28 Feb 2017

it's a feature, not a bug

I can make myself happy, whistle past the boneyard. As long as I keep it drafted. Keep the ASMR in one earhole. Publish in the diamond age.


27 Feb 2017

Salierian Relationship to an Ideal of Discipline

alternate titles were.... if I can remember.... hmmm.... strain for memory, clench the memory muscles, somehow, perform a mechanical transfer of kinetic energy through willpower to some configuration of information in the brain... nope, not working, it never does - can i buy a vowel?

maybe, like,
major carousel - that's an awful one, but "salierian" probably wasn't the best either
at one point, near the middle, after i forgot the best one, it was something like, getting things done on a random walk - if i could only convey, the weird place of manic peace i felt, the near-panic in striving for satisfying an urge, acheiving that in some way while also fuming like a hugely inefficient mad-max scrap car... itchy twitches of strange tranquility - THAT'S IT. But I'll keep the title I came up with anyway, cause that was relevant too, especially during the last seven minutes.

Like an improv is some big artistic statement, a hastily dispatched doctoral thesis. Not hardly, but it's the only thing I can manage to do musically as I bank up material, volumes, for later grandiose projects. 

The exfoliation imperative. It's all about exfoliation parallel with prestidigitation. It's a seemingly pointless cleansing, lousy with weasel words. While the backlog of carbon monoxide is backed up, preserved, like a ba, for the land of the dead which is already here, ooglebooglebaka, magic words and technical terms.


10 Feb 2017


inspired by Jimmy Dore, my favourite Bill Hicks descendant

5 Feb 2017

Selfish fucker, smoking my selfish cigarette.
Why? Fuck you, that's why.

Trying to make death palatable. My palate is perfect. The roof of my mouth is gravy-flavoured, the crispy residue on the bottom of a burning barrel of gravy. Maybe I could make it even more gravy-flavoured with the formula for Flaming Moe's. Happiness is just a Flaming Moe away. Where everybody knows your name.

Why? Fuck you, that's why. Cause. Just cause. It's a just cause. Where are all the good times? Who's gonna show this stranger around? Girls on guy will suit this guy just fine. He's drinking a hot mug of sleepy juice and thinking fondly of theoretical scenarios. I'm the cock professor, they're my students. It's unethical maybe, but fuckin HAWT, yeah!

Hacking rants about politicians I hate, informed to the shallow extent I can manage. Fuck you, that's why.

4 Feb 2017

Better to write about Minecraft than play it

remember, minecraft is the means - not the ends

speaking of segways, i've got a great one: begins as an andy kaufman bit, unfolds uncomfortably in borat-style cringe tragedy, the currency we're transactioning in, ends like something out of black mirror

type in a rhythm cause it's all you can do, or you could plug in the board of keys but it'd be too disturbing in a neurotic's mother-hen miserable moment - feels like aliens cracking the colony tube shell, one-eighth earth's gravity, ocular stabilizers and smart space-life hacks of doing simple exercises so eye muscles don't weaken in near-zero g - til the one arklet lands on mars, and the other rides big for clean space with asteroids to mine but no deadly bolides from the pulverized moon that rained hard on the earth, turned the surface molten past a logarithmic curve of bolide fragmentation acceleration from inception of seventh decimal place chaos to bring about the white sky all the quicker, which burned up the atmosphere in addition to vulcanizing the earth's surface - good thing a literal couple hundred eggs escaped the one basket in an almost plausible space gambit

it even happened, that extinction, by an eternal return curse that jammed to nobody, not even fellow human jam reflected surfaces - and kicked up a lot of carbon from the ground and methane, so that even in iterations that weren't resulting in molten scenarios, you're still talking die-off rates of 90% or more, but who really cares? ancient history - it must be hard to read the tone - deal the tone - it all depends on figurations in the musics - it wanted to get overpowered, but some ego retained clenching

want to wash it all off, like captain fantastic in a philosopher king's short-lived utopia waterfall pool of the pacific southwest of me, til unignorable situations in the family bond to the world and society disrupt for good, or evil, or at least until more data can be gathered and categorized and digitized and put through the in-fashion algorithm for his subspecies - he was a "damn good driver" for a season, lasted longer than your typical bbc sitcom, innovative as it might've been

vangelish tinged a rusty main street utopia minus natural animals tin piano, analogue simulated with high definition digital recreation - it's also analogous to hitlerian onanism, it's his Achilles' heal, the blinding self-love, maybe if you run the simulation ten times, three of those times you can fight a war on two major fronts at once and even so come out on top, but those aren't good odds, but you never run out of amphetamines nor opiates in modern civilization's gray area of the law, the law of the treasonous government anyway, so jockey for position and end up in the last scandal, the one that actually ends it, even though you lean in, and push to see how far you can take it

see i got tons of mileage for barely making it one third of the way through the movie before i went on a necessary tangent and did something else, maybe a mindful place for myself, even if in the past tense, and theoretical future at once - there's always the possibility you could wake up decades later still smelling of your suicide's kerosine, in another world where there is a hilarious misunderstanding going on, the running joke, for the runtime of your typical unabridged

and some more typing, because it's okay, fake smooth til you make smooth, make it smooth like a smoothey and defeat jihad through the next scorched earth solution

i wish i could hide the clock - and remember not to look in mirrors - i've been warned in various ways, i've been attentive to the warnings, sympathizing with some as yet unexperienced except pulled from the future like a great attractor calamity or opportunity, but that only makes sense in a vision board

keep it pithy - create an account - save the night - night-time savings time's not got a lotta melatonin in it, but you get by because you got an artificial serotonin mediation bot a'buzzin round the synapses, lean onto it like a prosthetic leg, wriggle into the bloody biomesh interface, learn to love it, pay loyalty to the script that's running the show, or the parasitic symbiosis to a blessed pharma corporation, like the relationship between the adoring junkie and the almighty provider middleman, that's the best you can do is just adore from afar below, can never get up the supply chain to even the middle cause it's providence, you'd get high on your own supply and die, it wouldn't be like scarface, a dream about a melting pile of cocaine, only sugar really

the dreams where luc is back, cause he was always here except pretending he was dead for several years, i don't want to ask him why, but i do, i must.... he makes me smile, but it's also disturbing, there's a bit of the old decor, the boys are back in town, and it's beautiful, but also, something's not right, it's like, oh god, tears in heaven, that eric clapton song, fuck, can't i even think my own thoughts now?

