all of our future days. And there it is, the discovery of an evolution in medium, right before my eyes, your eyes, our I’s in this beautiful pursuit of the Present to reflect back on in the future for the purpose of expanding the then present through appreciation of art done with a growing master of intention unintentionally, so humanly, simultaneously, greatly weak & feebly strong, magnetically powerful & dutifully done, under the constraints given & the warnings & words of others as newness emerges from the rushing imbalance of our stories of the past, and it settles, & it rushes again twice thrice many times again the reinvention is had, the sacrifices are made, mostly of imagined ideals, peace is created and words begin to massage the neck of strained shoulders carrying a world’s weight without stable direction, & the words flow & flow, just like had promised they would, thousands & thousands, millions & visuals too & sound! All tangible, mostly, decreasing loss, and the map genuinely coming together, internally legitamizing itself, of a 44 network, just one so doomed & blessed to fall short of so much, to the hero who enters the lair & cares not, concerns himself not with the return of his slain dragon, if he slays it at all, which he will not, & in the darkness not one will see his print of foot in lit, full form, he having left to the simultaneous stay of increased abstraction, a wolf never truer than in the clothing of all these sheep. 1 2 3 4 5 6 8 9 10–and this is not to say the count ever stops, it is to say there is a high willingness & ability for the form to adapt & change to make best use of the container or space given. It’s unpredictable. And prepared. The changing colors do not signify different times of entry–it & they are simultaneous. They & it & this is done at the very same time, in the exact moment of consciousness. This is why a prolific body of unedited art is so beautiful. & it’s also why the concept [& how] of UNIVERSI is made possible: to capture a skilled, lengthy, & fully transparent consciousness perhaps will or does reveal truth about everyone & everything.
“That is mine,” He or She says to the other while pointing, to which we think what actually do we own? Is there anything ours? And we know the attempt is being made to be nice by asking the question. We don’t want to seem rude by knowing the answer, it fundamentally clashing with the principles of the other now on the spot being thrust into a possible revelation. Or what of this attempt, the attempt being made to write a bit, just enough to complete the task, before I go to sleep, me here on my back on the edge of the bed tethered to the strings of the A500 listening to Anthem. We will wait for this to pass. There’s an immense pressure on me right now, and we feel it on my left shoulder & place where this external weight seems to fall & where I seem to carry it. Sounds. There’s nothing good here, not at this time. I might as well practice the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The sentence with all the letters in the alphabet. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. You can feel how dry this is. Is it possible to recover? Yes I think so. Let’s begin. A tall man walks into the room and waves hello at the guests before & underneath him. He is the owner of the establishment. And he wears a smile. He tips his hat, retains the smile, and walks toward the back room. Eyes do not follow where he goes. He goes alone. Nothing is followed. He simply just sees, only ahead. With long arms & delicate hands he turns the knob of a door & opens carefully not to expose too much of what is beyond. Again, no one watches him. They are focused, his guests, on the things going about: a bingo game, a television, some alcohol, a rocking chair or two. They’ve seen him come in before, many times, & all that was expected from each so it would seem is some cordiality between or among those inside. The rule was not spoken about, or even questioned: the backroom was for one man only through which to enter. There was no schedule. He showed or shows up sporadically. Sometimes in the morning sometimes at night, then he disappears into the room. And what if in the room God sat, & no rule ever existed that one man only could enter his chamber, it’s just that all the others were distracted with the things.
I have much to work on, and will give a higher best to grow into your fuller partner, one who fully trusts without exception, unshakeably, so convincingly. For sure, this is unfair (the difficulties) because you deserve ease for the best effort you’ve ever given, as you tell me, in the subjects of loyalty & honesty, as well as trust. I do believe we will come together into this ease, and not just then will it be beautiful, but we will see the whole process & journey of shared individual growth as such. We each bring to our table histories, and at this time, I have habits of self-preservation that no longer serve myself or our collective unit. There is no doubt, in my heart or mind, you are worth braving my own demons, and coming out the other end as a full partner. I love you tremendously, whatever it takes, I understand.
