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,”
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….
….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
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.
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.
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.
“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.
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.