it might make a great game or minecraft monument - luc, the friend, the dead friend, THE GAME! now available on XBOX, P7, and Minecraft Realms:
- what accounts for the missing time?
- what motivation could you ascribe to the friend who pretended to be dead?
- why are you trying to find his house in nelson, is it the victoria street house? [spoiler: it is]
- where is that damned house? oh, you were in it the whole time like you were slurring through half-awake episodes on a long-term tropane cruise but you can never remember later, your account will be reset, there's no trail of cookie crumbs, only useless microsecond flashbacks five quadrillion microseconds apart, no trace of the order, the ol' difference that makes diff'rent strokes, except on a server farm in utah in a massive cave structurally engineered to weather the weight of the crust above, in a thousand-year guaranteed self-generated geothermic energy stasis, a bit of cool subcrust and plenty of mantle maintaining a place where there's a doctor strangelove somewhere, but you just gotta learn to ignore that creep and keep looking for luc, cause he was just there, talking to me
- who is this person anymore, really, is he a thing in my subconscious? yes, information, moving forward, got the corners and some sides of the jigsaw puzzle done, it's not Swordquest-worthy not-since-the-middle-ages kind of epic beheading quest, but it's something, and worth focusing on, rather than ugly political realities, and worrying trends on just out of date extrapolation smartlines with kent brockman
- when is you? who are you, what are you, where are you, why are you, how are you, and when is you? strategic timebombs have set the stage for infinite prequels and sequels, anything could be anything, but will only be a one or a zero between a rock and a hard place, a hard look at the horrendous inner workings of the mind and a soft spot for joe - a cringe comedy with a sweet heart at its center, no cyborg-reinforced superheart powering a terminator exoskeleton, plugged into the flesh and healing a mess of shot-off epidermal rags, forming an adult male arm in about ten years, granted, it's not the latest tech, arnold's old - but not obsolete

i'm really pleased with how many movie references i've managed to work into this - it shows that i've actually made it through a few movies lately, and that makes me as imbecilically proud as back when i managed the feat of finishing books, and full length feature films were just an everyday part of my life, no big deal, like the stuff that's probably thousands of times softer than cotton

type type type - it makes loud taps but i'm trying to compensate with white noise and warmth and trazodone - the extended bed and comatorium peripherals - not a lot of click click click when i'm in this mode - the click click click - the woman i lived with much more critical to the very idea of click click clicking a mouse, whereas, the current paradigm i bemoan so much at least features a social life, small tho it be, with people who are not at all critical of clicking a mouse in the middle of the night - try to turn the green tint knob up on that projection of grass in the here and now, the knob, make the grass greener, even, an emerald sheen of extra glitter grass that's too green to be really good, too synthetic, we're in a new iteration of the tastleless eighties and didn't even know it, people didn't know what it came to mean to be in the eighties when they were in the eighties, and just like that, we don't know what precursor age we're in and won't begin to understand until we wriggle out of it, and that's gooey and gross, and i would rather skip it, and pay a visit to the early death cafe to speed up the process of slowly dying just a little bit, perform a maneuver that makes excellent use of delta v and the distance and velocity problem is solved, easily, almost poetically, in a way frowned on by the never satisfied professor of fighting grade inflation

luc, the dead friend in the high tower, where we towered above nelson and got high, and it was also like a trump tower except it was better than that cause it was ours, and we didn't answer to anybody, we could make rules that would govern this penthouse of a tower to be high, and get high so we could be high, and keep being that way - was a splinter of a real dream i could mockup for minecraft, put a plaque in it like a magestic spot in a national park overlooking mike and mine's cold lake - in the internet of things of the future, this monument to departed people will be quaint, and if i get cryogenically frozen and thawed out in the future, i will disavow any sentimental attachment to the project, and bask in immortality, dull as it may be in the after-flash doldrums, i got the rusty green colored vangelis acidified piano blues and the eighties synths are sounding just so like it's just what it's supposed to be, like it's a currently popular map in version 17.1.9 of San Junipero, in year 356k but who's counting? the earth would theoretically be habitable, still, if it's a simulation where the bolides don't fragment at an exponential rate, and therefore, the earth is still possibly inhabited, but there's no way to know, because we're in a simulation, it's not solipsistic cause we're all in it together, it's like a designer's dream, or a hack who makes hackwork shortcuts of elegant designs, to cut up a world we can live in indefinitely, but who knows what's happening on which earth? why? tap tap tap, type type type, click click click, it's all good, stop worrying, it's not like older nightmares that were so beautiful, that i must acknowledge, that i may have botched by being far worse than imperfect, no megalomania here

initial flash, then a long plateau of thinking you know who you are, but just when the endless planar nature of the terrain and therefore all existence seems intolerable, you remember, you can cure that with a reset button, a memory wiper, it's like the bright side is suicide, it's a good kinda suicide, we call it the godbox.