31 Oct 2008

Mentholated

Ran into a performance poet on Baker. He asked if I had anything to write. Got me thinking, and writing. I remember the Mercury. I had something published in there, years ago. It was just after those planes hit the towers and I thought I should write something. So I took a few swats at the low hanging fruit of Christian hypocrisy, sounding like a fifteen-year-old Tool fan in the process. Maybe the article wasn’t as bad as I remember, but it was probably worse. Youthful naiveté, mutual complicity, compromised Christianity, easy targets. The more elusive targets are in motion, taking new forms for new ages, springing out of good intent substrate that was poisoned to begin with, rich in benign pesticides, miracle grow. I’m a self-absorbed drug enthusiast, living in my own hallucinations. A real nowhere man. Isn’t he a bit like you? No? Alright then.

What can I write about the world? The way things are – or even should be? My pastime is to sit in my bedroom and communicate with energies, fragments of personality, for a rhythm, beat-boxing the continuum. Sometimes I hope to condense into the creator I was when I shared a beer with God (He opened it Himself). What do I know? Myself, intimately, incestuously. It’s so wrong. Is there a microcosm? A macrocosm? I hope for your sake there isn’t.

The performance poet who wrote for the Mercury, who’s starting it up again, he was an inspiration in those old days. A good open stage guy. Charlotte’s, my first bar. Back when I had a soul to lose, when I lost my black leather jacket at the booze den above the Royal on Halloween, ridiculed for dancing in public, knocked over my friend’s rails, drank vodka, plotted the soul’s destruction, the soul, my soul? Any soul. Don’t remember driving home. I have recurring dreams of car crashes, but it hasn’t happened yet. Never even got a DUI. I must be protected by spirits.

I used to call Char’s the “arabesque burlesque”, the sacred and profane in perfect harmony. But it was discordant often, all sorts of ugly politics. I tried not to notice and succeeded most of the time. I barely know my own country. I vote NDP because that’s what I do as a consumer of politics, brand loyalty, blind atom running in the machine of democracy. I’m a reflexive voter, a knee jerker. Whatever the right is for, I’m against. That’s why I boldly hold forth in public, articulating my penetrating world view – oh yeah, I’ve thought this shit through. Politics, the pedantic art of the pompous pragmatist. But I admire people who make their politics personal. If intelligence means anything at all, it’s to see and act on problems you create for yourself, before circumstances force you to. Hunter Thompson, intoxicated omniscience, still waiting in line for his next hit. Suicide by shotgun: “This won’t hurt.” He had no stake in it.

My two passions in life these days are music and drugs. Women I include in the drugs category, but they’re too addictive and dangerous. I usually abstain from that poison, it’s ten times worse than reefer madness. Smoking ash-coated butts in the breakroom, alone, cause I want a fix – any fix. This can’t be far from bottom. This one’s menthol. Mint-coated cancer stick. Good rush though, cause I’m still tripped on the large dose of dextromethorphan I did last night, and nicotine is ten times stronger on a DXM plateau. Whee!

Each Canadian is entitled to one hundred and sixty hectares of land, we just found out. I just found a thousand parsecs of headspace. C’mon over to mine, I’m building a townhouse. When I take dissociatives I go back to the Creek Street Nexus. There, I take telekinetic commissions from adjacent dimensions, certain I’ve discovered psychic abilities, those ones I’d forgotten. Trying to create a telepathic language, communicate, heal, flow, live by example, maybe move mountains, turn matter into energy and vice versa. I think I hear answers, vaguely, they’re trying to create a language with me on their end, it swirls into the non-local psyche pool which carries the essence of sublime locality I feel on Creek Street, wrapped in the Kootenay K Krysalis, the good times with good people, the struggle for survival, the really not so bad scene, the dynamics of telekinesis, Michael’s diagram for a “free energy” machine, the machine that was going to power Stanley Street, debauched toboggan party before the apocalypse. Before it catches up. I think in ketamine dreams: This potency is ludicrous! How can I be getting away with it? Voodoo economics? Feels unsustainable, and the most lasting thing there is, timeless, magic, black arts, this moment.

Now I’m quitting my job. Maybe I’ll do less drugs. I think I’ve been doing so many because I realized I could be a dishwasher and still be fucked up all the time. But I can’t do music and be fucked up all the time, not the music I want to make. Except in that telekinetic K world, when it seems like I’m doing music by just lying in bed, fated purposeful music that will seep into everyone’s dreams and heal psychic torment, the music that is gravity. Maybe I really could help people. Not in a K way. Rather by overcoming my hangup about an artist being useless, especially in these cruel crunch times. And do it well, and provide the service of an artist. If I’m going to play music, and try to make a living at it, I might as well feel good about it too. Might as well feel entitled to that, at least. Leave my ten dollar an hour job, with its class connotations, the issues I really don’t care about anymore on a personal level. Maybe still a political one. Maybe one more smoke. One last cigarette, let’s hope.