And there really is no better way to start a sentence than to start it with the word “and,” or at least this is how I’ve been feeling & thinking for at least a year, maybe two or three, or four; it’s been a while now & my love for And has grown, never diminished, always prized & always inclined to use. There’s a context here. This doesn’t mark the beginning of my body of words, neither that nor is it the end. “And,” recognizes its middle stage of inconclusive wordage, message, & point. It states there is a before, and the excess of words post-And with little to no movement in any stable direction hints with strong under & overtones that there is & will be many words to come, “millions,” & neither the weight of pre-And nor post-And fall on my shoulders, not anymore, never again, just this word right now & now. And if it’s not the word it’s the stroke of it, & the way my breath is or was during it, if my eyes were glazed & resting or are or were they reflecting the manic dreams blue, were they paying attention. “How are you feeling.” Without the story, really focus on the feeling, nothing else. Really just feel the feeling, accept it, feel it, & notice the space you immediately create. It’s like a miracle. Breathe & don’t think, just feel. & watch how quickly the edge of everything goes away. It just goes away; it just goes like a wished miracle. It goes in the sense the feeling of sadness no longer feels like the good ol’ crippling sadness I’ve known, the kind attached & anchored to the present, this kind is just a feeling & it’s cool for what is & how it assists these so right now carvings of this moment. & how these moments blend together because of this like wierd way we hold memories, & the way we naturally percieve the space and distance of things in relation to ti-me. Even weirder, or “wierder,” is how it all can be reduced to the electron, like how things are simultaneous, all of these states of perception, from the simple to the intensely complicated, all simultaneous, all simultaneous shared time. To the boring & the fictional & non & descriptive & to the general and to the personal & the visual and the micro & macro, to red & to blue, now green as middle, are all then now no wonder stability is never out there. 402 words, on canvas, with so many mediums available–paints, brushes, pens, pencils, paintmarkers, oil–with so much blank space, so many options, so many choices, without limits. & damn do we feel wonderful carving them out with words in cursive. This is our medium.
A candle burns to the subjects of shallowness, depth, & virality, and the remnants of a days thought & evoked passion linger in the air like this smokeless, spiced candle on fire. Henry pauses. His hands lift away from the keys to slump his head into his hands. And a deep breath is taken. He is leaned back. His head slightly forward, the keys or the candle or the weight of a day or days or something else has him, in all his senses, pulling forward & down. Forward to the florescent screen; downward to the soft yellow candle and the black & unblessed keyboard. And when he closes his eyes the crown of his head lifts his energy skyward. Far beyond the ceiling, far beyond the sky, far beyond the universe. As if–when he closes them–this pole that begins at the center of all things, more centered than the center of this Earth, and it starts there & runs skyward through & out the ground, through the man, through his crown, through his deepest self. “Depth, depth is the hard part; virality is easy,” he said & believed while imagining himself on the corner of streets, wearing his or her blank mask, standing still, carrying a sign, all still, for hours & hours, no movement, corner after corner, the sign pointing the world to his or hers. And to artificially induce the test of exposure, “& how one has to be ready…by creating a life’s work of depth,” & the thoughts carrying him into the darker place, the one of Buddah…man…no…And he understands that though he could, and maybe it would, he cannot. Breaks of integrity occur because he or she or it is human & sin will be had, “but not this, this I cannot.” And he is sorry. Henry asks for forgiveness & receives it just the same. And he is humbled. “I am humbled,” he or she says, “& though I do not know where this is going, where any of it is, therein a given is clear, my form will be withheld.” 347. Hands clasp both cheeks & the skin of his or of her face is pulled back slight. Tiredness. Breaking sounds. Gears are shifting. Forward. Crushing forward. 372. ))99 $33. Is or was the fraud the induced or was or is the fraud the one who knows induction yet goes on pretending for longevity &. And when will the &s stop? The phrases? What of the sound? The excess? The art of it is hard to see. I read it all. It’s hard to see. It’s hard to accept it though we did: “oh well lol full throttle!”