It woked me up, it really dided. Also incoherentized my speech. Threw a wrench in the gears of the dissociated dishwashing machine. Set too many neurons firing, revealed the fragilities, the holes in logic. Gave me nothing to fill them, no more ignorance-is-strength abilities to cut through the bullshit – because bullshit is all there is. No more lifting heavy-ass rubber mats off the ground like they were dishrags in the absence of body consciousness. I’ve actually performed my kitchen duties above and beyond, until now – this day three of my last week at the Hume. I’ve been a good machine, that’s why they treat me well – well, well enough. Tried not to stumble walking up from the breakroom, and failed. That’s what happens when you hit the “on” switch, while the “off” is jammed. Now I can’t even write. Well, no worry. It will be taken care of. The universe will edit, when it gets around to it, when it’s crunchtime, when cancer cures smoking.

Can I go back to casual? Was I ever casual? I may not be addicted to any one substance (excluding booze, tobacco, K, DXM, coke, and amphetamines) but I sure am addicted to getting high. Hedonism. There’s no time for politics. Maybe I’d write political protest songs, but zoloft mashes emotions into a paste I spread on my morning toast, digest and forget. Maybe that’s why adbusters hates anti-depressants. Too much numb will stop your heart and you’ll forget how to breathe. People are going soft, finding their comfort zone. I was a stronger person, when I was younger. Constantly challenged, constantly miserable. I used to really practice, attempt lunatic stunts like learning the Rachmaninov concerto just to see how far I could get. I used to have principles and act on them – or omit desired action. Of course then, I could sustain righteous anger. There seems to be no righteousness anymore. Now I feel more of the world’s pain, and more helpless to do anything, even on a local scale. Who knows what to do really, who knows who I’d be working for really, or what agenda the purest charity would secretly serve? What balance would have to be retained in the universe that prefers duality, not joy?

How can empathy and apathy increase simultaneously? Now I know what I like. I know myself too well and what I would sell out for, have sold out for - would I admit I shopped at Wal-Mart? Shop at Wal-Mart? Not the latter, but what does it matter? I can’t make apologies for lack of savagery. If getting to a better standard of living means a sickening softness, and getting soft means the unwillingness to tolerate violence and poverty, then it’s civilized and beneficent. It’s a good thing, but it makes me sick, because the system is such a mess, and soft also means the unwillingness to fight for the people who haven’t had the opportunity to get soft and squishy, and are still feeling the hardness of humanity as only recently evolved from apes, locked in self-perpetuating dominance hierarchies. What a bundle of contradiction and confusion. Just another ramble, another day in the menthol stage of civilization. Still puffing away, trying to sooth the burn with useless filters. The menthol trees are fruiting down factory conveyors. Soul is cheap, it’s on the music stands, they’re still burning plastic with lasers for that subgenre.

29 Oct 2008

south of heaven

wow, feels like summer again, warm in my head - why do i do this? oh right, because i went to that dimension where everything was perfectly set up for me, and extended a tendril through the many filters of this veildance... uh, or maybe something like that

yes, life does seem mystical when you do drugs
it also seems like you're living in a music video

hey, am i becoming the chemical matrix?
am i the exemplar for the molecular matrix?
avatarexamplar, planting, ranting

nothing does its job, body itches, screams, cries to what source? no source, no source anywhere - i am scratching but it's worth it - i like the craziness - and i have my beautiful new chair - obsessive self scratching experiments -- are you watching me? like, really, what does one need? hehe...

need a mark and make no mark - need a mark and make no mark - again and again and again...

anduh wrong approach, kindof... let's hope the skin heals...

holy shit classic itchy collusion awareness of two dimensional realirt WTF/..=/????

MAGIC SHI

too late, i found it

"if we let anybody in there, it wouldn't be a place"
- george carlin

Lamenting about limbo, and wanting to get back there. Lamenting about doing that. But never lamenting about being there. That's where it is, again. It sucks, that's why I love it. It's a black hole. Only problem is, I can escape. Not for lack of not trying. I spaghettify through the singularity. A queasy feeling of easy failure, a flavour that resonates with the tongue. I'm chewing cashews to eschew the taste of failure.

Four more times. You won't feel a thing. Almost there. Desperate, the desperation circuits, the neurons that must keep firing, after the brain is switched on, that switch, that silly switch, the stupid switch. Belief in free will. No choice in the matter. Justifying the inexorable decision. If it's a disease, then I'm sick. But I can hold it in. Keep it inside. Keep it in the Kosmic K Family. Taste the toxins, wear the toxins, cigarettes inside pimples, stallagmiting out of my torso as fully formed sores, ripe for the plucking. Tastes like chicken. Keep it warm, even when it's ice cold. Pretend it's warm. Cause it will be warm, again, for real, for a real eternal moment, a memory that still resonates, outside the laser grooves, outside the mind.