I wear it, have worn it throughout the seasons, every year, since I bought it back in 2008. It has this sense of ability to retain an inner, historic sense of self. As if it has this thing that furthers my ability to remember all that has happened as I wear it, Now, & it keeps this memory intact going forward. The weight of it sits on my left and right shoulders. I feel it on my ribcage. And on my wrists. Like, I wake up and put it on & I get shit for wearing it so. It’s my Blue Jacket. Someone told me it made me look like a Bosnian Rebel Fighter. I’ve heard it helps me look homeless. Its slightly or moderately too small. Seven years ago I found my Jacket in a thrift shop. The price is $5. I try it on. I Love It. It loves me back. Me shoulders, ribcage, & wrists. The it’s slight too small voice did speak, at that time those years ago, yet the love for each prevailed past all hesitation. Ching went the register. It’s probably my best purchase to date, like ever. Yeah I can’t really think of anything close. And yet an undertone exists, “it’s time to move on.” & I’m not entirely sure why it’s there but the child in me already has begun to cry to the imagined closet with dust outlining where the Jacket used to be, it now on, in this scary time of pendation retirement. A child of mine will be born soon, & I clutch, “maybe I should pass this jacket on, so she or he can directly feel where & perhaps who I am or was,” 279. It’s got silver zippers down the sleeves, small pockets “to hide weapons” I once told a chief of police. Aha. If I am of great good then I must be of great evil as well; there are pictures. & though a choice has been to G.G., the beautiful lure of G.E. pulls my eyes and giraffes my neck past this or that shoulder, to see the other option. This behavior has not ceased. It may never. We understand through 3nglish <—G.G.|G.E.—>, & to know one greatly is to know the other greatly, simultaneously, juxtapositionally, & through careful choice we can move in either direction without limit. I would like to explore <—, which means I am leaving My Blue Jacket behind, for another self much like my own, not my child, but to the one who buys it for 447 dollars. Until then, it will be locked away & never worn again from this |—> on.
are they unpredictable, is the wind unpredictable though we come to expect what it does & deliver, whether its purpose is to blow wispy hair or to pass seeds or to make tink the sounds directly overhead. and like the various beauty of flowers, do sounds too compete for beauty to attract a host? to attract the someone there to listen fully. Like flowers, just as the birds, is the wind wishing to be heard with its passing through chimes overhead arythmically but consistent in its deliverance? cars to are made use of by the wind, just as the bumblebees continue to mate & buzz. and a truth is here, one that sets on a foundation of current feeling: my taps at this time are outclassed to the sounds by chimes & birds & cars & mexican painters stepping on concrete , rolling rs & getting jobs done. To remove the competition. I’ve said more than once #2 is preferred. It is the practice to do the best, as if #1 was the goal, like a thin mask worn to hide the wish to lose, to perhaps achieve victory long after the truth of illusion has come out. just below wood is now being cut. It’s the loudest thing now. I feel lost to its harshness. Stanley is repelled & he has left me out here to finish 108 words alone with distant birds & muted chimes cut out by planes overhead & wood losing its form again. I’ve begun music. It’s the happiest rolling forward kind of music I know at this time. I am hopping its train to find my way again, here outside, among so the competition. a first conscious breath. brows unforrow. sun dissipates into appreciative grass. dew reflects. metal tinks. & the sound evolves. the chimes have stopped, their purpose now one in greater question, they perhaps #2, just like me, a human doing its best to be more than the simple intention of making noise through taps or sex or beeps, scribbles or sleeping readjustments or resettling of chair weight. the music has grown in seriousness. stanley has returned to my left. the woodmakers have gone. the wind is there in the trees but absent overhead in chimes. my thoughts or feelings may have become louder than all of it, they being fueled by this dramatic soundsoftly evoking a real silence & stillness in form. the air conditioner has shut off. Nothing remains, not the birds or the bees, or the chimes, just stillness & this music & the sounds of returning woodworkers, & the resuming of chimes, & the buzz & memory of music climaxing & fading into air conditioning.
So it appears I need to time myself during these blitzes of 447s. And not to just time. I need to document the context of how the writing came about, specifically to annotate the environment. For example, to say somewhere it was done at the brown desk with the WcW Monday Night Nitro Chair in so & so amount of time [2 and a half minutes already spent] listening to such & such music, using either this unblessed WARNING keyboard or the Blessed K120. At least to start gathering data as to what & where evokes how & why. I have a hunch the brown desk, sight-editing (looking at the screen typing into the screen canvas, either through browser or word document) is where I am more likely to rant non-fictionally by using mixed messages. Whereas outside, if I am outside say hooked into the A500 / K120 combo underneath a tree or above a hillside looking out I will, I think, be more likely to transcend the criticisms & carve out the white space with imagination, fiction, & unfiction. But as we’ve said so many times, the music is the most influential aspect of all. And so with this gathering of data, we really should begin to write down to what music played to the amount of time allotted. Eight minutes forty two seconds; without data I cannot prove this is on the slow end of conscious display. But where do we stop? Which aspects of the environment do we withhold knowing that this path of context necessity is indeed a rabbit hole. Must I tell you Stanley is sleeping to my right, sleeping on the V37. I think I may have already told you that, though it was days ago. Must you know he is always there beside me, if I am inside? He sleeping, me waking. Us together loving. And he stretches & I stretch too inside to cover the needs & create the groundwork for all future writings. Edited or unedited? The word cap makes things interesting. It kind of leaves me no choice but to edit. Through the browser I transcribe, and just below a word count counts, but it lags behind. It is a lazy word count updating itself only every five or six words apparently. Or more. Fourteen minutes! I almost wrote about a fork. I had the idea while washing dishes. Earlier at work I kept thinking about the word “Derelict,” & how I would write about that word later. I’m not even really sure what it means. I also imagined myself writing about “Carl,” to release the first real imaginative piece. One can only handle so much brown desk.
And to the scratching of surfaces, & to the prolifary of surface deep knowledge & entertainment & time on the surface. And how far removed people become from consciousness when they hold their devices, how they remove everything of themselves entirely & completely from Presence. To the attached smart phone human, at the time of holding & intimately interacting with Things Not Here, your depth of self disappears into void unconsciousness. Eyes glaze & wits disintegrate. Real life scratches goodbye. And to what attracts their unconscious interest, to the unconscious entertainment, & the blind falsified interactions with other distant moments depicted as present but are the furthest from it, a vast pool of surface depth, the users, the attached, the unconscious swimming ankle deep in their own urine & filth, using their finger tips to swim in the Land That Does Not Exist, & as the people who are present feel their absence, & as the users intermittently come back to depth and demand the kind of attention seen & held at the surface, they are lost & angry & confused & disappointed with The Way Things Are and with The Way Things Feel, & within moments again, it being easy, the smartphone being an easy coping method, a drug to induce unconsciousness, to connect with Everything Not Here, the phone is held & the tips of a finger or two swell to the absorption of an ankle deep pool run yellow & brown. And to the designers & the profiteers & the artists who create for the unconscious, how they design their devices to be held more frequently, to pay with, to find one’s way with, to make friends with, to discover the weather with, to talk with, to interact with, to share with, & how they design this information & how they understand The Way Things Are Attached to Device, and how the tips of fingers scratch. And how little time things have for absorption, & how an unconscious world is being actively created to suit & fit unconscious living under intense pressures of limited time & attention, & the creations are in the billions counting & all these little unconscious things add up together to create a life’s worth of ankle depth to the living. The Movement is to inspire consciousness. It’s not a counter-movement to inspire consciousness. The counter-movement is the vast capitalization of unconsciousness. To know great happiness you must know great sadness. Smartphones & their consequences have defined the great sadness of the internet. But the time for great happiness is here! To the hero & heroes of its true design, create depth & release it as if it were shallow.
It’s not so much about resistance. There’s like, this idea, of something else, something greater in our minds passing simultaneously along with our shared reality, and when there is intense conflict between the two–the idea of life & the way of life– the machine stops. A loose bolt or screw becomes wedged somewhere in some gear of ours, of yours or of mine, or sometimes of collective society. And the machine still endures the reality of passing times: it rusts, layers of dust layer the growing rust & a normal decay occurs, just like it would had it been running, had it been more synchronized to allow forward movement. & whether the machine is still or redirected to danger or being unpredictable is a choice entirely. The choice here as I say there is is to go ahead with it. Perhaps you remove the loose nut, or perhaps you ask someone to help you remove it, or you remove the nut & ask someone to help you restart, or you accept the nut & the gears in which its caught and you say fuck it and go full force & grind that shit out of there, like goddamn if a few gears sacrificed is necessary then well okay then let’s get on with it I or we or you will build new, better ones or maybe we won’t but we’ll go ahead & die in the fight if we have to because rusting to death is still a fight but its a real shitty one, unlegendary, and depurposeful. You and I know there’s purpose to the machine, our machine, theirs or yours or mine, or ours, to the machine. Or maybe, or maybe this machine we are talking about is the nut or the loose bolt or screw to be wedged in the other machine. It’s sole purpose being to break the other one or at least fuck it up real good if the other’s like, “fuck it full throttle!” Or maybe it’s not the fighting type & it just chooses to quit and decay. & maybe our machine is the infectious type. 352. Like the internet, as if it were the other machine, it having been designed to do so much more than lock small & big minds into a vacuum of surface scratching knowledge & visuals, as if the master designer had planned for it the same kind of news & country & fear & violence of its previous state in the television, as if the fear of things being wedged into the way things are & preventing things from staying the same as we watch the Earth get older & lives stiller wedged or unwedged.