There's methods, there's Maher, there's cashews. There's not eschewing sentence case tonight. There's serious jesters screaming at me, from most angles, but by no means all.

Thinking about an afterparty I dragged myself to, solo, back when I couldn't talk to girls, back when I couldn't take pills, back when I could say no. Ended up somehow satisfied, alone again, in the dregs of the night, and my mind, a confluence of garbage, happy in a depressed sort of way, before I took pills to deal with that, before I'd had many bad relationships, as opposed to just one.

Wow, sure was a preamble. Well the preamble was ample. Cause now I'm staggering around the gardens, tumbling into the plants. Well, that's what happens when planes interact. Clumbsiness. I could caress those plants in my mind. I think I did. I just remembered. Maybe there was a point to it. But it's itch and delirium right now for some reason. Weird Sun. Colonel Cockblock tricked Major Mustard into accepting the position. Wow. Who'd have seen that? But from a certain angle, it's alright. And nevermind. Just go your own sweet way. Sway, with your hand frothing on the fountain's case. I've got tools for scaffolding that further. Well then. What what.

old time itches - i don't quite understand

25 Oct 2008

by example

communion wafer

i'm still waiting, still waiting - are you waiting for me? is it still on me? am i gonna have to write you a stupid love song? am i gonna have to go through those painful calisthenics? a laborious love song, a labor of love, pure loving love, stupid love? well produced and ill conceived? well?

well i've got a shelf full of love songs now, i should be proud, but i hide them from company cause those stupid tunes embarrass me - but those hate songs, they endure - cause all you need is anger - my company loves misery, we're incorporated and unlimited, except in love, we accept some limits there, there's such a thing as going too far, we'll let you know where you stand

well i'm still waiting sweetie
still waiting for you

i'm getting impatient but you're still quite young and you still turn me on - just to reiterate and knot stimulate - of course i know you won't read this anyway, that's why i can say what i want to say - SWIM wrote a poem on a piece of paper, i found it on the road, took it home and plagiarized his words

see, if i could say this to your face then you would fall for me - so i tell myself to savor fantasy, a careful theory, full of cares, like an emoting bloodclot cutting himself on his glottal stop - reality won't work for me and i won't work for it - i won't be hurt again

although i'm getting numb lately so whyknot? anesthesia is topical, it's in the news, i'm in the noose, and why'm i writing yearny poetry anyway? i've not been for want of katie, she's back in town, crystal gown sparkling and she gives herself to me, my k tea, wah wah wah, n2o in a needle, funny aye?

for want of a woman the mind was lost, until the drugs made me sane again, but still i say, my kingdom for a horse, a white horse, i'm not riding into the sunset yet, not riding over a cliff either, i just like substance, i'm not that fussy, cause substance beats absence, that makes good sense to me and it would to you too if you were me, my little pony
last night i got drunk whilst looking for k - hit every bar in town, over-tipped every server - called a cab to get home, over-tipped the cabbie - last night i got drunk whilst drinking - got some ideas, forgot what they were - a bourgeois bender, over-tipped every bartender, what did i get out of it? i'm wondering

today i'm practicing healthy misanthropy, you wouldn't know it to look at me but i'm being careful with my money - it's healthy, healthy for my money whom i've neglected and disrespected, i'm taking care, like the servers never said to me

today i'm kungover and shivering - they're good shivers, righteous shivers - there's something about this partially artificial kitchen temperature, it's changing my chemistry to emote surges of childishgiddygush in the language of bloodstream, and that's good, another beat pumps childgush through my veins, i remember that taste, it's like licorice, a big thing of licorice

well at least i didn't hurl - well... at least i didn't remember hurling - it was MERCIFULLY BEYOND MY CONTROL -- and oh yeah, bury me with my money - drugs are free, but bury me with my money

19 Oct 2008

confetti for kansan ghosts

haha, nevermind, just kidding
don't take my comments seriously

cause in reality, i'm still a bitter masochist in drugged oblivion, alternately feeding on my own pain secreted from internal pain glands, and anaesthetizing myself, and i wrote you a reconcilatory message on a coke bender, haha, what a joke - one of a thousand such messages that i awoke to in the morning, ashamed, ugh, cringe, blatant gregarity, insufficient apathy, ultimate fakery, why must my feelings be all or nill? but zoloft smushes it all into a manageable paste, thank the void

so anyway, how's your drinking career going? at least you're not sticking needles into yourself - i have to work in five hours cause i agreed to do the morning shift at the hume - embarking on a six day work week, gonna make all i can out of the hotel before i get out on the streets and become a bum, yeah, i was gonna be an artist but my gastro-intestinal system has been quiet lately, don't think i have the stomach for the job - gonna eat mac and cheese when i feel the need - but before i do my agreed-to hume hotel morning shift, i'm going to go to the 7-11, thank god they're open all night, oh, i do believe in god when the seven eleven lights are shining down on me in the middle of the night, and i'm going to buy a pack of smokes, because i'm a smoker now, at least for today, cause i decided i would continue thinking about my next hit long enough to purchase a pack, and eschew the sobriety trip i planned this morning, and i'm also going to buy two bottles of robitussin liquigels - going to take them home, melt them down in the microwave like i used to melt sucrets, extract the dextromethorphan, mix with sterile water, cook, and draw into a three milliliter syringe which i will then stick into the main vein of my left arm - oh fuck, dxm isn't water soluble so i can't inject it - i wouldn't think, anyway - whoops, that kind of derails my plan - maybe i should just go to sleep - but i can't sleep

the kbars are closed

how many times can you be confused and enlightened before you go numb? i think the topical anesthetic is starting to do its work, but it's still taking too long - and i haven't laid the telepathic groundwork yet, wink wink, nudge nudge, do you remember what i said in your dreams last night? it wasn't a whisper, i yelled till my skeleton buckled

in other words

that medicinial taste

to know that you're still clean - in that ugly sort of way - and you can wash dishes for another round - oh, i'll be there - with hells bells on - emotions chafing - haven't found the proper seasoning for my caeser - less worchester, more tobascco... less tobacco - mmm, triple ms, that is what you would write - haven't smoked a smoke in 12 hours, amazing isn't it?

reality check: everything's cool
just blogging on ketamine, injected and snorted, sterilized, in my bedroom - creek street is still flowing, people are still afraid of needles, i feel like i've learned a valuable lesson, don't tie too hard, and i still have valuable dish washing skills.

sterilitee killzz - i got it all worked out in my head - the sterile water make it right and hey, first pass, second pass, who is counting? he's a family guy - indeed - just watch out, he takes things seriously when he comes down - the weight - T he W eight is the momentum that allows you to do things, but unfortunately

blake lost his brother dean

and what do you say? life - i've mainlined life -- the deep red seething into the syringe -- i will cast my vote for the tic tac regime - keep on keepinon

dealing with drops

they said boredom is good for the soul

well

this buzz is good for a k hole

i make no trouble
just hallucinate\

wow

well, mainvein is good - stop towards
like godstep

fodder

still plenty in the sinuses

on this transient blog
of a transient dishwasher

the cycle continues

gonna fuck us up for another year, we're going straight
do you remember what clean means?

13 Oct 2008

per

stlilwater r. yeah . rrrrogight
pleases me 0 - it pleaeses me - confluence

keith jarrett improvising in nagoya

per

forget hal

perperpetual over

waiting, winding, binding, binding
bide bide bide bbbide

waiting, winding, veteranarian, wandering
lonesome suzie, katie been gone so long

trumpet borus

auntie Kay

nagoyaflo - nagoyaflo - action hotdog go, yaknow - oh yeah, you know - -

naglifier waffles, and there's always more detritus for the dog and the cat that bit me that i still like that i don't know

shards

thanks bro

typing again, after so long - why did i stop writing? i forgot why - treated words like a texture - rhi baubles, the harsh, but not that harsh, the harsh edge of the crunch that is really more of a squish - all these patter splatterns... and forget forgot where he was -- black hole, white hole, we've heard them before - ok - another coat

another coat of frosting

some more keys to scrape your syntax

we're trying to turn corners, collectively, individually... little men, kiddies, not a party place - transcribing - because i like being part of the texture, and framing {incadecently; why do i hate frames? it's not important but it might become a matter of practicality... the REALITIES of LIVING as an ARTIST

victoria

STREET

i'm riding the aloof bouncy k wave as i type this - taking google's advice
per spelling correction where applicable... sic

that ol pixies song

making

and other cuntcile tendencies

how much would you pay for

absurd upholstery

good thing, and there's no excuse for it, and they didn't correct my spelling, all funneled into the groovitational archives - terminator exit

bring the noise

1 Oct 2008

subject

holodeck audience
subject
“to” is a preposition
as a trend, as a friend, in the census bureau
holodeck audience

more from midlope's "liquid"

Subject is that which perceives; perception is enacted and resulted by the subject.
Exercise is something enacted from the self that changes the person's physique.
Atoms move around and fuse with others. Delve into the life in the miniscule.
A person's thoughts are direct results of that person's experience and even when in philanthropic thought tunnels, it is the 'I' who is active.